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REPRESENTATIVE AMERICAN PLAYS 



REPRESENTATIVE 
AMERICAN PLAYS 



EDITED WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES 
BY 

ARTHUR HOBSON QUINN 

University of PeoBsylvania 




NEW YORK 
THE CENTURY CO. 

1922 



r. 






Copyright, 1917, by 

The Century Co. 

Published January, 1917. 

Reprinted 1917, 1919 

Second Edition, Revised, 1920 






Printed in U. S. A. 



TO 

H. McK. Q. 

But for whose eyes and whose heart 
This book had never existed. 



PKEFACE 

This volume is the realization of a long-cherished desire to bring together 
in a form convenient to readers and students of the drama a number of rep- 
resentative American plays. It is the first attempt to include in one collection 
a series of plays which illustrate the development of our native drama from 
its beginning to the present day. No other branch of our native literature has 
been so inaccessible. The work of the elder playwrights is preserved largely 
in rare editions or in manuscript and that of the newer generation has fre- 
quently remained unpublished through considerations of a nature which for- 
tunately obtain less and less, as the real significance of our drama is becoming 
better appreciated. 

In selecting the plays, the first consideration, obviously, was that they 
should have been written by native Americans. The only exception to this 
principle of selection has been made in the case of Dion Boucicault, who is so 
significant a force in our dramatic history that his inclusion seemed necessary. 
At the outset also, it was determined that no play should be selected which had 
not had actual stage representation by a professional company. The closet 
drama is interesting in its place, but its significance is slight compared to that 
of the acted play. This consideration, for example, determined the exclusion 
of the satiric plays of the Eevolution, as there is no certain evidence that they 
were performed even by amateurs. Preference has been given to the plays 
dealing with native themes, sixteen of the twenty-five plays being laid in this 
country, while in two others American characters appear. Care has been 
taken also to include, so far as possible, the principal types of play into which 
our drama has run, so that if the book is used in connection with a course of 
lectures upon the American Drama, the material will be at hand to illustrate 
its development. The comparison of the military plays, Andre, The Triumph at 
Plattshurg, Shenandoah, and Secret Service, or of the social comedies, The Con- 
trast, Fashion, Her Great Match and The New York Idea, will be found 
most interesting, while a contrast between The Prince of Parthia and Francesca 
da Rimini will illustrate the growth in the field of romantic tragedy where our 
earlier drama scored so many triumphs. No play, however, has been chosen sim- 
ply for its interest as a type ; all have had to justify themselves on the score of 
their intrinsic excellence and the difficulty has been to choose among the wealth 
of material. In the cases of the modern plays, questions of copyright have some- 
times interfered to restrict the freedom of choice. It is a matter of regret that 

vii 



PREFACE 



the work of James A. Heme could not be represented and that the choice of a 
play by Clyde Fitch had to fall outside of those included in his "Memorial Edi- 
tion. ' ' But it is a satisfaction to the editor to note how few changes had to be 
made from the first list of selections. 

Before each play, a brief introduction explains its significance and gives a 
biographical sketch of the author, together with necessary information concern- 
ing his plays. No pains have been spared to make these introductions accurate, 
and the editor has fortunately had at his disposal not only the usual histories 
of the theatre, but also manuscript sources such as the Bird and Boker Papers 
and the Diary of William ^Yood, the Manager of the Chestnut Street Theatre 
in Philadelphia, as well as the printed sources that are included in the Clothier 
Collection of American Plays in the Library of the University of Pennsylvania. 
In the cases of the modern plays the information has been checked in nearly 
every ease by the playwrights themselves. In each of the introductions a se- 
lected bibliography has been given. It has seemed unnecessary to cumber these 
with long lists of magazine articles of a fugitive character but it is hoped that 
the references given will be found helpful. A general bibliography of books 
relating to the American Drama has been placed at the end of the volume. 

In each introduction is given also the source of the text. Where it was 
possible to obtain acting versions of the older texts, the differences between 
these and the reading versions have been indicated. In general where emenda- 
tions have been made, they have been included in square brackets. The spell- 
ing has followed that of the original text, and the stage directions have been 
reprinted in the older plays as originally given. Several of the modern plays 
have been revised by the authors and their wishes have naturally been followed 
both as to text and stage directions. Some slight alterations have been made 
even here for the sake of uniformity, and where the preparation of the text has 
fallen on the editor alone, he has tried to present the stage directions in a read- 
able form, according to modern standards of technique. 

Many friends have helped in the preparation of this volume. Of primary 
importance was the establishment, through the generosity of Mr. Morris L. 
Clothier, of the Library of American Plays which bears his name. The con- 
tinued interest in the collection of its donor and of the Chairman of the Library 
Committee, Dr. Joseph G. Rosengarten, has been of a degree of service that 
is difficult to measure. Special acknowledgments are made in the separate in- 
troductions to those who have aided in the cases of individual plays. Mention 
must be made here, however, of the help rendered by Mr. Augustus Thomas 
and Mr. Percy MacKaye, in connection with plays not their own. Valuable 
suggestions concerning the sources of the older plays have been made by my 
colleagues, Professor J. P. W. Crawford and Professor Arthur C. Rowland, 
and here, too, should be acknowledged the generous help in collation of texts 



PREFACE ix 



and preparation of bibliography rendered by Dr. John L. Haney, by my col- 
leagues in the English Department, Dr. A. C. Bangh, Mr. F. A. Laurie, Jr., 
Mr. Clement Foust, and by my Assistant, Mr. R. A. Robinson. The greatest 
help of all, however, came from her to whom this book is dedicated and for whose 
service there can be no adequate acknowledgment. 

University of Pennsylvania, October, 1916. A. H. Q, 

Note to Revised Edition. 

The Editor has taken the opportunity of the fourth printing of the collection 
to bring up to date the references to the work of living playwrights, including 
the dates of performance of plays produced since October, 1916. Dates of 
revivals of the older plays have also been indicated and the most significant plays 
and works of reference published since that date have been noted. These addi- 
tions to the Bibliography have been made to the individual chapters where they 
refer to the dramatists included in this volume. In addition, a list of the most 
important works in the general field of American Drama has been added to the 
General Bibliography at the end of the volume. 

The Editor takes pleasure in acknowledging many kind expressions of 
appreciation and helpful criticism which he has reflected in the revision so far as 
was possible. If he had had no other reward than the satisfaction which has come 
to him from the recent growth of interest in our native drama, which perhaps 
this volume and those whose publication it has inspired, have had their share in 
producing, he would have been rewarded for the labor of preparing it. 



April, 1920. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Prince of Parthia ... . Thomas Godfrey 1 

The Contrast Itoyall Tyler 434^ 

Andre William Dunlap ..... 79P^ 

Superstition James Nelson Barker .... 109 

John Howard Payne^ 
Charles the Second i ^„ , . , . > . . . 141 



y 



Washington Irving J 

The Triumph at Plattsburg . . Richard Penn Smith . . . .16^ 

Pocahontas, or The Settlers of 

Virginia George Washington Parke Custis 181 

The Broker of Bogota .... Bohert Montgomery Bird . . . 209 

Tortesa the Usurer Nathaniel Parker Willis . . . 253 

Fashion Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie . . 29^*^^ 

Francesca da Rimini ..... George Henry Boker .... 329 

Leonora, or the World's Own . . Julia Ward Howe 385 

The Octoroon, or Life in Louis- 
iana Dion Boucicault 429 

Rip Van Winkle ,..»., As played hy Joseph Jefferson . 459 

Hazel Kirke Steele MacKaye 493 

Shenandoah ....... Bronson Howard 533 

Secret Service William Gillette 573 

r David Belasco . ^ 

Madame Butterfly -{ ,_ )-.... 649 

[ John Luther Long j 

Her Great Match ...... Clyde Fitch 665 

The New York Idea Langdon Mitchell 709 

The Witching Hour Augustus Thomas 763 

The Faith Healer ...... William Vaughn Moody . . .805 

The Scarecrow . Percy MacKaye 841 

The Boss Edward Sheldon 879 

He and She Rachel Crothers 925 



THE 
PRINCE OF PARTHIA 

A TRAGEDY 

BY 

Thomas Godfrey 



THE PRINCE OF PAETHIA 

The Prince of Parthia is the first play written by an American to be per- 
formed in America by a professional company of actors. It was written by 
Thomas Godfrey, born December 4^ 1736, in Philadelphia, the son of Thomas 
Godfrey, the inventor of the sea-quadrant. According to his biographer he was 
educated at ''an English School" in that city. He was also a pupil of William 
Smith, Provost of the College of Philadelphia, and had as companions, Benja- 
min West, and Francis Hopkinson, the first original poet-composer in the colo- 
nies. Having been released from his indentures to a watch maker, he became in 
1758 a lieutenant in the Pennsylvania militia for the expedition against Fort 
Duquesne. The next year he accepted a position as a factor in North Carolina 
where he stayed for three years and where he brought to completion The Prince 
of Parthia. Godfrey had probably seen the American Company act in Philadel- 
phia in 1754 when, owing to the opposition to the theatre, the actors had been 
forced to play in a warehouse belonging to William Plumsted, one of the Trus- 
tees of the College, on Water Street. Being a pupil of William Smith, Godfrey 
had almost certainly attended the benefit which the American Company gave 
for the Charity School of the College, June 19, 1754. He may have offered the 
play to David Douglass, the Manager of the reorganized American Company, as 
early as 1759, but it was not acted until after Godfrey's death. He died August 
3, 1763, in North Carolina, and The Prince of Parthia, together with his other 
poems, was published in 1765 by his friend, Nathaniel Evans, with an account 
of Godfrey. The play was produced on April 24, 1767, according to the follow- 
ing advertisement which appeared in No. 1272 of The Pennsylvania Journal and 
the Weekly Advertiser, Thursday, April 23, 1767. 

BY AUTHORITY, 

Never Performed Before. 

By the American Company, 

At the New Theatre, in Southwark, 

on Friday, the Twenty-fourth of April, will be 

presented, A Tragedy written by the late ingenious ^ 

Mr. Thomas Godfrey, of this city, called the 

PRINCE of PARTHIA 

The Principal Characters by Mr. Hallam, 

Mb. Douglass, Mr. Wall, Mr. Morris, 

Mr. Allyn, Mr. Tomlinson, Mr. Broad- 

3 



INTRODUCTION 



BELT, Mr. Greville, Mrs. Douglass, 

Mrs. Morris, Miss Wainwright, and 

Miss Cheer 

To which will be added, A Ballad Opera, called 

The CONTRIVANCES. 

To begin exactly at Seven o'clock. Vivant Rex & Begina, 

Seilhamer, in his History of the American Theatre, suggests a probable 
cast, based on the advertisement, which he curiously attributes to the Pennsyl- 
vania Chronicle, in which it does not appear. Considering the relative im- 
portance of the actors in the American Company, it is likely that this cast is 
correct, and it is given here, with an indication that is only problematical. A 
similar advertisement but without the actors' names appeared in The Pennsyl- 
vania Gazette of the same date. 

The Prince of Parthia was revived by the Zelosophic Society of the Univer- 
sity of Pennsylvania on March 26, 1915, at the New Century Drawing Room, 
Philadelphia, and proved to be an actable play, though the absence of any comedy 
element was noticeable. The play shows clearly the influence of HamUif Julius 
CcBsar, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, and also of Beaumont's Maid's Tragedy, but 
the blank verse is flexible and dignified and the correspondence of Godfrey 
proves that he conceived it with the purpose of actual stage representation and 
not merely as a closet play. 

For an account of Godfrey see Juvenile Poems on Various Subjects, with 
The Prince of Parthia, by Nathaniel Evans, Philadelphia, 1765, and for criticism 
of the play, see Moses Coit Tyler, A History of American Literature during the 
Colonial Time, 2 vols.. New York, 1878, Vol. 2, pp. 244-251, and George 0. 
Seilhamer, History of the American Theatre, 3 vols., Philadelphia, 1888, Vol. 1, 
Chap. 18. 

The Prince of Parthia is now reprinted, for the first time, from the original 
edition of 1765, 

Note to Second Edition. 

Shortly after the appearance of the first edition, a very interesting reprint 
of The Prince of Parthia was edited by Archibald Henderson, Boston, 1917. 
Mr. Henderson has reproduced the costumes worn by the members of the 
Zelosophic Society at the revival in 1915, has investigated the sources of the 
play in Parthian history and has written attractively of the life in Philadelphia 
and in Wilmington, North Carolina, that surrounded Godfrey, 



JUVENILE POEMS 

ON 

VARIOUS SUBJECTS- 

WITH THE 

PRINCE OF PARTHIA, 

A 

TRAGEDY. 

BYTHELATE 

Mr THOMAS GOD FRET, Junt 

of Philadelphia. 
To which is prefixed. 

Some ACCOUNT of the Author and his TFRifiNGS. 

Poeta nafcitur non fit, HoR« 



PHILADELPHIA, 

Printed by Henry Miller, in Second-Street, 

M DCC LXV. 



DRAMATIS PERSONAE 

MEN 
Artabanus, King of Parthia [Mr. Douglass] 

Arsaces, ^ r [Mr. Hallam] 

Vardanes, L his Sons [Mr. Tomlinson] 

GoTARZES, [Mr. Wall] 

Barzaphernes, Lieutenant-General, under Arsaces [Mr. Allyn] 

Lysias, ] f. [Mr. Broadbelt] 

y Officers at Court. 4 
Phraates, [Mr. Greville] 

Bethas, a Noble Captive [Mr. Morris] 

WOMEN 

Thermusa, the Queen [Mrs. Douglass] 

EvANTHE, belov 'd by Arsaces [Miss Cheer] 

Cleone, her Confidante [Miss Wainwright] 

Edessa, Attendant on the Queen [Mrs. Morris] 

Guards and Attendants 
Scene, Ctesiphon 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



A TRAGEDY 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1. The Temple of the Sun. ' 
GOTAEZES and Phraates. 

GOTARZES. He comes, Arsaces comes, my 

gallant Brother 
(Like shining Mars in all the pomp of 

conquest ) 
Triumphant enters now our joyful gates ; 
Bright Victory waits on his glitt'ring car. 
And shows her fav'rite to the wond'ring 

croud ; 
While Fame exulting sounds the happy 

name 
To realms remote, and bids the world ad- 
mire. 
Oh ! 't is a glorious day : — let none pre- 
sume 
T' indulge the tear, or wear the gloom of 

sorrow ; 
This day shall shine in Ages yet to come, 
And grace the Parthian storv^ 
Phraates. Glad '^Ctes'phon ^ 

Pours forth her numbers, like a rolling 

deluge. 
To meet the blooming Hero ; all the ways, 
On either side, as far as sight can stretch, 
Are lin'd with crouds, and on the lofty 

walls 
Innumerable multitudes are rang'd. 
On ev'ry countenance impatience sate 
With roving eye, before the train ap- 

pear'd. 
But when they saw the Darling of the 

Fates, 
They rent the air with loud repeated 

shouts ; 
The Mother show'd him to her infant Son, 
And taught his lisping tongue to name 

Arsaces : 
E'en aged Sires, whose sounds are 

scarcely heard, 
By feeble strength supported, tost their 

caps. 
And gave their murmur to the general 

voice. 

1 Ctesiphon, a large village on the left f^ank pf t^e 



GoTARZES. The spacious streets, which 

lead up to the Temple, 
Are strew'd with flow'rs ; each, with fran- 
tic joy. 
His garland forms, and throws it in the 

way. 
What pleasure, Phraates, must swell his 

bosom. 
To see the prostrate nation all around 

him, 
And know he 's made them happy ! to 

hear them 
Tease the Gods, to show'r their blessings 

on him! 
Happy Arsaces! fain I'd imitate 
Thy matchless worth, and be a shining 

joy! 
Phraates. Hark! what a shout was that 

which pierc'd the skies ! 
It seem'd as tho' all Nature's beings 

join'd, 
To hail thy glorious Brother. 
GoTARZES. Happy Parthia! 

Now proud Arabia dreads her destin'd 

chains. 
While shame and rout disperses all her 

sons. 
Barzaphernes pursues the fugitives, 
The few whom fav'ring Night redeem'd 

from slaughter; 
Swiftly they fled, for fear had wing'd 

their speed. 
And made them bless the shade which 

saf'ty gave. 
Phraates. What a bright hope is ours, 

when those dread pow'rs 
Who rule yon heav'n, and guide the mov'- 

ments here. 
Shall call your royal Father to their joys : 
In blest Arsaces ev'ry virtue meets; 
He 's gen'rous, brave, and wise, and good. 
Has skill to act, and noble fortitude 
To face bold danger, in the battle firm. 
And dauntless as a Lion fronts his foe. 
Yet is he sway'd by ev'ry tender passion. 
Forgiving mercy, gentleness and love; 
Which speak the Hero friend of human- 
kind. 
Gotarzes. And let me speak, for 'tis to 

him I owe 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



That here I stand, and breathe the com- 
mon air, 

And 't is my pride to tell it to the world. 

One luckless day as in the eager chace 

My Courser wildly bore me from the rest, 

A monst'rous Leopard from a bosky 
fen 

Rush'd forth, and foaming lash'd the 
ground, 

And fiercely ey'd me as his destin'd 
quarry. 

My jav'lin swift I threw, but o'er his 
head 

It erring pass'd, and harmless in the air 

Spent all its force ; my f alchin ^ then I 
seiz'd, 

Advancing to attack my ireful foe, 

When furiously the savage sprung upon 
me. 

And tore me to the- ground; my treach'- 
rous blade 

Above my hand snap'd short, and left 
me quite 

Defenceless to his rage; Arsaces then, 

Hearing the din, flew like some pitying 
pow'r. 

And quickly freed me from the Monster's 
paws, 

Drenching his bright lance in his spotted 
breast. 
Phraates. How diff'rent he from arro- 
gant Vardanes? 

That haughty Prince eyes with a stern 
contempt 

All other Mortals, and with lofty mien 

He treads tlie earth as tho' he were a God. 

Nay, I believe that his ambitious soul, 

Had it but pow'r to its licentious wishes, 

Would dare dispute with Jove the rule of 
heav'n ; 

Like a Titanian son with giant insolence. 

Match with the Gods, and wage immortal 
war, 

'Til their red wrath should hurl him head- 
long down, 

E'en to destruction's lowest pit of horror. 
GoTARZES. Methinks he wears not that be- 
coming joy 

Which on this bright occasion gilds the 
court; 

His brow's contracted with a gloomy 
frown, 

Pensive he stalks along, and seems a prey 

To pining discontent. 
Phraates. Arsaces he dislikes, 

For standing 'twixt him, and the hope of 
Empire ; 

1 Falchion, a broad curved convex-edged sword. 



While Envy, like a rav'nous Vulture 

tears 
His canker'd heart, to see your Brother's 

triumiDh. 
Gotarzes. And yet Vardanes owes that 

hated Brother 
As much as I ; 't was summer last, as we 
Were bathing in Euphrates' flood, Var- 
danes 
Proud of strength would seek the further 

shore ; 
But ere he the mid-stream gain'd, a 

poignant pain 
Shot thro' his well-strung nerves, con- 
tracting all, 
And the stiff joints refus'd their wonted 

aid. 
Loudly he cry'd for help, Arsaces heard. 
And thro' the swelling waves he rush'd 

to save 
His drowning Brother, and gave him life, 
And for the boon the Ingrate pays him 

hate. 
Phraates. There's something in the 

wind, for I' ve observ'd 
Of late he much frequents the Queen's 

apartment. 
And fain would court her favour, wild is 

she 
To gain revenge for fell Vonones' death. 
And firm resolves the ruin of Arsaces. 
Because that fill'd with filial piety, 
To save his Royal Sire, he struck the bold 
Presumptuous Traitor dead; nor heeds 

she 
The hand which gave her Libert}^, nay 

rais'd her 
Again to Royalty. 
Gotarzes. Ingratitude, 

Thou hell-bom fiend, how horrid is th^ 

form! 
The Gods sure let thee loose to scourge 

mankind, 
And save them from an endless waste of 

thunder. 
PpiRAATES. Yet I 've beheld this now so 

haughty Queen, 
Bent with distress, and e'en by pride for- 
sook, 
When following thy Sire's triumphant 

car. 
Her tears and ravings mov'd the sense- 
less herd, 
And pity blest their more than savage 

breasts. 
With the short pleasure of a moment's 

softness. 
Thy Father, conquer'd by her charms, 

(for what 



THOMAS GODFREY 



9 



Can charm like mourning beauty) soon 

struck oit' 
Her chams, and rais'd lier to his bed and 

throne. 
Adorn'd the brows of her aspiring Son, 
The fierce Vonones, with the regal crown 
Of rich Armenia, once the happy rule 
Of Tisaphernes, her deceased Lord. 
GoTARZES. And he in wasteful war re- 

turn'd his thanks, 
Refus'd the homage he had sworn to pay. 
And spread Destruction ev'rywhere 

around, 
'Til from Arsaces' hand he met the fate 
His crimes deserv'd. 
Phraates. As yet your princely Brother 
Has 'scap'd Thermusa's rage, for still re- 
siding 
In peaceful times, within his Province, 

ne'er 
Has fortune blest her with a sight of him, 
On whom she 'd wreck her vengeance. 
GOTARZES. She has won 

By spells^ I think, so much on my fond 

father. 
That he is guided by her will alone. 
She rules the realm, her pleasure is a 

law. 
All offices and favours are bestow'd, 
As she directs. 
Phraates. But see, the Prince, Vardanes, 
Proud Lysias wnth him, he whose soul is 

harsh 
With jarring discord. Nought but mad- 
ding rage. 
And ruffian-like revenge his breast can 

know, 
Indeed to gain a point he '11 condescend 
To mask the native rancour of his heart. 
And smooth his venom'd tongue with 

flattery. 
Assiduous now he courts Vardanes^ 

friendship, 
See, how he seems to answer all his 

gloom, 
And give him frown for frown. 
GOTARZEs. Let us retire, 

And simn them now; I know not what it 

means, 
But chilling horror shivers o'er my limbs. 
When Lysias I behold. — 

Scene 2. 

Vardanes and Lysias. 

(Shout.) 
Lysias. That shout proclaims 

Arsaces' near approach. 



Vardanes. Peace, prithee peace. 

Wilt thou still shock me with that hated 

sound, 
And grate harsh discord in my offended 

ear? 
If thou art fond of echoing the name. 
Join with the servile croud, and hail his 

triumph. 
Lysias. I hail him? By our glorious 

shining God, 
I 'd sooner lose my speech, and all my 

days 
In silence rest, conversing with my 

thoughts. 
Than hail Arsaces. 
Vardanes. Yet, again his name, 

Sure there is magic in it, Parthia 's 

drunk 
And giddy with the joy; the houses' 

tops 
With gaping spectators are throng'd, nay 

wild 
They climb such precipices that the eye 
Is dazzl'd with their daring; ev'ry 

wretch 
Who long has been immur'd, nor dar'd 

enjoy _ • 

The common benefits of sun and air, 
Creeps from his lurking place; e'en fee- 
ble age. 
Long to the sickly couch eonfin'd, stalks 

forth. 
And with infectious breath assails the 

Gods. 
! curse the name, the idol of their joy. 
Lysias. And what 's that name, that thus 

they should disturb 
The ambient air, and weary gracious 

heav'n 
With ceaseless bello wings? Vardanes 

sounds 
With equal harmony, and suits as well 
The loud repeated shouts of noisy joy. 
Can he bid Chaos Nature's rule dissolve, 
Can he deprive mankind of light and day, 
And turn the Seasons from their destin'd 

course ? 
Say, can he do all this, and be a God? 
If not, what is his matchless merit? 

What dares he, 
Vardanes dares not? Blush not, noble 

prince, 
For praise is merit's due, and I will give 

it; 
E'en mid the croud w^iich waits thy 

Brother's smile, 
I 'd loud proclaim the merit of Vardanes. 
Vardanes. Forbear this warmth, your 

friendship urges far. 



10 



THE PKINCE OF PARTHIA 



Yet know your love shall e'er retain a 
place 

In my remembrance. There is something 
here — {Fuintnuj to Ins breast.) 

Another tune and I will give thee all ; 

But now, no more. — 
Lysias. You may command my service, 

I 'm happy to obey. Of late your 
Brother 

Delights in hind'ring my advancement, 

And ev'ry boaster 's rais'd above my 
merit, 

Barzaphernes alone commands his ear, 

His oracle in all. 
Vardanes. I hate Arsaces, 

Tho' he 's my Mothers son, and church- 
men say 

There 's something sacred in the name of 
Brother. 

My soul endures him not, and he 's the 
bane 

Of all my hopes of greatness. Like the 
sun 

He rules the day, and like the night's 
pale Queen, 

My fainter beams are lost when he ap- 
pears. 

And this because he came into the world, 

A moon or two before me : What 's the 
diff'rence, 

That he alone should shine in Empire's 
seat? 

I am not apt to trumpet forth my praise, 

Or highly name myself, but this I '11 
speak. 

To him in ought, I 'm not. the least infe- 
rior. 

Ambition, glorious fever ! mark of Kings, 

Gave me immortal thirst and rule of 
Empire. 

Why lag'd my tardy soul, why droop'd 
the w^ng, 

Nor forward springing, shot before his 
speed 

To seize the prize? — 'T was Empire — 
Oh ! 't was Empire — 
Lysias. Yet, I must think that of supe- 
rior mould 

Your soul was form'd, fit for a heav'nly 
state. 

And left reluctant its sublime abode. 

And painfully obey'd the dread command, 

When Jove's controuling fate forc'd it 
below. 

His soul was earthly, and it downward 
mov'd, 

Swift as to the center of attraction, 
Vardanes. It might be so — But I 've 
another cause 



To hate this Brother, ev'ry way my rival ; 
In love as well as glory he 's above me ; 
I dote on fair Evanthe, but the charmer 
Disdains my ardent suit, like a miser 
He treasures up her beauties to himself: 
Thus is he form'd to give me torture 

ever. — 
But hark, they 've reach'd the Temple, 
Didst thou observe the croud, their eager- 
ness, 
Each put the next aside to catch a look, 
Himself w^as elbow'd out? — Curse, 
curse their zeal — 
Lysias. Stupid folly ! 
Vardaxes. I '11 tell thee, Lysias, 

This many-headed monster multitude, 
Unsteady is as giddy fortune's wheel, 
As woman fickle, varying as the wind ; 
To day they this way course, the next 

they veer, 
And shift another point, the next an- 
other. 
Lysias. Curiosity 's another name for 
man. 
The blazing meteor streaming thro' the 

air 
Commands our wonder, and admiring 

eyes, 
With eager gaze we trace the lucent path, 
'Til spent at length it slirinks to native 

nothing. 
While the bright stars which ever steady 

glow, 
Unheeded shine, and bless the world be- 
low. 



Scene 3. 

Queen and Edessa. 

Queen. Oh ! give me way, the haughty vic-^ 
tor comes. 
Surrounded by adoring multitudes; 
On swelling tides of praise to heav'n 

they raise him; 
To deck their idol, they rob the glorious 

beings 
Of their splendor. 
Edessa. My royal Lady, 

Chace hence these passions. 
Queen. Peace, forever peace, 

Have I not cause to hate this homicide? 
'T was by his cursed hand Vonones fell, 
Yet fell not as became his gallant spirit. 
Not by the warlike arm of chief re- 

nown'd. 
But by a youth, ye Gods, a beardless 
stripling. 



THOMAS GODFREY 



11 



Stab'd by his dastard falchin from be- 
hind; 
For well I know he fear'd to meet 

Vo nones, 
As princely warriors meet with open 

daring, 
But shrunk amidst his guards, and gave 

him death. 
When faint with wounds, and weary with 

the fight. 
Edessa. With anguish I have heard his 

hapless fate, 
And mourn'd in silence for the gallant 

Prince. 
Queen. Soft is thy nature, but alas! 

Edessa, 
Thy heart 's a stranger to a mother's 

sorrows, 
To see the pride of all her wishes blasted ; 
Thy fancy cannot paint the storm of 

grief, 
Despair and anguish, which my breast 

has known. 
Oh! shower, ye Gods, your torments on 

Arsaces, 
Curs'd be the morn which dawned upon 

his birth. 
Edessa. Yet, I intreat — 
Queen. Away! for I will curse — 

may he never know a father's fond- 

ness, 
Or know it to his sorrow, may his hopes 
Of joy be cut like mine, and his short life 
Be one continu'd tempest: if he lives, 
Let him be curs'd with jealousy and fear. 
And vext with anguish of neglecting 

scorn ; 
May tort'ring hope present the flowing 

cup. 
Then hasty snatch it from his eager 

thirst. 
And when he dies base treach'ry be the 

means. 
Edessa. Oh ! calm your spirits. 
Queen. Yes, I '11 now be calm, 

Calm as the sea wlien the rude waves are 

laid. 
And nothing but a gentle swell remains; 
My curse is heard, and I shall have re- 
venge : 
There 's something here which tells me 

't will be so. 
And peace resumes her empire o'er my 

breast. 
Vardanes is the Minister of Vengeance; 
Fir'd by ambition, he aspiring seeks 
T' adorn his brows with Farthias diadem; 

1 've f ann'd the fire, and wrought him up 

to fury, 



Envy shall urge him forward still to 

dare, 
And discord be the prelude to destruc- 
tion. 
Then this detested race shall feel my hate. 
Edessa. And doth thy hatred then extend 
so far. 
That innocent and guilty all alike 
Must feel thy dreadful vengeance? 
Queen. Ah! Edessa, 

Thou dost not know e'en half my mighty 

wrongs. 
But in thy bosom I will pour my sorrows. 
Edessa. With secrecy I ever have repaid 

Your confidence. 
Queen. I know thou hast, then hear. 

The changeling King who oft has kneel'd 

before me, 
And own'd no other pow'r, now treats me 
With ill dissembl'd love mix'd with dis- 
dain, 
A newer beauty rules his faithless heart, 
Which only in variety is blest ; 
Oft have I heard him, when wrapt up in 

sleep, 
And wanton fancy rais'd the mimic scene, 
Call with unusual fondness on Evanthe, 
While I have lain neglected by his side, 
Except sometimes in a mistaken rapture 
He 'd clasp me to his bosom. 
Edessa. Oh! Madam, 

Let not corroding jealousy usurp 
Your Royal breast, unnumber'd ills at- 
tend 
The wretch who entertains that fatal 
guest. 
Queen. Think not that I '11 pursue its 
wand'ring fires, 
No more I '11 know perplexing doubts 

and fears, 
And erring trace suspicion's endless 

maze. 
For, ah ! I doubt no more. 
Edessa. Their shouts approach. 

Queen. Lead me, Edessa, to some peace- 
ful gloom. 
Some silent shade far from the walks of 

men, 
There shall the hop'd revenge my 

thoughts employ. 
And sooth my sorrows with the coming 

joy. 

Scene 4. 

Evanthe and Cleone. 

Evanthe. No, I 'U not meet him now, for 
love delights 



12 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



In the soft pleasures of the secret shade, 

And shuns the noise and tumult of the 
croud. 

How tedious are the hours which bring 
him 

To my fond panting heart! for oh! to 
those 

Who live in expectation of the bliss, 

Time slowly creeps, and ev'ry tardy min- 
ute 

Seems mocking of their wishes. Say, 
Cleone, 

For you beheld the triumph, midst his 
pomp, 

Did he not seem to curse the empty show, 

The pageant greatness, enemy to love, 

Which held him from Evanthef haste, to 
tell me, 

And feed my greedy ear with the fond 

tale- 
Yet, hold — for I shall weary you with 
questions. 

And ne'er be satisfied — Beware, Cleone, 

And guard your heart from Love's de- 
lusive sweets. 
Cleone. Is Love an ill, that thus you cau- 
tion me 

To shun his pow'r? 
EvANTHE. The Tyrant, my Cleone, 

Despotic rules, and fetters all our 
thoughts. 

Oh! wouldst thou love, then bid adieu to 
peace, 

Then fears will come, and jealousies in- 
trude. 

Ravage your bosom, and disturb your 
quiet, 

E'en pleasure to excess will be a pain. 

Once I was free, then my exulting heart 

Was like a bird that hops from spray to 
spray. 

And all was innocence and mirth; but, 
lo! 

The Fowler came, and by his arts decoy'd. 

And soon the Wanton cag'd. Twice fif- 
teen times 

Has Cynthia dipt her horns in beams of 
^ light. 

Twice fifteen times has wasted all her 
brightness, 

Since first I knew to love ; 't was on that 
day 

When curs'd Vonones fell upon the plain, 

The lovely Victor doubly conquer'd me. 
Cleone. Forgive my boldness, Madam, if 
I ask 

What chance first gave you to Vonones' 
pow'r? 

Curiosity thou know'st is of our sex. 



Evanthe. That is a talk will wake me to 
new sorrows. 

Yet thou attend, and I will tell thee all. 

Arabia gave me birth, my father held 

Great Offices at Court, and was reputed. 

Brave, wise and loyal, by his Prince be- 
lov'd. 

Oft has he led his conqu'ring troops, and 
forc'd 

From frowning victory her awful hon- 
ours. 

In infancy I was his only treasure, 

On me he wasted all his store of fond- 
ness. 

Oh! I could tell thee of his wond'rous 
goodness. 

His more than father's love and tender- 
ness. 

But thou wouldst jeer, and say the tale 
was trifling; 

So did he dote upon me, for in childhood 

My infant charms, and artless innocence 

Blest his fond age, and won on ev'ry^ 
heart. 

But, oh! from this sprung ev'ry future 
ill, 

This fatal beauty was the source of all. 
Cleone. 'T is often so, for beauty is a 
flow'r 

That tempts the hand to pluck it. 
Evanthe. Full three times 

Has scorching summer fled from cold 
winter's 

Ruthless blasts, as oft again has spring 

In sprightly youth drest nature in her 
beauties. 

Since bathing in NipJiates' ^ silver 
stream. 

Attended only by one fav'rite maid; 

As we were sporting on the wanton 
waves, 

Swift from the wood a troop of horsemen 
rush'd. 

Rudely they seiz'd, and bore me trem- 
bling off. 

In vain Edessn. with her shrieks assail'd 

The heav'ns, for heav'n was deaf to both 
our pray'rs. 

The wretch whose insolent embrace con- 
fin'd me, 

(Like thunder bursting on the guilty 
soul) 

With curs'd Vonones' voice pour'd in my 
ears 

A hateful tale of love; for he it seems 

Had seen me at Arabia's royal court. 

And took those means to force me to his 
arms. 

iThe Tigris. 



THOMAS GODFREY 



13 



Cleone. Perhaps you may gain some- 

tliing from the Captives 
Of your lost Parents. 
EvANTHE. This I mean to trj^, 

Soon as the night hides Nature in her 

darkness, 
Veil'd in the gloom we '11 steal into their 

prison. 
But, oh! perhaps e'en now my aged Sire 
May 'mongst the slam lie weltring on the 

field, 
Pierc'd like a riddle through with 

num'rous wounds, 
While parting life is quiv'ring on his lips, 
He may perhaps be calling on his 

Evanth e. 
Yes, ye great Pow'rs who boast the name 

of mercy, 
Ye have deny'd me to his latest moments, 
To all the offices of fihal duty. 
To bind his wounds, and wash them with 

my tears, 
Is this, is this your mercy? 
Cleoxe. Blame not heav'n, 

For heav'n is just and kind; dear Lady, 

drive 
These black ideas from your gentle 

breast ; 
Fancy delights to torture the distressed, 
And fill the gloomy scene with shadowy 

ills. 
Summon your reason, and you '11 soon 

have comfort. 
Evanthe. Dost thou name comfort to me, 

my Cleone, 
Thou who know'st all my sorrows? plead 

no more, 
'Tis reason tells me I am doubly 

wretched. 
Cleone. But hark, the music strikes, the 

rites begin. 
And, see, the doors are op'ning. 
EvANTHE. Let 's retire ; 

My heart is now too full to meet him 

here. 
Fly swift, ye hours, till in his arms I 'm 

prest. 
And each intruding care is hush'd to rest. 



Scene 5. The Scene draws and discovers, 
in the inner Part of the Temple, a large 
Image of the Sun, with an Altar before 
it. Around Priests and Attendants. 

King, Arsaces, Vardanes, Gotarzes, 
Phraates, Lysias, with Bethas in 
chains. 



HYMN. 

Parent of Light, to thee belong 

Our grateful tributary songs; 

Each thankful voice to thee shall rise, 

And chearful pierce the azure skies; 

While in thy praise all earth combines, 

And Echo in the Chorus joins. 

All the gay pride of blooming May, 

The Lily fair and blushing Rose, 
To thee their early honours pay, 

And all their heav'nly sweets disclose. 
The feather'd Choir on ev'ry tree 

To hail thy glorious dawn repair, 
While the sweet sons of harmony 

With Hallelujahs fill the air, 

'Tis thou hast brae'd the Hero's arm, 
And giv'n the Love of praise to warm 
His bosom, as he onward flies. 
And for his Country bravely dies. 
Thine *s victory, and from thee springs 
Ambition's fire, which glows in Kings. 

King. {Coming forward.) Thus, to the 

Gods our tributary songs. 

And now, oh ! let me welcome once again 

My blooming victor to his Father's arms ; 

And let me thank thee for our safety: 

Parthia 
Shall thank thee too, and give her grate- 
ful praise 
Tq her Deliverer. 
Omnes. All hail! Arsaces! 

King. Thanks to my loyal friends. 
Vardanes. {Aside.) 

Curse, curse the sound, 
E'en Echo gives it back with int'rest, 
The joyful gales swell with the pleasing 

theme. 
And waft it far away to distant hills. 

that my breath was poison, then in- 

deed 

1 'd hail him like the rest, but blast him 

too. 
Arsaces. My Royal Sire, these honours 

are unmerited. 
Beneath your prosp'rous auspices I 

fought. 
Bright vict'ry to your banners joyful 

flew. 
And favour'd for the Sire the happy son. 
But lenity should grace the victor's 

laurels, 
Then, here, my gracious Father — 
King. Ha! 'tis Bethas! 

Know'st thou, vain wretch, what fate 

attends on those 
Who dare oppose the pow'r of mighty 

Kings, 



14 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



AVliom lieav'n delights to favour? sure 

some God 
Who sought to punish you for impious 

deeds, 
'T was urg'd you forward to insult our 

arms, 
And brave us at our Royal City's gates. 
Bethas. At honour's call, and at my 

King's command. 
The' it were even with my single arm, 

again 
I 'd brave the multitude, which, like a 

deluge, 
O'erwhelm'd my gallant handful; yea 

wou'd meet 
Undaunted, all the fury of the torrent. 
'T is honour is the guide of all my ac- 
tions, 
The ruling star by which I steer thro' 

life, 
And shun the shelves of infamy and vice. 
King. It was the thirst of gain which drew 

you on; 
'Tis thus that Av'rice always cloaks its 

views, 
Th' ambition of your Prince you gladly 

snatch'd 
As opportunity to fill your coffers. 
It was the plunder of our palaces. 
And of our wealthy cities, fill'd your 

dreams, 
And urg'd you on your way; but you 

have met 
The due reward of your audacity. 
Now shake your chains, shake and de- 
light your ears 
With the soft music of your golden fet- 
ters. 
Bethas. True, I am fall'n, but glorious 

was my fall. 
The day was brav'ly fought, we did our 

best, 
But victory 's of heav'n. Look o'er yon 

field. 
See if thou findest one Arabian back 
Disfigured with dishonourable wounds. 
No, here, deep on their bosoms, are en- 

grav'd 
The marks of honour ! 't was thro' here 

their souls 
Flew to their blissful seats. Oh! why 

did I 
Survive the fatal day? To be this slave, 
To be the gaze and sport of vulgar 

crouds. 
Thus, like a shackl'd tyger, stalk my 

round, 
And grimly low'r upon the shouting 

herd. 



Ye Gods!— 
King. Away with him to instant death. 
Arsaces. Hear me, my Lord, 0, not on 

this bright day. 
Let not this day of joy blush with his 

blood. 
Nor count his steady loyalty a crime, 
But give him life, Arsaces humbly asks it, 
And may you e'er be serv'd with honest 

hearts. 
King. Well, be it so; hence, bear him to 

his dungeon; 
Lysias, we here commit him to thy 

charge. . 
Bethas. Welcome my dungeon, but more 

welcome death. 
Trust not too much, vain Monarch, to 

your pow'r, 
Know fortune places all her choicest 

gifts 
On ticklish heights, they shake with ev'ry 

breeze, 
And oft some rude wind hurls tliem to 

the ground. 
Jove's thunder strikes the lofty palaces, 
While the low cottage, in humility, 
Securely stands, and sees the mighty 

ruin. 
What King can boast, to morrow as to 

day, 
Thus, happy will I reign? The rising 

sun 
May view him seated on a splendid 

throne. 
And, setting, see him shake the ser\dle 

chain. {Exit guarded.) 



Scene 6. 

King, Arsaces, Vardanes, Gotarzes,^ 
Phraates. 

GOTARZES. Thus let me hail thee from the 
croud distinct. 
For in the exulting voice of gen'ral joy 
My fainter sounds were lost, believe me, 

Brother, 
My soul dilates with joy to see thee thus. 
Arsaces. Thus let me thank thee in this 

fond embrace. 
Vardanes. The next will be my turn, 
Gods, I had rather 
Be eirel'd in a venom'd serpent's fold. 
GoTARZES. O, my lov'd Brother, 't is my 
humble boon. 
That, when the war next calls you to the 

field, 
I may attend you in the rage of battle. 



THOMAS GODFREY 



15 



By imitating thy heroic deeds, 
Perhaps, I may rise to some little worth, 
Beneath thy care I '11 try my feeble 

wings. 
Till taught by thee to soar to nobler 

heights. 
King. Why that 's my boy, thy spirit 

speaks thy birth. 
No more I '11 turn thee from the road to 

glory, 
To rust in slothfulness, with lazy Gowns- 
men. 
GOTARZES. Thanks, to my Sire, I 'm now 

completely blest. 
Arsaces. But, I 've another Brother, 

where 's Vardanes f 
King. Ha! what, methinks, he lurks be- 
hind the croud, 
And wears a gloom which suits not with 

the time. 
Vardanes. Doubt not my Love, tho' I lack 

eloquence. 
To dress my sentiments and catch the 

ear, 
Tho' plain my manners, and my language 

rude. 
My honest heart disdains to wear dis- 
guise. 
Then think not I am slothful in the race. 
Or, that my Brother springs before my 

Love. 
Arsaces. Far be suspicion from me. 
Vardanes. So, 'tis done, 

Thanks to dissembling, all is well again. 
King. Now let us, forward, to the Temple 

go, 
And let, with cheerful wine, the goblets 

flow; 
Let blink-ey'd Jollity his aid afford, 
To crown our triumph, round the festive 

board : 
But, let the wretch, whose soul can know 

a care, 
Far from our joj^s, to some lone shade 

repair, 
In secrecy, there let him e'er remain. 
Brood o'er his gloom, and still increase 

his pain. 

END OF THE FIRST ACT. 

ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. A Prison. 

Lysias, alone. 

The Sun set frowning, and refreshing Eve 
Lost all its sweets, obscur'd in double 
gloom. 



This night shall sleep be stranger to these 

eyes. 
Peace dwells not here, and slumber flies the 

shock ; 
My spirits, like the elements, are war[r]ing, 
And mock the tempest with a kindred 

rage — 
I, who can joy in nothing, but revenge, 
Know not those boasted ties of Love and 

Friendship ; 
Vardanes I regard, but as he gives me 
Some hopes of vengeance on the Prince 

Arsaces — 
But, ha! he comes, wak'd by the angry 

storm, 
'T is to my wish, thus would I form de- 
signs. 
Horror should breed beneath the veil of 

horror, 
And darkness aid conspiracies — He 's 

here — 



Scene 2. 

Vardanes and Lysias. 

Lysias. Welcome, my noble Prince. 
Vardanes. Thanks, gentle friend; 

Heav'ns! what a night is this! 
Lysias. 'T is filled with terror ; 

Some dread event beneath this horror 

lurks, 
Ordain'd by fate's irrevocable doom; 
Perhaps Arsaces' fall — and angry 

heav'n 
Speaks it, in thunder, to the trembling 

world. 
Vardanes. Terror indeed! it seems as 

sick'ning Nature 
Had giv'n her order up to gen'ral ruin ; 
The Heav'ns appear as one continu'd 

flame, 
Earth with her terror shakes, dim night 

retires. 
And the red lightning gives a dreadful 

day? 
While in the thunder's voice each sound 

is lost; 
Fear sinks the panting heart in ev'ry 

bosom, 
E'en the pale dead, affrighted at the 

horror, 
As tho' unsafe, start from their marble 

gaols, 
And howling thro' the streets are seek- 
ing shelter. 
Lysias. I saw a flash stream thro' the 

angry clouds, 



16 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



And bend its course to where a stately 

pine 
Behind the garden stood, quickly it seiz'd, 
And wrapt it in a fiery fold, the trunk 
Was shiver'd into atoms, and the 

branches 
Off were lopt, and wildly scatter'd round. 
Vardanes. Why rage the elements, they 

are not curs'd 
Like me? Evanthe frowns not angry on 

them, 
The wind may play upon her beauteous 

bosom 
Nor fear her chiding, light can bless her 

sense. 
And in the floating mirror she beholds 
Those beauties which can fetter all man- 
kind. 
Earth gives her joy, she plucks the fra- 
grant rose, 
Pleas'd takes its sweets, and gazes on its 

bloom. 
Lysias. My Lord, forget her, tear her 

from your breast. 
Who, like the Phoenix, gazes on the sun. 
And strives to soar up to the glorious 

blaze. 
Should never leave Ambition's brightest 

object. 
To turn, and view the beauties of a 

flow'r. 
ITardanes. 0, Lysias, chide no more, for, 

I have done. 
Yes, I '11 forget this proud disdainful 

beauty ; 
Hence with vain love — Ambition, now, 

alone. 
Shall guide my actions, since mankind 

delights 
To give me pain, I '11 study mischief too, 
And shake the earth, e'en like this raging 

tempest. 
Lysias. A night like this, so dreadful to 

behold, 
Since my remembrance's birth, I never 

saw. 
Vardanes. E'en such a night, dreadful as 

this, they say. 
My teeming Mother gave me to the 

world. 
Whence by those sages who, in knowl- 
edge rich. 
Can pry into futurity, and tell 
AVhat distant ages will produce of won- 
der, 
My days were deem'd to be a hurricane; 
My early life prov'd their prediction 

false ; 
Beneath a sky serene my voyage began. 



But, to this long uninterrupted calm, 
Storms shall succeed. 
Lysias. Then haste, to raise the tempest; 
My soul disdains this one eternal round. 
Where each succeeding day is like the 

former. 
Trust me, my noble Prince, here is a 

heart 
Steady and firm to all your purposes. 
And here 's a hand that knows to execute 
Whate'er designs thy daring breast can 

form, 
Nor ever shake with fear, 
Vardanes. And I will use it, 

Come to my bosom, let me place thee 

here. 
How happy am I clasping so much vir- 
tue! 
Now, by the light, it is my firm belief, 
One mighty soul in common swells our 

bosoms. 
Such sameness can't be match'd in diff'- 

rent beings. 
Lysias. Your confidence, my Lord, much 

honours me. 
And when I act unworthy of your love 
May I be hooted from Society, 
As tho' disgraceful to the human kind. 
And diiv'n to herd among the savage 

race. 
Vardanes. Believe me, Lysias, I do not 

know 
A single thought which tends toward sus- 
picion. 
For well I know thy worth, when I af- 
front it, 
By the least doubt, may I be ever curs'd 
With faithless friends, and by his dagger 

fall 
Whom my deluded wishes most would 

favour. 
Lysias. Then let 's no longer trifle time 

away, 
I 'm all impatience till I see thy brows 
Bright in the glories of a diadem; 
My soul is fill'd with anguish when I 

think 
That by weak Princes worn, 'tis thus 

disgrac'd. 
Haste, mount the throne, and, like the 

morning Sun, 
Chace with your piercing beams those 

mists away. 
Which dim the glory of the Parthian 

state : 
Each honest heart desires it, numbers 

there are 
Ready to join you, and support your 

cause, 



THOMAS GODFREY 



17 



Against th' opposing faction. 
Vardaxes. Sure some God, 

Bid you thus call me to my dawning hon- 
ours, 
And joyful I obey the pleasing summons. 
Now by the powers of heav'n, of earth 

and hell. 
Most solemnly I swear, I will not know, 
That quietude which I was wont to 

know, 
'Til I have climb'd the height of all my 

wishes, 
Or fell, from glory, to the silent grave. 
Lysias. Nobly resolv'd, and spoken like 

Vardanes, 
There shone my Prince in his superior 

lustre. 
Vardanes. But, then, Arsaces, he 's a 

fatal bar — 
0! could I brush this busy insect from 

me, 
Which envious strives to rob me of my 

bloom, 
Then might I, like some fragrant op'ning 

flow'r. 
Spread all my beauties in the face of 

day. 
Ye Gods ! why did ye give me such a soul, 
(A soul, which ev'ry way is form'd for 

Empire ) 
And damn me with a younger Brother's 

right? 
The diadem should set as well on mine, 
As on the brows of any lordly He ; 
Nor is this hand weak to enforce com- 
mand. 
And shall I steal into my grave, and give 
My name up to oblivion, to be thrown 
Among the common rubbish of the times ? 
No: Perish first, this happy hated 

Brother. 
Lysias. I always wear a dagger for your 

service, 
I need not speak the rest — 
When humbly I intreated of your 

Brother 
T' attend him as Lieutenant in this war, 
Frowning contempt, he haughtily reply'd, 
He entertain'd not Traitors in his serv- 
ice. 
True, I betray 'd Orodes, but with cause, 
He struck me, like a sorry abject slave, 
And still withheld from giving what he 'd 

promis'd. 
Fear not Arsaees, believe me, he shall 
Soon his Quietus have — But, see, he 

comes, — 
What can this mean? Why at this 

lonely hour, 



And unattended? — Ha! 'tis oppor- 
tune — 

I '11 in, and stab him now I heed not what 

The danger is, so I but have revenge. 

Then heap perdition on me. 
Vardanes. Hold, awhile— 

'T would be better could we undermine 
him, 

And make him fall by Artahanus' doom. 
Lysias. Well, be it so — 
Vardanes. But let us now retire, 

We must not be observ'd together here. 



Scene 3. 

Arsaces, alone. 

'T is here that hapless Bethas is confin'd ; 
He who, but yesterday, like angry Jove, 
When punishing the crimes of guilty 

men, 
Spread death and desolation all around, 
While Parthia trembl'd at his name; is 

now 
Unfriended and forlorn, and counts the 

hours. 
Wrapt in the gloomy horrors of a gaol. — 
How dark, and hidden, are the turns of 

fate! 
His rigid fortune moves me to compas- 
sion. 
! 't is a heav'nly virtue when the heart 
Can feel the sorrows of another's bosom. 
It dignifies the man : The stupid wretch 
Who knows not this sensation, is an 

image, 
And wants the feeling to make up a 

life— 
I '11 in, and give my aid to sooth his sor- 
rows. 



Scene 4. 

Vardanes and Lysias. 

Lysias. Let us observe with care, some- 
thing we, yet. 

May gather, to give to us the vantage; 

No matter what 's the intent. 
Vardanes. How easy 'tis 

To cheat this busy, tattling, censuring 
world ! 

For fame still names our actions, good or 
bad. 

As introduc'd by chance, which ofttimes 
throws 



,'8 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



Wrong lights on objects; vice she dresses 
up 

In tlie bright form, and goodliness, of 
virtue, 

While virtue languishes, and pines neg- 
lected, 

Rob[b]'d of her lustre— But, let 's for- 
ward, Lijsias — 

Thou know'st each turn in this thy 
dreary rule, 

Then lead me to some secret stand, from 
whence, 

Unnotic'd, all their actions we may view. 
Lysias. Here, take your stand behind — 
See, Bethas comes. 

{They retire.) 



Scene 5. 

Bethas, alone. 

To think on Death, in gloomy solitude, 
In dungeons and in chains, when expec- 
tation 
Join'd with serious thought describe him 

to us. 
His height'n'd terrors strike upon the 

soul 
With awful dread; imagination rais'd 
To frenzy, plunges in a sea of horror. 
And tastes the pains, the agonies of 

dying— 
Ha! who is this, perhaps he bears my 

fate? 
It must be so, but, why this privacy"? 



Scene 6. 

Arsaces and Bethas. 

Arsaces. Health to the noble Bethas, 

health and joy! 
Bethas. A steady harden'd villain, one 
experienc'd 

In his employment ; ha ! where 's thy 
dagger? 

It cannot give me fear ; I 'm ready, see, 

My op'ning bosom tempts the friendly 
steel. 

Fain would I cast this tiresome being off. 

Like an old garment worn to wretched- 
ness. 

Here, strike for I 'm prepar'd. 
Arsaces. Oh! view me better. 

Say, do I wear the gloomy ruffian's 
frown? 



Bethas. Ha ! 't is the gallant Prince, the 
brave Arsaces, 

And Bethas' Conqueror. 
Arsaces. And Bethas' friend, 

A name I 'm proud to wear. 
Bethas. Away — away — 

Mock with your jester to divert the court, 

Fit Scene for sportive joys and frolic 
mirth ; 

Thinkst thou I lack that manly constancy 

Which braves misfortune, and remains 
unshaken ? 

Are these, are these the emblems of thy 
friendship, 

These rankling chains, say, does it gall 
like these? 

No, let me taste the bitterness of sorrow. 

For I am reconcil'd to wretchedness. 

The Gods have empty'd all their mighty 
store. 

Of hoarded Ills, upon my whiten'd age; 

Now death — but, oh ! I court coy death in 
vain. 

Like a cold maid, he scorns my fond com- 
plaining. 

'T is thou, insulting Prince, 't is thou 
hast dragg'd 

My soul, just rising, down again to earth. 

And clogg'd her wings with dull mortal- 
ity, 

A hateful bondage! Why — 
Arsaces. A moment hear me — 

Bethas. Why dost thou, like an angry 
vengeful ghost, 

Glide hither to disturb this peaceful 
gloom ? 

What, dost thou envy me my miseries, 

My chains and flinty pavement, where I 
oft 

In sleep behold the image of the death I 
wish. 

Forget my sorrows and heart-breaking" 
anguish ? 

These horrors I would undisturb'd en- 
joy, 

Attended only by my silent thoughts; 

Is it to see the wretch that you have 
made, 

To view the ruins of unhappy Bethas, 

And triumph in my grief? Is it for 
this 

You penetrate my dark joyless prison? 
Arsaces. Oh! do not injure me by such 
suspicions. 

Unknown to me are cruel scoffs and jests; 

My breast can feel compassion's tender- 
ness. 
The warrior's warmth, the soothing joys 
of friendship. 



THOMAS GODFREY 



19 



When adverse bold battalions shook the 
earth, 

And horror triumph'd on the hostile 
field, 

I sought you with a glorious enmity, 

And arm'd my brow with the stern frown 
of war. 

But now the angry trumpet wakes no 
more 

The youthful champion to the lust for 
blood. 

Retiring rage gives place to softer pas- 
sions, 

And gen'rous warriors know no longer 
hate. 

The name of foe is lost, and thus I ask 

Your friendship. 
Bethas. Ah! why dost thou mock me 

thus? 
Arsaces. Let the base coward, he who ever 
shrinks, 

And trembles, at the slight name of dan- 
ger. 

Taunt, and revile, with bitter gibes, the 
wretched ; 

The brave are ever ^ to distress a friend. 

Tho' my dear country^, (spoil'd by waste- 
ful war, 

Her harvests blazing, desolate her towns, 

i^.nd baleful ruin shew'd her hag [g] arc! 
face) 

Call'd out on me to save her from her 
foes. 

And I obey'd, yet to your gallant prow- 
ess. 

And unmatch'd deeds, I admiration gave. 

But now my country knows the sweets of 
safety. 

Freed from her fears; sure now I may 
indulge 

My just esteem for your superior virtue. 
Bethas. Yes, I must think you what you 
would be thought, 

For honest minds are easy of belief. 

And always judge of others by them- 
selves, 

But often are deceiv'd ; yet Parthia breeds 
not 

Virtue much like thine, the barb'rous 
clime teems 

With nought else but villains vers'd in ill. 
Arsaces. Dissimulation never mark'd my 
looks. 

Nor flatt'ring deceit e'er taught my 
tongue. 

The tale of falsehood, to disguise my 
thoughts : 

1 The text is obscure here. The meaning is "The 
lOrave are always a friend to distress." 



To Virtue, and, her fair companion^ 

Truth, 
I 've ever bow'd, their holy precepts kept, 
And seann'd by them the actions of my 

life. 
Suspicion surely ne'er disturbs the brave, 
They never know the fears of doubting 

thoughts ; 
But free, as are the altars of the Gods, 
From ev'ry hand receive the sacrifice. 



Scene 7. 

Arsaces, Bethas, Evanthe, and Cleone. 

Evanthe. Heav'ns! what a gloom hangs 
round this dreadful place. 
Fit habitation for the guilty mind ! 
Oh! if such terrors wait the innocent, 
Which tread these vaults, what must the 

impious feel. 
Who 've all their crimes to stare them in 
the face? 
Bethas. Immortal Gods ! is this reality ? 
Or meer ^ illusion ? am I blest at last. 
Or is it tg torment me that you 've rais'd 
This semMance of Evanthe to my eyes ? 
It is ! it is ! 't is she ! — 
Arsaces. Ha! — what means this? — 

She faints! she faints! life has forsook 

its seat, 
Pale Death usurps its place — Evanthe, 

Oh! 
Awake to life! — Love and Arsaces 
call!— 
Bethas. Off — give her to my arms, my 
warm embrace 
Shall melt Death's icy chains. 
Cleone. She lives ! she lives ! — 

See, on her cheeks the rosy glow returns. 
Arsaces. joy! joy! her op'ning eyes, 
again. 
Break, like the morning sun, a better day. 
Bethas. Evanthe! — 
Evanthe. Oh! my Father! — 

Arsaces. Ha! — her Father! 

Bethas. Heav'n tliou art kind at last, and 
this indeed 
Is recompense for all the ills I've past; 
For all the sorrows which my heart has 

known, 
Each wakeful night, and ev'ry day of 

anguish. 
This, this has sweet'n'd all my bitter cup, 
And gave me once again to taste of joy, 
Joy which has long been stranger to this 
bosom. 

1 Mere. 



20 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



Hence — hence disgrace — off, ignominy 
oft"— 

But one embrace — I ask but one embrace, 

And 't is deny'd. 
EvANTHE. 0, yes, around thy neck 

I '11 fold my longing arms, tliy softer fet- 
ters, 

Thus press thee to my happy breast, and 
kiss 

Away those tears that stain thy aged 
cheeks. 
Bethas. Oh! 'tis too much! it is too 
much! ye Gods! 

Life 's at her utmost stretch, and bursting 
near 

With heart-swoln ecstasy ; now let me die. 
Arsaces. What marble heart 

Could see this scene unmov'd, nor give a 
tear? 

My eyes grow dim, and sympathetic pas- 
sion 

Falls like a gushing torrent on my bosom. 
EvANTHE. ! happy me, this place, which 
lately seem'd 

So fill'd with horror, now is pleasure's 
circle. 

Here will I fix my seat; my pleasing 
task 

Shall be to cherish thy remaining life. 

All night I '11 keep a vigil o'er thy slum- 
bers. 

And on my breast repose thee, mark thy 
dreams. 

And when thou wak'st invent some pleas- 
ing tale. 

Or with my songs the tedious hours be- 
guile. 
Bethas. Still let me gaze, still let me gaze 
upon thee. 

Let me strain ev'ry nerve with ravish- 
ment, 

And all my life be center'd in my vision. 

To see thee thus, to hear thy angel voice, 

It is, indeed, a luxury of pleasure ! — 

Speak, speak again, for oh ! 't is heav'n 
to hear thee! 

Celestial sweetness dwells on ev'ry ac- 
cent ; — 

Lull me to rest, and sooth my raging joy, 

Joy whicli distracts me with unruly trans- 
ports. 

Now, by thy dear departed Mother's 
shade. 

Thou brightest pattern of all excellence, 

Thou who in prattling infancy hast blest 
me, 

I wou'd not give this one transporting 
moment. 

This fullness of delis'ht. for all— but. ah ! 



'T is vile. Ambition, Glory, all is vile. 
To the soft sweets of love and tenderness. 
Evanthe. Now let me speak, my throb- 
bing heart is full, 
I '11 tell thee all, — alas ! I have forgot — 
'T 'as slipt me in the tumult of my joy. 
And yet I thought that I had much to say. 
Bethas. Oh! I have curs'd my birth, in- 
deed, I have 
Blasphem'd the Gods, with unbecoming 

passion, 
Arraign'd their Justice, and defy'd their 

pow'r, 
In bitterness, because they had deny'd 
Thee to support the weakness of my age. 
But now no more I '11 rail and rave at 

fate, 
All its decrees are just, complaints are 

impious. 
Whate'er short-sighted mortals feel, 

springs from 
Their blindness in the ways of Provi- 
dence ; 
Sufficient wisdom 't is for man to know 
That the great Ruler is e'er wise and 
good. 
Arsaces. Ye figur'd stones ! 

Ye senseless, lifeless images of men, 
Who never gave a tear to others' woe. 
Whose bosoms never glow'd for others^ 
good, 

weary heav'n with your repeated 

pray'rs, 
And strive to melt the angry pow'rs to 

pity, 

That ye may truly live. 
Evanthe. Oh ! how my heart 

Beats in my breast, and shakes my trem- 
bling frame ! 

1 sink beneath this sudden flood of joy. 
Too mighty for my spirits. 

Arsaces. My Evanthe, 

Thus in my arms I catch thy falling beau- 
ties, 

Chear thee; and kiss thee back to life 
again : 

Thus to my bosom I could ever hold thee. 

And find new pleasure. 
Evanthe. 0! my lov'd Arsaces, 

Forgive me that I saw thee not before. 

Indeed my soul was busily employ'd. 

Nor left a single thought at liberty. 

But thou, I know, art gentleness and 
love. 

Now I am doubly paid for all my sor- 
rows, 

For all my fears for thee. 
Arsaces. Then, fear no more : 

Give to guilty wretches painful terrors: 



THOMAS GODFREY 



21 



Whose keen remembrance raises horrid 

forms, 
Shapes that in spite of nature shock their 

souls 
With dreadful anguish; but thy gentle 

bosom, 
Where innocence beams light and gayety, 
Can never know a fear, now shining joy 
Shall gild the pleasing scene. 
EvANTHE. Alas! this joy 

I fear is like a sudden flame shot from 
Th' expiring taper, darkness will ensue. 
And double night I dread enclose us 

round. 
Anxiety does yet disturb my breast. 
And frightful apprehension shakes my 

soul. 
Bethas. How shall I thank you, ye bright 

glorious beings! 
Shall I in humble adoration bow. 
Or fill the earth with your resounding 

praise ? 
No, this I leave to noisy hypocrites, 
A Mortal's tongue disgraces such a 

theme ; 
But heav'n delights where silent grati- 
tude 
Mounts each aspiring thought to its 

bright throne, 
N"or leaves to language aught ; words may 

indeed 
From man to man their several wants 

express, 
Heav'n asks the purer incense of the 

heart. 
Arsaces. I'll to the King, ere he retires 

to rest, 
Nor will I leave him 'til I 've gain'd 

your freedom; 
His love will surely not deny me this. 



Scene 8. 

Vardanes and Lysias {come forward). 

Lysias. 'T was a moving scene, e'en my 
rough nature 

Was nighly melted. 
Vardanes. Hence coward pity — 

What is joy to them, to me is torture. 

Now am I rack'd with pains that far ex- 
ceed 

Those agonies, which fabling Priests re- 
late. 

The damn'd endure : The shock of hope- 
less Love, 

Unblest with any views to sooth ambition, 

Rob me of all my reas'ning faculties. 



Arsaces gains Evanthe, fills the throne, 

While I am doom'd to foul obscurity. 

To pine and grieve neglected. 
Lysias. My noble Prince, 

Would it not be a master-piece, indeed. 

To make this very bliss their greatest ill. 

And damn them in the very folds of joy? 
Vardanes. This I will try, and stretch my 
utmost art, 

Unknown is yet the means — We Tl 
think on that — 

Success may follow if you'll lend your 
aid. 
Lysias. The storm still rages — I must 
to the King, 

And know what further orders ere he 
sleeps : 

Soon I '11 return, and speak my mind 
more fully. 
Vardanes. Haste, Lysias, haste, to aid me 
with thy council; 

For without thee, all my designs will 
prove 

Like night and chaos, darkness and con- 
fusion ; 

But to thy word shall light and order 
spring. — 

Let coward Schoolmen talk of Virtue's 
rules, 

And preach the vain Philosophy of fools ; 

Court eager their obscurity, afraid 

To taste a joy, and in some gloomy shade 

Dream o'er their lives, while in a mourn- 
ful strain 

They sing of happiness they never gain. 

But f orm'd for nobler purposes I come, 

To gain a crown, or else a glorious tomb. 

end of the second act. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene 1. The Palace. 

Queen and Edessa. 

Queen. Talk not of sleep to me, the God 

of Rest 
Disdains to visit where disorder reigns; 
Not beds of down, nor music's softest 

strains, 
Can charm him when 't is anarchy within. 
He flies with eager haste the mind dis- 

turb'd. 
And sheds his blessings where the soul 's 

in peace. 
Edessa. Yet, hear me, Madam ! 



oo 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



Queen. Hence, away, Edessa, 

For thou know'st not the pangs of jeal- 
ousy. 
Say, has he not forsook my bed, and left 

me 
Like a lone widow mourning to the night ? 
This, with the injury his son has done me, 
If I forgive, may heav'n in anger show'r 
Its torments on me — Ha ! is n't that 
the King? 
Edessa. It is your Royal Lord, great 

Artahanus. 
Queen. Leave me, for I would meet him 
here alone, 
Something is lab 'ring in my breast — 



Scene 2. 
King and Queen. 

King. This leads 

To fair Evanthe's chamber — Ha! the 
Queen. 
Queen. Why dost thou start ? so starts the 
guilty wretch, 

When, by some watchful eye, prevented 
from 

His dark designs. 
King. Prevented! how, what meanest 

thou? 
Queen. Art thou then so dull? cannot thy 
heart. 

Thy changeling heart, explain my mean- 
ing to thee, 

Or must upbraiding 'wake thy appre- 
hension ? 

Ah! faithless, tell me, have I lost those 
charms 

Which thou so oft hast sworn could warm 
old age. 

And tempt the frozen hermit from his 
cell. 

To visit once again our gayer world ? 

This, thou hast sworn, perfidious as thou 
art, 

A thousand times; as often hast thou 
sworn 

Eternal constancy, and endless love. 

Yet ev'ry time was perjur'd. 
King. Sure, 'tis frenzy. 

Queen. Indeed, 'tis frenzy, 'tis the 
height of madness. 

For I have wander'd long in sweet de- 
lusion. 

At length the pleasing Phantom chang'd 
its form. 

And left me in a wilderness of woe. 



King. Prithee, no more, dismiss those 

jealous heats; 
Love must decay, and soon disgust arise, 
Where endless jarrings and upbraidings 

damp 
The gentle flame, which warms the lover's 

breast. 
Queen. Oh! grant me patience heav'n! 

and dost thou think 
By these reproaches to disguise thy guilt ? 
No, 't is in vain, thy art 's too thin to 

hide it. 
King. Curse on the marriage chain! — the 

clog, a wife. 
Who still will force and pall us with the 

joy, 

Tho' pow'r is wanting, and the will is 

cloy'd. 
Still urge the debt when Nothing's left 

to pay. 
Queen. Ha ! dost thou own thy crime, nor 

feel the glow 
Of conscious shame? 
King. Why should I blush, if heav'n 

Has made me as I am, and gave me pas- 
sions ? 
Blest only in variety, then blame 
The Gods, who form'd my nature thus, 

not me. 
Queen. Oh! Traitor! Villain! 
King. Hence — away — 

No more I '11 wage a woman's war with 

words. {Exit.) 

Queen. Down, down ye rising passions, 

give me ease. 
Or break my heart, for I must yet be 

calm — 
But, yet, revenge, our Sex's joy, is mine; 
By all the Gods! he lives not till the 

morn. 
Who slights my love, shall sink beneath 

my hate. 



Scene 3. 
Queen and Vardanes. 

Vardanes. What, raging to the tempest? 

Queen. Away ! — aw^ay ! — 

Yes, I will rage — a tempest 's here within. 
Above the trifling of the noisy elements. 
Blow[,] ye loud winds, burst with your 

violence, 
For ye but barely imitate the storm 
That wildly rages in my tortur'd breast — 
The King — the King — 

Vardanes. Ha! what? — the King? 

Queen. Ei^anthe ' — 



THOMAS GODFREY 



23 



Vaedaxes. You talk like riddles, still ob- 
scure and short, 

Give me some cue to guide me thro' this 
maze. 
Queen. Ye pitying pow'rs! — oh! for a 
poison, some 

Curs'd deadly draught, that I might blast 
her beauties. 

And rob her eyes of all tlieir fatal lustre. 
Vardanes. What, blast her charms? — 
dare not to think of it — 

Shocking impiety; — the num'rous sys- 
tems 

Which gay creation spreads, bright blaz- 
ing suns. 

With all th' attendant planets circling 
round, 

Are not worth half the radiance of her 
eyes. 

She 's heav'n's peculiar care, good spir'ts 
hover 

Round, a shining band, to guard her 
beauties. 
Queen. Be they watchful then; for should 
remissness 

Taint the guard, I '11 snatch the oppor- 
tunity. 

And hurl her to destruction. 
Vardanes. Dread Thermusa, 

Say, what has rous'd this tumult in thy 
soul? 

Why dost thou rage with unabating 
'fury, 

Wild as the winds, loud as the troubl'd 
sea? 
Queen. Yes, I will tell thee — Evanthe — 
curse her — 

With charms — Would that my curses 
had the pow'r 

To kill, destroy, and blast where e'er I 
hate. 

Then would I curse, still curse, till death 
should seize 

The dying accents on my falt'ring tongue, 

So should this world, and the false 
changeling man 

Be buried in one universal ruin. 
Vardanes. Still err'st thou from the pur- 
pose. 
Queen. Ha ! 't is so— 

Yes, I will tell thee— for I know[,] fond 
fool, 

Deluded wretch, thou dotest on Evan- 
the — 

Be that thy greatest curse, be curs'd like 
me. 

With jealousy and rage, for know, the 
King, 

Thy father, is thy rival. 



Scene 4. 

Vardanes, alone. 

Ha! my rival! 
How knew she that? — yet stay — she's 

gone — ^my rival. 
What then? he is Arsaces' rival too. 
Ha ! — this may aid and ripen my designs — 
Could I but fire the King wath jealousy, 
And then accuse my Brother of Intrigues 
Against the state — ha ! — join'd with Bethas, 

and 
Confed'rate w^ith th' Arabians — 't is most 

likely 
That jealousy would urge him to belief. 
I '11 sink my claim until some fitter time, 
'Til opportunity smiles on my purpose. 
Lysias already has receiv'd the mandate 
For Bethas' freedom: Let them still pro- 
ceed, 
This harmony shall change to discord soon. 
Fortune methinks of late grows wond'rous 

kind. 
She scarcely leaves me to employ myself. 



Scene 5. 
King, Arsaces, Vardanes. 

King. But where 's Evanthe? Where's 

the lovely Maid? 
Arsaces. On the cold pavement, by her 

aged Sire, 
The dear companion of his solitude. 
She sits, nor can persuasion make her 

rise; 
But in the wild extravagance of joy 
She weeps, then smiles, like April's sun, 

thro' show'rs. 
While with strain'd eyes he gazes on her 

face. 
And cries, in ecstasy, "Ye gracious 

pow'rs ! 
"It is too much, it is too much to bear!" 
Then clasps her to his breast, while down 

his cheeks 
Large drops each other trace, and mix 

with hers. 
King. Thy tale is moving, for my eyes 

o'erflow — 
How slow does Lysias with Evanthe 

creep ! 
So moves old time when bringing us to 

bliss. 
Now war shall cease, no more of war I '11 

have, 



24 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



Death knows satiety, and pale destruc- 
tion 

Turns loathing from his food, thus forc'd 
on iiim. 

The trifling dust, the cause of all this 
ruin, 

The trade of death shall ursre no more. — 



Scene 6. 

King, Arsaces, Vardanes, Evanthe, 
Lysias. 

King. Evanthe! — 

See pleasure's goddess deigns to dignify 

The happy scene, and make our bliss 
complete. 

So Venus, from her heav'nly seat, de- 
scends 

To bless the gay Cythera with her pres- 
ence; 

A thousand smiling graces wait the god- 
dess, 

A thousand little loves are flutt'ring 
round, 

And joy is mingl'd with the beauteous 
train. 
Evanthe. ! Royal Sir, thus lowly to the 
ground 

I bend, in humble gratitude, accept 

My thanks, for this thy goodness, words 
are vile 

T' express the image of my lively 
thought. 

And speak the grateful fulness of my 
heart. 

All I can say, is that I now am happy. 

And that thy giving hand has made me 
blest. 
King. 0! rise, Evanthe, rise, this lowly 
posture 

Suits not with charms like thine, they 
should command, 

And ev'ry heart exult in thy behests ; — 

But, Where's thy aged Siref 
Evanthe. This sudden turn 

Of fortune has so wrought upon his 
frame. 

His limbs could not support him to thy 
presence. 
Arsaces. This, this is truly great, this is 
the Hero, 

Like heav'n, to scatter blessings 'mong 
mankind. 

And e'er delight in making others happy. 

Cold is the praise which waits the victor's 
trinmph, 



(Who thro' a sea of blood has rush'd to 

glory). 
To the o'erflowings of a grateful heart, 
By obligations conquer'd : Yet, extend 
Thy bounty unto me. (Kneels.) 

King. Kal rise, Arsaces. 

Arsaces. Not till you grant my boon. 
King. Speak, and 't is thine — 

Wide thro' our kingdom let thy eager 

wishes 
Search for some jewel worthy of thy 

seeing ; 
Something that 's fit to show the donor's 

bounty, 
And by the glorious sun, our worship'd 

God, 
Thou shalt not have denial; e'en my 

crown 
Shall gild thy brows with shining beams 

of Empire. 
With pleasure I '11 resign to thee my 

honours, 
I long for calm retirement's softer joys. 
Arsaces. Long may you wear it, grant it 

bounteous heav'n. 
And happiness attend it; 'tis my pray'r 
That daily rises with the early sweets 
Of nature's incense, and the lark's loud 

strain. 
'T is not the unruly transport of ambi- 
tion 
That urges my desires to ask your crown; 
Let the vain wretch, who prides in gay 

dominion, 
Who thinks not of the great ones' weighty 

cares, 
Enjoy his lofty wish, wide spreading 

rule. 
The treasure which I ask, put in the 

scale, 
Would over-balance all that Kings can 

boast. 
Empire and diadems. 
King. Away, that thought — 

Name it, haste — speak. 
Arsaces. For all the dang'rous toil. 

Thirst, hunger, marches long that I 've 

endur'd. 
For all the blood I 've in thy service 

spent. 
Reward me wdth Evanthe. 
King. Ha ! what said'st thou ?— 

Vardanes. (Aside.) The King is mov'd, 

and angry bites his lip — 
Thro' my benighted soul all-chearing 

hope 
Beams, like an orient sun, reviving joy. 
Arsaces. The stern Vonones ne'er could 

boast a merit 



THOMAS GODFREY 



25 



But loving her. 
King. Ah! curse the hated name — 

Yes, I remember when the fell ruffian 
Directed all his fury at my hf e ; 
Then sent, by pitying heav'n, t' assert 

the right 
Of injur'd Majesty, thou, Arsaces, 
Taught him the duty he ne'er knew be- 
fore, 
And laid the Traitor dead. 
Arsaces. • My Royal Sire! 

Lysias. My Liege, the Prince still kneels. 
King. Ha! — rebel, off — 

{Strikes him.) 
What, Lysias J did I strike thee? forgive 

my rage — 
The name of curs'd Vonones fires my 

blood, 
And gives me up to wrath. — 
Lysias. I am your slave, 

Sway'd by your pleasure — when I forget 

it. 
May this keen dagger, which I mean to 

hide. 

Deep in his bosom, pierce my vitals 

thro'. (Aside.) 

King. Did'st thou not name Evanthef 

Arsaces. I did, my Lord ! 

And, say, whom should I name but her, 

in whom 
My soul has center'd all her happiness? 
Nor can'st thou blame me, view her 

wond'rous charms. 
She 's all perfection ; bounteous heav'n 

has form'd her 
To be the joy, and wonder of mankind; 
But language is too vile to speak her 

beauties. 
Here ev'ry pow'r of glowing fancy's 

lost: 
Rose blush secure, ye lilies still enjoy 
Your silver whiteness, I '11 not rob your 

charms 
To deck the bright comparison; for here 
It sure must fail. 
King. He 's wanton in her praise — 

(Aside.) 
I tell thee, Prince, hadst thou as many 

tongues. 
As days have wasted since creation's 

birth, 
They were too few to tell the mighty 
theme. 
EvANTHE. I'm lost! I'm lost! (Aside.) 
Arsaces. Then I '11 be dumb for ever. 

King. rash and fatal oath! is there no 
way, 
No winding path to shun this preci- 
pice, 



But must I fall and dash my hopes to 

atoms ?' 
In vain I strive, thought but perplexes 

me. 
Yet shews no hold to bear me up — now, 

hold 
My heart awhile — she 's thine — 't is done. 
Arsaces. In deep 

Prostration, I thank my Royal Father. 
King. A sudden pain shoots thro' my 

trembling breast — 
Lend me thy arm, Vardanes — cruel 

pow'rs ! 



Scene 7. 
Arsaces and Evanthe. 

EvANTHE. (After a pause.) E'er since 

the dawn of my unhappy life 
Joy never shone serenely on my soul; 
Still something interven'd to cloud my 

day. 
Tell me, ye pow'rs, unfold the hidden 

crime 
For which I 'm doom'd to this eternal 

woe, 
Thus still to number o'er my hours with 

tears? 
The Gods are just, I know, nor are de- 
crees 
In hurry shuffl'd out, but where the bolt 
Takes its direction justice points the 

mark. 
Yet still in vain I search within my 

breast, 
I find no sins are there to shudder at — 
Nought but the common frailties of our 

natures. 
ArsaceSj — Oh ! — 
Arsaces. Ha ! why that look of anguish? 
Why didst thou name me with that sound 

of sorrow? 
Ah ! say, why stream those gushing tears 

so fast 
From their bright fountain? Sparkling 

joy should now 
Be lighten'd in thine eye, and pleasure 

glow 
Upon thy rosy cheek; — ye sorrows 

hence — 
'T is love shall triumph now. 
Evanthe. Oh! (SigJis.) 

Arsaces. What means that sigh ? 

Tell me why heaves thy breast with such 

emotion ? 
Some dreadful thought is lab'ring for a 

vent. 



26 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



Haste, give it loose, ere streugtlien'd by 

continement 
It wrecks thy frame, and tears its snowy 

prison. 
Is sorrow then so pleasing that you hoard 

it 
With as much love, as misers do their 

gold '? 
Give me my share of sorrows. 
EvANTHE. Ah ! too soon 

You '11 know what I would hide. 
Aesaces. Be it from thee — 

The dreadful tale, when told by thee, 

shall please; 
Haste, to produce it with its native ter- 
rors. 
My steady soul shall still remain un- 
shaken ; 
For who wlien bless'd with beauties like 

to thine 
Would e'er permit a sorrow to intrude? 
Far hence in darksome shades does sor- 
row dwell, 
Where hapless wretches thro' the awful 

gloom. 
Echo their woes, and sighing to the 

winds, 
Augment with tears the gently murm'ring 

stream ; 
But ne'er disturbs such happiness as 

mine. 
EvANTHE. Oh! 'tis not all thy boasted 

happiness. 
Can save thee from disquietude and care ; 
Then build not too securely on these joys, 
For envious sorrow soon will undermine. 
And let the goodly structure fall to ruin. 
Arsaces. I charge thee, by our mutual 

vows, Evanthe, 
Tell me, nor longer keep me in suspense : 
Give me to know the utmost rage of fate. 
Evanthe. Then know — impossible! — 
Arsaces. Ha! dost thou fear 

To shock me?— 
Evanthe. Know, thy Father — loves 

Evanthe. — 
Arsaces. Loves thee? 
Evanthe. Yea, e'en to distraction loves 

me. 
Oft at my feet he 's told the moving tale, 
And woo'd me with the ardency of youth. 
I pitied him indeed, but that was all, 
Thou would'st have pitied too. 
Arsaces. I fear 't is true ; 

A thousand crouding circumstances speak 

it. 
Ye cruel Gods ! I 've wreck'd a Father's 

peace^ 



Oh! bitter thought! 
Evanthe. Didst thou observe, Arsaces, 

How reluctant he gave me to thy arms? 
Arsaces. Yes, I observ'd that when he . 
gave thee up, 1 

It seem'd as tho' he gave his precious life. 

And who 'd forego the heav'n of thy love ? 

To rest on thy soft swelling breast, and 
in 

Sweet slumbers sooth each sharp intrud- 
ing care? 

Oh ! it were bliss, such as immortals taste, ■ j 

To press thy ruby lips distilling sweets, || 

Or circl'd in thy snowy arms to snatch ■' 

A joy, that Gods — 
Evanthe. Come, then, my much-lov'd ii 

Prince, I 

Let 's seek the shelter of some kind re- 
treat. 

Happy Arabia opens wide her arms, 

There may we find some friendly soli- 
tude. 

Far from the noise and hurry of the 
Court. 

Ambitious views shall never blast our 
joys. 

Or tyrant Fathers triumph o'er our wills : 

There may we live like the first happy 
pair 

Cloth'd in primeval innocence secure. 

Our food untainted by luxurious arts, 

Plain, simple, as our lives, shall not de- 
stroy 

The health it should sustain; while the 
clear brook 

Affords the cooling draught our thirsts 
to quench. 

There, hand in hand, we '11 trace the 
citron grove. 

While with the songsters' round I join 
my voice, "^ 

To hush thy cares and calm thy ruffl'd 
soul: 

Or, on some flow'ry bank reclin'd, my 
strains 

Shall captivate the natives of the stream, 

While on its crystal lap ourselves we 
view. 
Arsaces. I see before us a wide sea of 
sorrows, 

Th' angry waves roll forward to o'er- 
whelm us. 

Black clouds arise, and the wind whistles 
loud. 

But yet, oh! could I save thee from the 
wreck. 

Thou beauteous casket, where my joys 
are stor'd^ 



THOMAS GODFREY 



27 



Let the storm rage with double violence, 

Smiling I 'd view its wide extended hor- 
rors. 
EvAXi'HE. 'T is not enough that we do 
know the ill, 

Say, shall we calmly see the tempest rise, 

And seek no shelter from th' inclement 
sky. 

But bid it rage? — 
Arsaces. Ha ! will he force thee from me? 

What, tear thee from my fond and bleed- 
ing heart? 

And must I lose thee ever? dreadful 
word ! 

Never to gaze upon thy beauties more ? 

Never to taste the sweetness of thy lips? 

Never to know the joys of mutual love? 

Never! — Oh! let me lose the pow'r of 
thinking, 

For thouglit is near allied to desperation. 

Whv, cruel Sire — why did you give me 
'life. 

And load it with a weight of wretched- 
ness? 

Take back my being, or relieve my sor- 
rows — 

Ha! art thou not Evanthef — Art thou 
not 

The lovely Maid, who bless'd the fond 
Arsaces f — (Raving. ) 

EvANTHE. 0, my lov'd Lord, recall your 
scatter'd spir'ts, 

Alas! I fear your senses are unsettl'd. 
Arsaces. Yes, I would leave this dull and 
heavy sense. 

Let me grow mad; perhaps, I then may 
gain 

Some joy, by kind imagination form'd, 

Beyond reality. — 0! my Evanthe! 

Why was I curs'd with empire? born to 
rule ? — 

Would I had been some humble Peasant's 
son. 

And thou some Shepherd's daughter on 
the plain; 

My throne some hillock, and my flock my 
subjects, 

My crook my sceptre, and my faithful 
dog 

My only guard; nor curs'd with dreams 
of greatness. 

At early dawn I 'd liail the coming day. 

And join the lark the rival of his lay; 

At sultry noon to some kind shade re- 
pair, 

Thus joyful pass the hours, my only care, 

To guard my flock, and please the >aeld- 
ing Fair. 



Scene 8. 

King. — Vardanes, behind the Scene. 

King. I will not think, to think is tor- 
ment — Ha I 
See, how they twine! ye furies cut their 

hold. 
Now their hot blood beats loud to love's 

alarms ; 
Sigh presses sigh, while from their 

sparkling eyes 
Flashes desire — Oh! ye bright heav'nly 

beings, 
Who pitying bend to suppliant Lovers' 

pray'rs, 
And aid them in extremity, assist me! 
Vardanes. Thus for the Trojan, mourn'd 

the Queen of Carthage; 
So, on the shore she raving stood, and 

saw 
His navy leave her hospita])le shore. 
In vain she curs'd the wind which fill'd 

their sails, 
And bore the emblem of its change away. 
( Co m es fo r wa rd. ) 
King. Vardanes — ha ! — come here, I know 

thou lov'st me. 
Vardanes. I do[,] my Lord; but, so.y, 

what busy villain 
Durst e'er approach your ear, with 

coz'ning tales. 
And urge you to a doubt ? 
King. None, none[,] believe me. 

I '11 ne'er oppress thy love with fearful 

doubt — 
A little nigher — let me lean upon thee — 
And thou be my support — for now I 

mean 
T' unbosom to thee free without re- 
straint : 
Search all the deep recesses of my soul, 
And open ev'ry darling thought before 

thee. 
Which long I 've secreted with jealous 

care. 
Pray, mark me well. 
Vardanes. I will, my Royal Sire. 

King. On Anna thus reclin'd the love-sick 

Dido ; 
Thus to her cheek laid hers with gentle 

pressure, 
And wet her sister with a pearly show'r, 
Which fell from her sad eyes, then told 

her tale, 
While gentle Anna gave a pitying tear, 
And own'd 't w^as moving — thou canst 

pity too, 



28 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



I know thy nature tender and engaging. 
Vardanes. Tell me, my gracious Lord, 

what moves you thus"? 
Why is your breast distracted with these 

tumults? 
Teach me some method how to sooth your 

sorrows, 
And give your heart its former peace and 

joy; 

Instruct, thy lov'd, Vardanes. — 
King. Yes, I '11 tell thee ; 

But listen with attention while I speak; 
And 3'et I know 't will shock thy gentle 

soul, 
And horror o'er thee '11 spread his palsy 

hand. 
0, my lov'd Son! thou fondness of my 

age! 
Thou art the prop of my declining years, 
In thee alone I find a Father's joy, 
Of all my offspring : But Arsaces — 
Vardanes. Ha ! 

My Brother! — 
King. A}^ — why dost start? — thy Brother 
Pursues me with his hate: and, while 

warm life 
Rolls the red current tliro' my veins, de- 
lights 
To see me tortur'd; with an easy smile 
He meets my suff'rings, and derides my 
pain. 
Vardanes. Oh ! 

King. What means that hollow groan? — 
Vardanes, speak. 
Death's image sits upon thy pallid cheek. 
While thy low voice sounds as when mur- 
murs run 
Thro' lengthen'd vaults — 
Vardanes. ! my foreboding thoughts, 

(Aside.) 
'T was this disturb'd my rest ; when sleep 

at night 
Lock'd me in slumbers; in my dreams I 

saw 
My Brother's crime — yet, death! — it can- 
not be — 
King. Ha ! — what was that ? — 
Vardanes. ! my dread Lord, some 

Villain 
Bred up in lies, and train'd in treach'ry, 
Has injur'd you by vile reports, to stain 
My Princely Brother's honour. 
King. Thou know'st more. 

Thy looks confess what thou in vain 

wouldst hide — 
And hast thou then conspir'd against mo 

too. 
And sworn concealment to vour prac- 
tices?— 



Thy guilt- 
Vardanes. Ha! guilt! — what guilt? — 

King. Nay, start not so — 

I' 11 know your purposes, spite of tliy art. 
Vardanes. 0! ye Great Gods! and is it ij 

come to this? — I 

My Royal Father [,] call your reason 

home. 
Drive these loud passions hence, that thus 

deform you. 
My Brother — Ah! what shall I say? — Ji 

My Brother |l 

Sure loves you as he ought. 
King. Ha ! as he ought ? — 

Hell blister thy evasive tongue — I '11 

know it — 
I will ; I '11 search thy breast, thus will I 

open 
A passage to your secrets — yet resolv'd — 
Yet steady in your horrid villany — 
'T is fit that I from whom such monsters 

sprung 
No more should burthen earth — Ye 

Parricides ! — 
Here plant your daggers in this hated 

bosom — 
Here rive my heart, and end at once my 

sorrows, 
I gave thee being, that's the mighty 

crime. 
Vardanes. I can no more — here let me 

bow in anguish — 
Think not that I e'er join'd in his de- 
signs. 
Because I have conceal'd my knowledge 

of them ; 
I meant, by pow'rful reason's friendly 

aid, 
To turn him from destruction's dreadful 

path. 
And bring him to a sense of what he 

ow'd 
To you as King and Father. 
King. Say on — I '11 hear. 

Vardanes. He views thy sacred life with 

envious hate. 
And 't is a bar to his ambitious hopes. 
On the bright throne of Empire his 

plum'd wishes 
Seat him, while on his proud aspiring 

brows 
He feels the pleasing weight of Royalty. 
But when he w\ikes from these his airy 

dreams, 
(Delusions form'd by the deceiver liope, 
To raise him to the glorious height of 

greatness) 
Then Imrl him from proud Empire to 

subjection. 



THOMAS GODFREY 



29 



Wild wrath will quickly swell his haughty 

breast, 
Soon as he finds 't is but a shadowy bless- 
ing.— 
'T was fav'ring accident diseover'd to me 
All that I know; this Evening as I stood 
Alone, retir'd, in the still gallery. 
That leads up to th' apartment of my 

Brother, 
T' indulge my melancholy thoughts, — 
King. Proceed — 

Vardanes. a wretch approach'd -with 
wary step, his eye 
Spoke half his tale, denoting villany. 
In hollow murmurs thus he question'd 

me. 
Was I the Prince ? — I answer'd to con- 
tent him — 
Then in his hand he held this paper 

forth. 
"Take this," says he, "this Bethas greets 

thee with, 
"Keep but your word our plot will meet 

success." 
I snatch'd it with more rashness than 

discretion, 
Which taught him his mistake. In haste 

he drew. 
And aim'd his dagger at my breast, but 

paid 
His life, a forfeit, for his bold presum- 
ing. 
King. Villain! Villain! 
Vardanes. Here, read this, my Lord — 

I read it, and cold horror froze my blood. 
And shook me like an ague. 
King. Ha !— what 's this ?— 

"Doubt not Arabia's aid, set me but free, 
"I '11 easy pass on the old cred'lous King, 
"For fair Evantlie's Father."— Thus to 
atoms — 

{Tears the paper into pieces.) 
Oh! could I tear these cursed traitors 
thus. 
Vaedanes. Curses avail you nothing, he 
has pow'r, 
And may abuse it to your prejudice. 
King. I am resolv'd — 
Vardanes. Tho' Pris'ner in his camp. 

Yet, Bethas was attended like a Prince, 
As tho' he still commanded the Arabians. 
'T is true, when they approach'd the royal 

city, 
He threw them into chains to blind our 

eyes, 
A shallow artifice — 
King. That is a Truth. 

^^ ARDANES. And, yet, he is your Son. 
King. Ah! that indeed— 



Vardanes. Why that still heightens his 
impiety^ 
To rush to empire thro' his Father's 

blood, 
And, in return of life, to give him death. 
King. Oh! I am all on fire, yes, I must 
tear 
These folds of venom from me. 
Vardanes. Sure 't was Lysias 

That cross'd the passage now. 
King. 'T is to my wish. 

I '11 in, and give him orders to arrest 
My traitor Son and Bethas. — Now, 

Vardanes, 
Indulge thy Father in this one request — 
Seize, with some horse, Evanthe, and 

bear her 
To your command — Oh ! I '11 own my 

weakness — 
I love with fondness mortal never knew" — 
Not Jove himself, when he forsook his 

heav'n. 
And in a brutal shape disgrac'd the God, 
E'er lov'd like me. 
Vardanes. I will obey you, Sir. 



Scene 9. 

Vardanes, alone. 

I '11 seize her, but I '11 keep her for myself, 
It were a sin to give her to his age- 
To twine the blooming garland of the spring 
Around the sapless trunks of wither'd 

oaks — 
The night, methinks, grows ruder than it 

was. 
Thus should it be, thus nature should be 

shock'd, 
And Prodigies, affrighting all mankind. 
Foretell the dreadful business I intend. 
The earth should gape, and swallow cities 

up. 
Shake from their haughty heights aspiring 

tow'rs. 
And level mountains with the vales below; 
The Sun amaz'd should frown in dark 

eclipse. 
And light retire to its unclouded heav'n; 
While darkness, bursting from her deep re- 
cess. 
Should wrap all nature in eternal night. — 
Ambition, glorious fever of the mind, 
'T is that which raises us above mankind; 
The shining mark which bounteous heav'n 

has gave. 
From vulgar souls distinguishing the brave. 

END OF the third ACT. 



30 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene 1. A Prison. 
GOTARZES and Phraates. 

Phraates. Oh! fly my Prince, for safety 

dwells not here, 
Hence let me urge thy flight with eager 

haste. 
Last night thy Father sigli'd his soul to 

bliss, 
Base murther'd — 
GoTARZES. Murther'd? ye Gods! — 

Phraates. Alas ! 't is true. 

Stabb'd in his slumber by a traitor's 

hand; 
I scarce can speak it — horror choaks my 

words — 
Lysias it w^as w4io did the damned deed, 
Urg'd by the bloody Queen, and his curs'd 

rage. 
Because the King, thy Sire, in angry 

mood. 
Once struck him on his foul dishonest 

cheek. 
Suspicion gave me fears of this, when 

first 
I heard, the Prince, Arsaces, was im- 
prisoned, 
By fell Vardanes^ wiles. 
GoTARZES. Oh ! horror ! horror ! 

Hither I came to share my Brother's sor- 
rows. 
To mingle tears, and give him sigh for 

sigh ; 
But this is double, double weight of woe. 
Phraates. 'T is held as yet a secret from 

the world. 
Frighted by hideous dreams I shook off 

sleep. 
And as I mus'd the garden walks along, 
Thro' the deep gloom, close in a neigh- 

b'ring walk, 
Vardanes with proud Lysias I beheld. 
Still eager in discourse they saw not me, 
For yet the early dawn had not ap- 

pear'd ; 
I sought a secret stand, where hid from 

view, 
I heard stem Lysias, hail the Prince 

Vardanes 
As Parthia's dreaded Lord— " 'T is 

done," he cry'd, 
" 'T is done, and Artahanus is no more. 
"The blow he gave me is repay'd in 

blood ; 
"Now shall the morn behold two rising 

suns: 



^^ Vardanes, thou, our better light, shalt ., 
bring |< 

"Bright day and joy to ev'ry heart." "| 

GoTARZES. Why slept 

Your vengeance, oh! ye righteous Gods'? 
Phraates. Then told 

A tale, so fiU'd with bloody circumstance, 

Of this damn'd deed, that stiffen'd me 
with horror. 

Vardanes seem'd to blame the hasty act. 

As rash, and unadvis'd, by passion urg'd, 

Which never yields to cool reflection's 

place. 1 

But, being done, resolv'd it secret, least I; 

The multitude should take it in their ■ 
wise 

Authority to pry into his death. 

Arsaces was, by assassination, 

Doom'd to fall. Your name was men- 
tion'd also — 

But hurried by my fears away, I left 

The rest unheard — 
GOTARZES. What can be done? — Reflec- 
tion, why wilt thou 

Forsake us, when distress is at our heels ? 

Phraates, help me, aid me with thy coun- 
cil. 
Phraates. Then stay not here, fly to Bar- 
zaphernes. 

His conqu'ring troops are at a trivial 
distance ; 

Soon will you reach the camp; he lov'd 
your Brother, 

And your Father with affection serv'd; 
haste 

Your flight, whilst yet I have the city- 
guard. 

For Lysias, I expect, takes my command. 

I to the camp dispatch'd a trusty slave. 

Before the morn had spread her blushing 
veil. 

Away, you '11 meet the Gen'ral on the- 
road. 

On such a cause as this he '11 not delay. 
GoTARZES. I thank your love — 



Scene 2. 

Phraates, alone. 

I '11 wait behind, my stay 
May aid the cause; dissembling I must 

learn. 
Necessity shall teach me how to vary 
My features to the looks of him I serve. 
I '11 thrust myself disguis'd among the 

croud, 



THOMAS GODFREY 



31 



And fill their ears with murmurs of the 

deed : 
Whisper all is not well, blow up the sparks 
Of discord, and it soon will flame to rage. 



Scene 3. 

Queen aitd Lysias. 

Queen. Haste, and show me to the Prince 
Arsaces, 
Delay not, see the signet of Vardanes. 
Lysias. Royal Thermusa, why this eager- 
ness? 
This tumult of the soul"? — what means 

this dagger? 
Ha ! — I suspect — 
Queen. Hold — for I '11 tell thee, Lysias. 
'Tis — oh! I scarce can speak the mighty 

joy— 

I shall be greatly blest in dear revenge, 
'Tis vengeance on Arsaces — ^j^es, this 

hand 
Shall urge the shining poniard to his 

heart, 
And give him death — yea, give the ruffian 

death ; 
So shall I smile on his keen agonies. 
Lysias. Ha ! I am robb'd of all my hopes 

of vengeance. 
Shall I then calmly stand with all my 

wrongs, 
And see another bear away revenge? 
Queen. For what can Lysias ask revenge, 

to bar 
His Queen of hers? 
Lysias. Was I not scom'd, and spurn'd. 
With haughty insolence? Like a base 

coward 
Refus'd whate'er I ask'd, and call'd a 

boaster? 
My honour sullied, with opprobrious 

words, 
Which can no more its former brightness 

know, 
'Til, with his blood, I 've wash'd the 

stains away. 
Say, shall I then not seek for glorious 

vengeance ? 
Queen. And what is this, to the sad 

Mother's griefs, 
Her hope cut off, rais'd up with pain and 

care ? 
Hadst thou e'er supported the lov'd 

Prattler? 
Hadst thou, like me, hung o'er his in- 
fancy, 



Wasting in wakeful mood the tedious 

night. 
And watch'd his sickly couch, far mov'd 

from rest. 
Waiting his health's return? — Ah! hadst 

thou known 
The parent's fondness, rapture, toil and 

sorrow. 
The joy- his actions gave, and the fond 

wish 
Of something yet to come, to bless my 

age. 
And lead me down with pleasure to the 

grave. 
Thou wouldst not thus talk lightly of my 

wrongs. 
But I delay — 
Lysias. To thee I then submit. 

Be sure to wreck ^ a double vengeance on 

him; 
If that thou knowest a part in all his 

body. 
Where pain can most be felt, strike, 

strike him there — 
And let him know the utmost height of 

anguish. 
It is a joy to think that he shall fall, 
Tho' 'tis another hand which gives the 

blow. 



Scene 4 

Arsaces and Bethas. 

Arsaces. Why should I linger out my joy- 
less days. 
When length of hope is length of misery? 
Hope is a coz'ner, and beguiles our cares. 
Cheats us with empty shews of happiness. 
Swift fleeting joys which mock the faint 

embrace ; 
We wade thro' ills pursuing of the 

meteor. 
Yet are distanc'd still. 
Bethas. Ah ! talk not of hope — 

Hope fled when bright Astrcea spurn'd 

this earth, 
And sought her seat among the shining 

Gods; 
Despair, proud tyrant, ravages my 

breast, 
And makes all desolation. 
Arsaces. How can I 

Behold those rev'rent sorrows, see those 

cheeks 
Moist with the dew which falls from thy 

sad eyes, 

1 Wreak. 



32 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



Nor imitate distraction's frantic tricks, 

And chace cold lifeless reason from her 
throne? 

I am the fatal cause of all this sorrow, 

The spring of ills, — tc know me is un- 
happiness; — 

And mis'ry, like a hateful plague, pur- 
sues 

My wearied steps, and blasts the spring- 
ing verdure. 
Bethas. No; — It is I that am the source 
of all. 

It is my fortune sinks you to this 
trouble ; 

Before you shower'd your gentle pity on 
me. 

You shone the pride of this admiring 
world. — 

Evanthe springs from me, whose fatal 
charms 

Produces all this ruin. — Hear me heav'n ! 

If to another love she ever yields, 

And stains her soul with spotted false- 
hood's crime, 

If e'en in expectation tastes a bliss, 

Nor joins Arsaces with it, I will -WTreck 

My vengeance on her, so that she shall be 

A dread example to all future times. 
Arsaces. Oh! curse her not, nor threaten 
her with anger, 

She is all gentleness, yet firm to truth. 

And blest with ev'ry pleasing virtue, free 

From levity, her sexes ^ character. 

She scorns to chace the turning of the 
wind; 

Varying from point to point. 
Bethas. I love her, ye Gods ! 

I need not speak the greatness of my 
love. 

Each look which straining draws my soul 
to hers 

Denotes unmeasur'd fondness ; but mis'ry, 

Like a fretful peevish child, can scarce 
tell 

What it would wish, or aim at. 
Arsaces. Immortals, hear! 

Thus do I bow my soul in humble 
pray'r — 

Thou, King of beings, in whose breath 
is fate, 

Show'r on Evanthe all thy choicest bless- 
ings. 

And bless her with excess of happiness; 

If yet, there is one bliss reserv'd in store, 

And written to my name, oh ! give it her, 

And give me all her sorrows in return. 
Bethas. 'Rise, 'rise my Prince, this good- 
ness o'erwhelms me, 
1 Sex's. 



She 's too unworthy of so great a passion. 
Arsaces. I know not what it means, I 'm 

not as usual. 
Ill-boding cares, and restless fears op- 
press me. 
And horrid dreams disturb, and fright, 

my slumbers; 
But yesternight, 't is dreadful to relate. 
E'en now I tremble at my waking 

thoughts, 
Methought, I stood alone upon the shore. 
And, at my feet, there roll'd a sea of 

blood. 
High wrought, and 'midst the waves, ap- 

pear'd my Father, 
Struggling for life; above him was Var- 

danes, 
Pois'd in the air, he seem'd to rule the 

storm, 
And, now and then, would push my 

Father down, 
And for a space he 'd sink beneath the 

waves. 
And then, all gory, rise to open view, 
His voice in broken accents reach'd my 

ear, 
And bade me save him from the bloody 

stream ; 
Thro' the red billows eagerly I rush'd. 
But sudden woke, benum'd with chilling 

fear. 
Bethas. Most horrible indeed! — but let it 

pass, 
'T is but the offspring of a mind dis- 

turb'd. 
For sorrow leaves impressions on the 

fancy. 
Which shew most fearful to us lock'd in 

sleep. 
Arsaces. Thermusa! ha! — what can be 

her design? 
She bears this way, and carries in her. 

looks 
An eagerness importing violence. 
Retire — for I would meet her rage alone. 



Scene 5. 

Arsaces and Queen. 

Arsaces. What means the proud Ther- 
musa by this visit, 
Stoops heav'n-born pity to a breast like 

thine? 
Pity adorns th' virtuous, but n'er dwells 
Where hate, revenge, and rage distract 
the soul. 



THOMAS GODFREY 



33 



Sure, it is hate that hither urg'd thy 
steps, 

To view misfortune with an eye of tri- 
umph. 

I know thou lov'st me not, for I have 
dar'd 

To cross thy purposes, and, bold in cen- 
sure, 

Spoke of thy actions as they merited. 

Besides, this hand 'twas slew the curs'd 
Vonones. 
QuEEX. And darst thou[,] insolent [,] to 
name Vonones? 

To heap perdition on thy guilty soul? 

There needs not this to urge me to re- 
venge — 

But let me view this wonder of man- 
kind. 

Whose breath can set the bustling world 
in arms. 

I see no dreadful terrors in his eye, 

Nor gathers chilly fears arouiid my heart, 

Nor strains my gazing eye with admira- 
tion, 

And, tlio' a woman, I can strike the blow. 
Arsaces. Why gaze you on me thus? why 
hesitate! 

Am I to die? 
QuEEX. Thou art — this dagger shall 

Dissolve thy life, thy fleeting ghost I '11 
send 

To wait Vonones in the shades below. 
Arsaces. And even there I '11 triumph 

over him. 
Queen. 0, thou vile homicide! thy fatal 
hand 

Has robb'd me of all joy; Vonones, to 

Thy Manes ^ this proud saeriliee 1 give. 

That hand which sever'd the friendship 
of thy 

Soul and body, shall never draw again 

Imbitt'ring tears from sorr'wing mother's 
eyes. 

This, with the many tears I 've shed, re- 
ceive — (Offers to stab him.) 

Ha ! — I 'd strike ; what holds my hand ? 
't is n't pity. 
Arsaces. Nay, do not mock me, with the 
shew of death. 

And yet den^'^ the blessing; I have met 

Your taunts with equal taunts, in hopes 
to urge 

The blow with swift revenge; but since 
that fails, 

I '11 woo thee to compliance, teach my 
tongue 

Persuasion's winning arts, to gain thy 
soul; 

1 Shades. 



I '11 praise thy clemency, in dying accents 
Bless thee for this, thy charitable deed. 
Oh! do not stand; see, how my bosom 

heaves 
To meet the stroke; in pity let me die, 
'T is all the happiness I now can know. 
Queen. How sweet the eloquence of dying 

men! 
Hence Poets feign'd the music of the 

Swan, 
When death upon her lays his icy hand, 
She melts away in melancholy strains. 
Arsaces. Play not thus cruel with my 

poor request. 
But take my loving Father's thanks, and 

mine. 
Queen. Thy Father cannot thank me now. 
Arsaces. He will, 

Believe me, e'en whilst dissolv'd in 

ecstacy 
On fond Evanthe's bosom, he will pause. 
One moment from his joys, to bless the 

deed. 
Queen. What means this tumult in my 

breast f from whence 
Proceeds this sudden change? my heart 

beats high, 
And soft compassion makes me less than 

woman : 
I '11 search no more for what I fear to 

know. 
Arsaces. Why drops the dagger from thy 

trembling hand? 
Oh ! yet be kind — 
Queen. No : now I 'd have thee live, 

Since it is happiness to die: 'T is pain 
That I would give thee, thus I bid thee 

live; 
Yes, I would have thee a whole age a 

dying. 
And smile to see thy ling'ring agonies. 
All day I 'd watch thee, mark each 

heighten'd pang. 
While springing joy should swell my 

panting bosom; 
This I would have — But should this 

dagger give 
Thy soul the liberty it fondly wishes, 
'T would soar aloft, and mock my faint 

revenge. 
Arsaces. This mildness shews most foul, 

thy anger lovely. 
Think that 't was I who blasted thy fond 

hope, 
Vonones now lies number'd with the 

dead, 
And all your joys are buried in his grave ; 
My hand untimely pluck'd the precious 

flow'r. 



34 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



Before its shining beauties were dis- 

play'd. 
Queen. Woman ! Woman ! where 's thy 

resolution ? 
Where 's thy revenge ? Where 's all thy 

hopes of vengeance? 
Giv'n to the winds — Ha! is it pity? — 

No — 
I fear it wears another softer name. 
I'll think no more, but rush to my re- 
venge, 
In spite of foolish fear, or woman's soft- 
ness; 
Be steady now my soul to thy resolves. 
Yes, thou shalt die, thus, on thy breast, I 

write 
Thy instant doom — ha! — ye Gods! 

{Queen starts, as in great fright, at 

hearing something.) 
Arsaces. Why this pause? 

Why dost thou idly stand like imag'd 

vengeance. 
With harmless terrors threatning on thy 

brow, 
With lifted arm, yet canst not strike the 

blow? 
Queen. It surely was the Echo to my 

fears, 
The whistling wind, jDerhaps, which 

mimick'd voice; 
But thrice methought it loudly cry'd, 

"forbear." 
Imagination hence — I '11 heed thee not — 
{Ghost of Artabanus rises.) 
Save me — oh! — save me — ye eternal 

pow'rs ! — 
See! — see it comes, surrounded with 

dread terrors — 
Hence — hence! nor blast me with that 

horrid sight — 
Throw off that shape, and search th' in- 
fernal rounds 
For horrid forms, there 's none can shock 

like thine. 
Ghost. No; I will ever wear this form, 

thus e'er 
Appear before thee; glare upon thee 

thus, 
'Til desperation, join'd to thy damn'd 

crime. 
Shall wind thee to the utmost height of 

frenzy. 
In vain you grasp the dagger in your 

hand, 
In vain you dress your brows in angry 

frowns. 
In vain you raise your threatning arm 

in air, 
Secure, Arsaces triumphs o'er your rage. 



Guarded by fate, from thy accurs'd re- 
venge, 
Thou canst not touch his life; the Gods ' 

have giv'n 
A softness to thy more than savage soul 
Before unknown, to aid their grand de- 
signs. 
Fate yet is lab'ring with some great event, 
But what must follow I 'm forbid to i| 
broach — |' 

Think, think of me, I sink to rise again, 
To play in blood before thy aking sight. 
And shock thy guilty soul with hell-born 

horrors — 
Think, think of Artabanus 1 and despair — 

{Sinks.) 
Queen. Think of thee, and despair? — yes, 
I '11 despair — 
Yet stay, — oh! stay, thou messenger of 

fate! 
Tell me — Ha! 'tis gone — and left me 
wretched — 
Arsaces. Your eyes seem fix'd upon some 
dreadful object, 
Horror and anguish cloath your whiten'd 

face. 
And your frame shakes with terror; I 

hear you speak 
As seeming earnest in discourse, yet hear 
No second voice. 
Queen. What! saw'st thou nothing? 
Arsaces. Nothing. 

Queen. Nor hear'd? — 
Arsaces. Nor hear'd. 

Queen. Amazing spectacle! — 

Cold moist'ning dews distil from ev'ry 

pore, 
I tremble like to palsied age — Ye Gods ! 
Would I could leave this loath'd detested 

being ! — 

Oh ! all my brain 's on fire — I rave ! I 

rave! — {Ghost rises again.) 

Ha ! it comes again — ^see, it glides along — 

See, see, what streams of blood flow from 

its wounds ! 
A crimson torrent — Shield me, oh! 
shield me, heav'n. — 
Arsaces. Great, and righteous Gods ! — 
Queen. Ali ! frown not on me — 

Why dost thou shake thy horrid locks 

at me? 
Can I give immortality? — 't is gone — 

{Ghost sinks.) 
It flies me, see, ah! — stop it, stop it, 
haste — 
Arsaces. Oh, piteous sight! — 
Queen. Hist! prithee hist! — oh death! 

I 'm all on fire — now freezing bolts of 
ice 



THOMAS GODFREY 



35 



Dart tliro' my breast — Oh! burst ye 

cords of life — 
Ha! who are ye? — Why do ye stare 

upon me ? — 
Oh! — defend me, from these bick'ring 

Furies ! 
Arsaces. Alas! her sense is lost, distress- 
ful Queen! 
Queen. Help me, thou King of Gods ! oh ! 

help me ! help ! 
See! they envir'n me round — Voncnes 

too, 
The foremost leading on the dreadful 

troop — 
But there, Vardanes beck'ns me to shun 
Their hellish rage — I come, I come ! 
Ah! they pursue me, with a scourge of 

fire. — {Runs out distracted.) 



Scene 6. 
Arsaces, alone. 

Oh ! — horror ! — on the ground she breath- 
less lies. 

Silent, in death's cold sleep; the wall 
besmear'd 

With brains and gore the marks of her 
despair. 

guilt! how dreadful dost thou ever 
shew! 

How lovely are the charms of innocence ! 

How beauteous tho' in sorrows and dis- 
tress ! — 

Ha! — what noise? — 

(Clashing of swords.) 



Scene 7. 

Arsaces, Barzaphernes and Gotarzes. 

Barzaphernes. At length we 've f orc'd 
our entrance — 

my lov'd Prince! to see thee thus, in- 
deed, 

Melts e'en me to a woman's softness ; see 

My eyes o'erflow — Are these the orna- 
ments 

For Royal hands? rude manacles! oh 
shameful ! 

Is this thy room of state, this gloomy 
gaol? 

Without attendance, and thy bed the 
pavement ? 

But, ah! how diff'rent was our parting 
last! 



When flush'd with vict'ry, reeking from 
the slaughter, 

You saw Arabia's Sons scour o'er the 
plain 

In shameful flight, before your conqu'r- 
ing sword; 

Then shone you like the God of battle. 
Arsaces. Welcome ! — 

Welcome, my loyal friends! Barzapher- 
nes! 

My good old soldier, to my bosom thus! 

Gotarzes, my lov'd Brother! now I'm 
happy.— 

But, say, my soldier, why these threat- 
ning arms? 

Why am I thus releas'd by force? my 
Father, 

I should have said the King, had he re- 
lented, 

He 'd not have us'd this method to en- 
large ^ me. 

Alas! I fear, too forward in your love, 

You '11 brand me with the rebel's hated 
name. 
Barzaphernes. I am by nature blunt — the 
soldier's manner. 

Unus'd to the soft arts practis'd at courts. 

Nor can I move the passions, or dis- 
guise 

The sorr'wing tale to mitigate the smart. 

Then seek it not: I would sound the 
alarm, 

Loud as the trumpet's clangour, in your 
ears; 

Nor will I hail you, as our Parthia's 
King, 

'Till you 've full reveng'd your Father's 
murther. 
Arsaces. Murther? — good heav'n! 
Barzaphernes. The tale requires some 

time; 

And opportunity must not be lost ; 

Your traitor Brother, who usurps your 
rights, 

Must, 'ere his faction gathers to a head, 

Have from his brows his new-bom 
honours torn. 
Arsaces. What, dost thou say, murther'd 
by Vardanes? 

Impious parricide! — detested villain! — 

Give me a sword, and onward to the 
charge, 

Stop gushing tears, for I will weep in 
blood. 

And sorrow with the groans of dying 
men. — 

Revenge ! revenge ! — oh ! — all my soul 's 
on fire! 

iFree. 



36 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



GOTARZES. 'T was not Vardanes struck the 

fatal blow, 
Though, great in pow'r usurp'd, he dares 

support 
The actor, vengeful Lysias; to his breast 
He clasps, with grateful joy, the bloody 

villain ; 
Who soon meant, with ruffian wiles, to cut 
You from the earth, and also me. 
Arsaces. Just heav'ns! — 

But, gentle Brother, how didst thou elude 
The vigilant, suspicious, tyrant's craft [?] 
GoTARZES. Phraates, by an accident, ob- 

tain'd 
The knowledge of the deed, and warn'd 

by liim 
I bent my flight toward the camp, to seek 
Protection and revenge ; but scarce I 'd 

left 
The city when I o'ertook the Gen'ral. 
Barzapherxes. 'Ere the sun 'rose I 

gain'd th' intelligence: 
The soldiers when they heard the dread- 
ful tale, 
First stood aghast, and motionless with 

horror. 
Then suddenly, inspir'd mth noble rage. 
Tore up their ensigns, calling on their 

leaders 
To march them to the city instantly. 
I, with some trusty few, with speed came 

forward. 
To raise our friends within, and gain 

your freedom. 
Nor hazard longer, by delays, your safety. 
Already faithful Phraates has gain'd 
A num'rous party of the citizens ; 
With these we mean t' attack the Royal 

Palace, ^ 
Crush the bold tyrant with surprize, while 

sunk 
In false security; and vengeance wreck, 
'Ere that he thinks the impious crime be 

known. 
Arsaces. ! parent being, Ruler of yon 

heav'n ! 
Who bade creation spring to order, hear 

me. 
What ever sins are laid upon my soul, 
Now let them not prove heavy on this 

day, 
To sink my arm, or violate my cause. 
The sacred rights of Kings, my Coun- 
try's wrongs. 
The punishment of fierce impiety, 
And a lov'd Father's death, call forth my 

sword. — 

Now on ; I feel all calm within my breast, 



And ev'ry busy doubt is hush'd to rest; 
Smile heav'n propitious on my virtuous 

cause, 
Nor aid the wretch who dares disdain 

your laws. 

END OF the fourth ACT. 



ACT FIFTH. 

Scene 1. The Palace. The curtain rises, 
slowly, to soft music, and discovers 
EvANTHE sleeping on a sofa; after the 
music ceases, Vardanes enters. 

Vardanes. Now shining Empire standing 
at the goal, 
Beck'ns me forward to increase my 

speed; 
But, yet, Arsaces lives, bane to my hopes, 
Lysias I '11 urge to ease me of his life, 
Then give the villain up to punishment. 
The shew of justice gains the changeling 

croud. 
Besides, I ne'er will harbour in my bosom 
Such serpents, ever ready with their 

stings — 
But now one hour for love and fair 

Evanthe — 
Hence with ambition's cares — see, where 

reclin'd, 
In slumbers all her sorrows are dismiss'd, 
Sleep seems to heighten ev'ry beauteous 

feature. 
And adds peculiar softness to each grace. 
She weeps — in dreams some livel}^ sor- 
row pains her — 
I '11 take one kiss — oh ! what a balmy 

sweetness ! 
Give me another — and another still — 
For ever thus I 'd dwell upon her lips. ^ 
Be still my heart, and calm unruly trans- 
ports. — 
Wake her, with music, from this mimic 
death. {Music sounds.) 

Song. 
Tell me, Phillis, tell me why, 

You appear so wond'rous coy, 
When that glow, and sparkling eye, 

Speak you want to taste the joy? 
Prithee give this fooling o'er, 
Nor torment your lover more. 

While youth is warm within our veins, 
And nature tempts us to be gay, 

Give to pleasure loose the reins, 
Love and youth fly swift away. 

Youth in pleasure should be spent, 

Age will come, we '11 then repent. 



THOMAS GODFREY 



37 



EvANTHE. (Waking.) I come ye lovely 

shades — Ha! am I here? 
Still in the tyrant's palace"? Ye bright 

pow'rs ! 
Are all my blessings then but vis'onary? 
Methought I was arriv'd on that blest 

shore 
Where happy souls for ever dwell, 

crown'd with 
Immortal bliss; Arsaces led me through 
The flow'ry groves, while all around me 

gleam'd 
Thousand and thousand shades, who wel- 

com'd me 
With pleasing songs of joy — Vardanes, 

ha !— 
Vardanes. Why beams the angry light- 
ning of thine eye 
Against thy sighing slave? Is love a 

crime ? 
Oh ! if to dote, with such excess of pas- 
sion 
As rises e'en to mad extravagance 
Is criminal, I then am so, indeed. 
EvANTHE. Away! vile man! — 
Vardanes. If to pursue thee e'er 

With all the humblest offices of love, 
If ne'er to know one single thought that 

does 
Not bear thy bright idea, merits scorn — 
Eva^'THe: Hence from my sight — nor let 

me, thus, pollute 
Mine eyes, with looking on a wretch like 

thee. 
Thou cause of all my ills ; I sicken at 
Thy loathsome presence — 
Vardanes. 'T is not always thus, 

Nor dost thou ever meet the sounds of 

love 
With rage and fierce disdain: Arsaces, 

soon. 
Could smooth thy brow, and melt thy icy 

breast. 
EvANTHE. Ha ! does it gall thee ? Yes, he 

could, he could; 
Oh! when he speaks, such sweetness 

dwells upon 
His accents, all my soul dissolves to love. 
And warm desire ; such truth and beauty 

join'd ! 
His looks are soft and kind, such gentle- 
ness 
Such virtue swells his bosom! in his eye 
Sits majesty, commanding ev'ry heart. 
Strait as the pine, the pride of all the 

grove. 
More blooming than the spring, and 

sweeter far. 
Than asphodels or roses infant sweets. 



Oh! I could dwell forever on his praise, 
Yet think eternity w^as scarce enough 
To tell the Inighty theme; here in my 

breast 
His image dwells, but one dear thought 

of him. 
When fancy paints his Person to my eye. 
As he was wont in tenderness dissolv'd, 
Sighing his vows, or kneeling at my feet. 
Wipes off all mem'ry of my wretched- 
ness. 
Vardanes. I know this brav'ry is affected, 
yet 
It gives me joy, to think my rival only 
Can in imagination taste thy beauties. 
Let him, — 't will ease him in his solitude. 
And gild the horrors of his prison-house, 
Till death shall— 
EvANTHB. Ha! what was that? till death 
— ye Gods! 
Ah, now I feel distress's tort 'ring pang — 
Thou canst not villain — darst not think 
his death — 

mis'ry! — 

Vardanes. Naught but your kindness 

saves liim. 
Yet bless me, with your love, and he is 

safe; 
But the same frown which kills my grow- 
ing hopes. 
Gives him to death. 
Evanthe. horror, I could die 

Ten thousand times to save the lov'd 

Arsaces. 
Teach me the means, ye pow'rs, how to 

save him! 
Then lead me to what ever is my fate. 
Vardanes. Not only shall he die, but to 
thy view 

1 '11 bring the scene, those eyes that take 

delight 

In cruelty, shall have enough of death. 

E'en here, before thy sight, he shall ex- 
pire. 

Not sudden, but by ling'ring torments; 
all 

That mischief can invent shall be prac- 
tised 

To give him pain; to lengthen out his woe 

I '11 search around the realm for skillful 
men. 

To find new tortures. 
Evanthe. Oh ! wrack not thus my soul ! 
Vardanes. The sex o'erflows with various 
humours, he 

Who catches not their smiles the very 
moment, 

Will lose the blessing — I '11 improve this 
softness. — {Aside to her.) 



38 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



— Heav'n never made thy beauties to 
destroy, 

They were to bless, and not to blast man- 
kind; 

Pity should dwell within thy lovely 
breast, 

That sacred temple ne'er was form'd for 
hate • 

A habitation; but a residence 

For love and gaiety. 
EvANTHE. Oh! heav'ns! 

Vardanes. That sigh. 

Proclaims your kind consent to save 

Arsaces. {Laying hold of her.) 

EvANTHE. Ha! villain, off — unhand me — 

hence — 
Vardanes. In vain is opportunity to 
those, who spend 

An idle courtship on the fair, they well 

Deserve their fate, if they 're disdain' d : 
— her charms 

To rush upon, and conquer opposition, 

Gains the Fair one's praise; an active 
lover 

Suits, who lies ^ aside the coxcomb's 
empty whine. 

And forces her to bliss. 
EvANTHE. Ah! hear me, hear me. 

Thus kneeling, with my tears, I do im- 
plore thee: 

Think on my innocence, nor force a joy 

Which will ever fill thy soul with an- 
guish. 

Seek not to load my ills with infamy. 

Let me not be a mark for bitter scorn, 

To bear proud virtue's taunts and mock- 
ing jeers. 

And like a flow'r, of all its sweetness 
robb'd. 

Be trod to earth, neglected and disdain'd. 

And spum'd by ev'ry vulgar saucy foot. 
Vardanes. Speak, speak forever — music 's 
in thy voice. 

Still attentive will I listen to thee. 

Be hush'd as night, charm'd with the 
magic sound. 
EvANTHE. Oh ! teach me, heav'n, soft mov- 
ing eloquence. 

To bend his stubborn soul to gentleness. — 

Where is thy virtue? Where thy 
princely lustre? 

Ah! w^lt thou meanly stoop to do a 
wrong. 

And stain thy honour with so foul a blot ? 

Thou who shouldst be a guard to inno- 
cence, 

Leave force to brutes — for pleasure is not 
found 

X Lays. 



Where still the soul 's averee ; horror and 

guilt. 
Distraction, desperation chace her hence. \ 
Some happier gentle Fair one you may 

find. 
Whose yielding heart may bend to meet 

your flame, 
In mutual love soft joys alone are found ; 
When souls are drawn by secret 

sympathy. 
And virtue does on virtue smile. 
Vardanes. No more— 

Her heav'nly tongue will charm me from th' 

intent. — 
Hence coward softness, force shall make 

me blest. 
EvANTHE. Assist me, ye bless't pow'rs! — 

oh ! strike, ye Gods ! 
Strike me, with thunder dead, this mo- 
ment, e'er 
I suffer violation — 
Vardanes. 'T is in vain, 

The idle pray'rs by fancy'd grief put up, 
Are blown by active winds regardless by, 
Nor ever reach the heav'ns. 



Scene 2. 

EvANTHE, Vardanes, and Lysia^. 

Lysias. Arm, arm, my Lord ! — 

Vardanes. Damnation ! why this interrup- 
tion now? — 
Lysias. Oh ! arm ! my noble Prince, the 
foe 's upon us. 
Arsaces, by Barzaphernes releas'd, 
Join'd with the citizens, assaults the 

Palace, 
And swears revenge for Artabanus' 
death. 
Vardanes. Ha! what? revenge for Arta- 
hanus' death? — 
'T is the curse of Princes that their coun- 
sels, 
Which should be kept like holy mysteries. 
Can never rest in silent secrecy. 
Fond of employ, some cursed tattling 

tongue 
Will still divulge them. 
Lysias. Sure some fiend from hell. 

In mischief eminent, to cross our views. 
Has giv'n th' intelligence, for man could 
not. 
Evanthe. Oh! ever blest event!— All- 
gracious heav'n ! 
This beam of joy revives me. 



THOMAS GODFREY 



39 



Scene 3. 

Vardanes, Evanthe, Lysias, to them, an 
Officer. 

Officer. Haste ! my Lord ! 

Or all will soon be lost; tho' thrice re- 
puls'd 

By your e'erfaithful guards, they still re- 
turn 

With double fury. 
Vardanes. Hence, then, idle love — 

Come forth, my trusty sword — curs' d mis- 
fortune ! — 

Had I but one short hour, without re- 
luctance, 

I 'd meet them, tho' they brib'd the pow'rs 
of hell, 

To place their furies in the van: Yea, 
rush 

To meet this dreadful Brother 'midst the 
war — 

Haste to the combat — Now a crown or 
death — 

The wretch who dares to give an inch of 
ground 

Till I retire, shall meet the death he 
shun'd. 

Away — away! delays are dang'rous 
now — 



Scene 4. 

Evanthe, alone. 

Now heav'n be partial to Arsaces' cause, 
Nor leave to giddy chance when virtue 

strives ; 
Let victory sit on his warlike helm. 
For justice draws his sword: be thou his 

aid, 
And let the opposer's arm sink with the 

weight 
Of his most impious crimes — be still my 

heart, 
For all that thou canst aid him with is 

pray'r. 
Oh ! that I had the strength of thousands 

in me! 
Or that my voice could wake the sons of 

men 
To join, and crush the tyrant ! — 

Scene 5. 

Evanthe and Cleone. 

Evanthe. My Cleone — 

Welcome thou partner o£ my joys and 
sorrows. 



Cleone. Oh! yonder terror triumphs un- 

controul'd,^ 
And glutton death seems never satisfy'd. 
Each soft sensation lost in thoughtless 

rage. 
And breast to breast, oppos'd in furious 

war. 
The fiery Chiefs receive the vengeful 

steel. 
O'er lifeless heaps of men the soldiers 

climb 
Still eager for the combat, while the 

ground 
Made slipp'ry by the gushing streams of 

gore 
Is treach'rous to their feet. — Oh! hor- 
rid sight ! — 
Too much for me to stand, my life was 

chill'd, 
As from the turret I beheld the fight. 
It forc'd me to retire. 
Evanthe. What of Arsaees? 

Cleone. I saw him active in the battle, 

now. 
Like light'ning, piercing thro' the thickest 

foe. 
Then scorning to disgrace his sword in 

low 
Plebeian blood — loud for Vardanes 

call'd— 
To meet him singly, and decide the war. 
Evanthe. Save him, ye Gods! — oh! all 

my soul is fear — 
Fly, fly Cleone, to the tow'r again, 
See how fate turns the ballance ; and pur- 
sue 
Arsaees with thine eye; mark ev'ry blow. 
Observe if some bold villain dares to urge 
His sword presumptuous at my Hero's 

breast. 
Haste, my Cleone, haste, to ease my 

fears. 



Scene 6. 
Evanthe, alone. 

Ah! — what a cruel torment is suspense! 

My anxious soul is torn 'twixt love and 
fear. 

Scarce can I please me with one fancied 
bliss 

Which kind imagination forms, but rea- 
son. 

Proud, surly reason, snatches the vain 

joy, 

And gives me up again to sad distress. 



40 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



Yet I can die, and should A rsaces fall 
This fatal draught sliall ease me of my 
sorrows. 



Scene 7. 
Cleone, alone. 

Oh! horror! horror! horror! — cruel 

Gods!— 
I saw him fall — I did — pierc'd thro' with 

wounds — 
Curs'd! curs'd Vardanes! — hear'd the 

gen'ral cry, 
Which burst, ^s tho' all nature had dis- 

solv'd. 
Hark! how they shout! the noise seems 

coming this way. 



Scene 8. 

Arsaces, Gotarzes, Barzaphernes and 
Officers, with Vardanes and LysiaS; 
prisoners. 

Arsaces. Thanks to the ruling pow'rs who 
blest our arms, 
Prepare the sacrifices to the Gods, 
And grateful songs of tributary praise. — 
Gotarzes, fly, my Brother, find Evanthe, 
And bring the lovely mourner to my 
arms. 
Gotarzes. Yes, I '11 obey you, with a will- 
ing speed. {Exit Gotarzes.) 
Arsaces. Thou, Lysias, from yon tow'rs 
aspiring height 
Be hurl'd to death, thy impious hands are 

stain'd 
With royal blood — Let the traitor's 

body 
Be giv'n to hungry dogs. 
Lysias. Welcome grim death ! '— 

I 've fed thy maw with Kings, and lack 

no more 
Revenge — Now, do thy duty. Officer. 
Officer. Yea, and would lead all traitors 
gladly tlms, — 
The boon of their deserts. 



Scene 9. 

Arsaces, Vardanes, Barzaphernes. 

Arsaces. But for Vardanes, 

The Brother's name forgot — 
Vardanes. You need no more, 



I know the rest — Ah ! death is near, my 

wounds 
Permit me not to live — my breath grows 

short, 
Curs'd be Phraates arm which stop'd my 

sword. 
Ere it had reach'd thy proud exulting 

heart. 
But the wretch paid dear for his pre- 
suming ; 
A just reward. — 
Arsaces. He sinks, yet bear him up — 

Vardanes. Curs'd be the multitude which 

o'erpow'r'd me. 
And beat me to the ground, cover'd with 

wounds — 
But, oh ! 't is done ! my ebbing life is 

done — 
I feel death's hand upon me — Yet, I 

die 
Just as I wish, and daring for a crown. 
Life without rule is my disdain; I scorn 
To swell a haughty Brother's sneaking 

train, 
To wait upon his ear with flatt'ring tales. 
And court his smiles; come, death, in thy 

cold arms, 
Let me forget Ambition's mighty toil. 
And shun the triumphs of a hated 

Brother — 
! bear me off — Let not his eyes enjoy 
My agonies — My sight grows dim with 

death. {They bear him off.) 



Scene the Last. 

Arsaces, Gotarzes, Barzap^iernes, and 
Evanthe supported. 

Evanthe. Lead me, oh! lead me, to my 
lov'd Arsaces, 
Where is he? — 
Arsaces. Ha ! what 's this ? Just heav'ns ! 

— my fears — 
Evanthe. Arsaces, oh ! thus circl'd in thy 
arms, 
I die without a pang. 
Arsaces. Ha ! die ? — why stare ye, 

Ye lifeless ghosts f Have none of ye a 

tongue 
To tell me I 'm undone ? 
Gotarzes. Soon, my Brother, 

Too soon, you'll know it by the sad ef- 
fects ; 
And if my grief will yet permit my 

tongue 
To do its office, thou shalt hear the tale, 
Cleone, from the turret, view'd the battle^ 



THOMAS GODFREY 



41 



And on Phraates fix'd her erring sight, 

Thy brave unhappy friend she took for 
thee, 

By his ^arb deceiv'd, which like to thine 
he wore. 

Still with her eye «he f oUow'd him, where- 
e'er 

He pierc'd the foe, and to Vardanes 
sword 

She saw him fall a hapless victim, then, 

In agonies of grief, flew to Evanthe, 

And told the dreadful tale — the fatal 
bowl 

I saw — 
Arsaces. Be dumb, nor ever give again 

Fear to the heart, with thy ill-boding 
voice. 
Evanthe. Here, I '11 rest, till death, on 
thy lov'd bosom. 

Here let me sigh my— Oh! the poison 
works — 
Arsaces. Oh! horror! — 
^SvANTHE. Cease — this sorrow pains me 
more 

Than all the wringing agonies of death. 

The dreadful parting of the soul from 
this, 

Its wedded clay — Ah ! there — that pang 
shot thro' 

My throbbing heart — 
Arsaces. Save her, ye Gods! — oh! save 
her! 

And I will bribe ye with clouds of in- 
cense ; 

Such num'rous sacrifices, that your al- 
tars 

Shall even sink beneath the mighty load. 
Evanthe. When I am dead, dissolv'd to 
native dust, 

Yet let me live in thy dear mem'ry — 

One tear will not be much to give 
Evanthe. 
Arsaces. My eyes shall e'er two running 
fountains be. 

And wet thy urn with everflowing tears, 

Joy ne'er again within my breast shall 
find 

A residence — Oh! speak, once more — 
Evanthe. Life 's just out — 

My Father — Oh! protect his honour'd 
age, 

And give him shelter from the storms of 
fate, 

He 's long been fortune's sport — Sup- 
port me — Ah ! — 

I can no more — my glass is spent — fare- 
well — 

Forever — Arsaces ! — oh ! (Dies. ) 

Arsaces. Stay, oh! stay. 



Or take me with thee — dead ! she 's cold 

and dead! 
Her eyes are clos'd, and all my joys are 

flown — 
Now burst ye elements, from your re- 
straint, 
Let order cease, and chaos be again. 
Break! break tough heart! — oh! torture 

— life dissolve — 
Why stand ye idle? Have I not one 

friend 
To kindly free me from this pain? One 

blow, 
One friendly blow would give me ease. 
Barzaphernes. The Gods 

Foref end ! — Pardon me, Royal Sir, if I 
Dare, seemingly disloyal, seize your 

sword, 
Despair may urge you far — 
Arsaces. Ha! traitors! rebels! — 

Hoary rev'rend Villain! what, disarm 

me? 
Give me my sword — what, stand ye by, 

and see 
Your Prince insulted? Are ye rebels 

all?— 
Barzaphernes. Be calm, my gracious 

Lord! 
Gotarzes. Oh ! my lov'd Brother ! 

Arsaces. Gotarzes too! all! all! conspir'd 

against me ? 
Still, are ,ye all resolv'd that I must live, 
And feel the momentary pangs of 

death?— 
Ha! — this, shall make a passage for my 

soul — 

(Snatches Barzaphernes' sword.) 
Out, out vile cares, from your distress'd 

abode — (Stahs himself.) 

Barzaphernes. Oh ! ye eternal Gods ! 
Gotarzes. Distraction! heav'ns! 

I shall run mad — 
Arsaces. Ah ! 't is in vain to grieve — 

The steel has done its part, and I 'm at 

rest. — 
Gotarzes wear my crown, and be thou 

blest, 
Cherish Barzaphernes, my trusty chief — 
I faint, oh! lay me by Evanthe' s side — 
Still wedded in our deaths — Bethas — 
Barzaphernes. ■ Despair, 

My Lord, has broke his heart, I saw him 

stretch'd, 
Along the flinty pavement, in his gaol — 
Cold, lifeless — 
Arsaces. He 's happy then — had he 

heard 
This tale, he'd — Ah! Evanthe chides 

my soul, 



42 



THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 



For ling'ring here so long — another pang 
And all the world, adieu — oh! adieu! — 

{Dies.) 

GOTARZES. Oh ! — 

Fix me, heav'n, immoveable, a statue, 
And free me from o'erwhelming tides of 
grief. 
Barzaphernes. Oh! my lov'd Prince, I 
soon shall follow thee; 
Thy laurel'd glories [,] whither are they 

fled?— 
Would I had died before this fatal day ! — 
Triumphant garlands pride my soul no 

more. 
No more the lofty voice of war can 

charm — 
And why then am I here? Thus then — 
{Offers to stab himself.) 
GOTARZES. Ah ! hold, 

Nor rashly urge the blow — think of me, 

and 
Live — My heart is ^vrung with stream- 
ing anguish. 
Tore with the smarting pangs of woe, 

yet, will I 
Dare to live, and stem misfortune's bil- 
lows. 
Live then, and be the guardian of my 
youth, 



And lead me on thro' virtue's rugged 

path. 
Barzaphernes. 0, glorious youth, thy 

words have rous'd the 
Drooping genius of my soul ; thus, let me 
Clasp thee, in my aged arms; yes, I will 

live — 
Live, to support thee in thy kingly rights, 
And when thou 'rt firmly fix'd, my task 's 

perform'd. 
My honourable task — Then I '11 retire. 
Petition gracious heav'n to bless my work. 
And in the silent grave forget my cares. 
Gotarzes. Now, to the Temple, let us on- 
ward move, 
And strive t' appease the angry pow'rs 

above. 
Fate yet may have some ills reserv'd in 

store, 
Continu'd curses, to torment us more. 
Tho', in their district, Monarchs rule 

alone, 
Jove sways the mighty Monarch on his 

throne : 
Nor can the shining honours which they 

wear, 
Purchase one joy, or save them from one 

care. 



FINIS 



THE CONTRAST 

BY 

Royall Tyler 



THE CONTRAST 

The Contrast is the second play written by an American, to be produced 
in America by a professional company. It is our first comedy, and while its 
central theme is the contrast between native worth and affectation of foreign 
manners it is of especial significance as introducing to our stage in the character 
of '' Jonathan" the shrewd, yet uncultivated type of New England farmer which 
has since become known as the "Stage Yankee." The example of The Contrast 
in introducing a Yankee character was soon followed. In 1792, The Yorker's 
Stratagem, or Banana's Wedding, by J. Robinson, was based upon the attempt 
of the hero "Amant" to win the hand of the heroine by pretending to be a 
simple Yankee merchant. In 1807 Barker introduced the character of "Nathan 
Yank" in his comedy, Tears and Smiles. The first Yankee character, however, 
which permanently held the stage was that of "Jonathan Ploughboy" in Samuel 
Woodworth's play of The Forest Bose, or American Farmers. It was a kind 
of opera, originally produced at the Chatham Theatre, New York, October 6, 
1825. The characters are all conventional but that of "Jonathan" which had 
some flavor of realit}^ This play was produced in London and as far west as 
California. The character of ' ' Jonathan ' ' w^as acted at first by Alexander Simp- 
son and later by Henry Placide, G. H. Hill and J. S. Silsbee. The success of 
The Forest Rose doubtless encouraged others, for we find J. H. Hackett, the 
actor, first telling Yankee stories in plays of another character and then modify- 
ing Colman's Who Wants a Guinea? to introduce the character of "Solomon 
Swap" and under the title of Jonathan in England producing the play in 
England with success. Among the other well known Yankee plays were Yankee 
Land (1834) introducing "Lot Sap Sago" and The Vermont Wool Dealer, 
(1840), whose hero was called "Deuteronomy Dutiful." Both of these plays 
were written by C. A. Logan. Joseph S. Jones, a prolific playwright, created 
the character of "Jedediah Homebred" in The Green Mountain Boy (1833) 
and "Solon Shingle" in The People's Lawyer (1839). These Yankee plays 
are most interesting on account of their historical value. As we read them now 
they seem trivial and conventional and the Yankee characters are introduced 
into the midst of surroundings with which they have usually little to do. Their 
farcical character, however, made them definite and their homeliness of expres- 
sion gave them an appearance of reality which probably w^on them their popu- 
larity. They point forward, of course, to a time when James A. Heme and 
others produced more significant work in the same field. 

45 



40 INTRODUCTION 



The author of The Contrast, Royall Tyler, was born in Boston, July 18, 
1757. He graduated from Harvard College and, after studying law, became 
aide-de-camp to General Benjamin Lincoln during the Revolution and later 
during Shays 's Rebellion. Coming to New York City on a mission connected 
with Shays 's Rebellion, he became interested in the theatre and wrote The Con- 
trast, which was performed at the John Street Theatre, April 16, 1787, by the 
American Company, under Hallam and Henry. The principal part, that of 
"Jonathan," Avas played by Thomas Wignell. It was repeated several times in 
New York and was played in Baltimore (1787-8), in Philadelphia (1790) and 
in Boston. It was revived on June 6, 7, and 8, 1912, in connection with a 
Pageant given at Brattleboro, Vermont. 

Tyler wTote a farce, May Day in Town or New York in an Uproar, which 
Avas performed at the John Street Theatre on May 18, 1787. He then returned 
to Boston, where he wrote in 1797, A Georgia Spec or Land in the Moon, which 
dealt with the rage for speculating in Georgia lands of the Yazoo Purchase. It 
was first played in Boston and later in New York at the John Street Theatre, 
December 20, 1797. According to Dunlap's manuscript Diary, A Georgia Spec, 
which he calls A Good Spec, was repeated February 12, 1798. Major F. W. 
Childs, of Brattleboro, Vermont, where Royall Tyler lived from 1801 to 1826, 
states in a recent letter that there exists in manuscript a play of Tyler's called 
The Duelists, performed at the Federal Street Theatre in Boston in 1797. Tyler 
also wrote a romance, The Algerine Captive (1797) but devoted himself definitely 
to the profession of law, becoming Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Ver- 
mont in 1807. He died in August, 1826. 

Tyler gave the copyright of The Contrast to Thomas Wignell and the latter 
published- it in Philadelphia in 1790, with an introduction in which he states 
that "it was written by one who never critically studied the rules of the drama, 
and indeed had seen but few of the exhibitions of the stage ; it was undertaken 
and finished in the course of three weeks." It was reprinted by the Dunlap 
Society in 1887 with an introduction by Thomas J. McKee. The other plays of 
Tyler are not now available. 

The present edition is based upon a copy of the edition of 1790, which be- 
longed to William B. Wood, the Philadelphia Manager. 

Note to Second Edition. 
On January 16 and 18, 1917, The Contrast was played under the auspices of 
the American Drama Committee of the Philadelphia Drama League at the Broad 
Street Theatre in connection with the celebration of the American Drama Year. 
The cast was drawn from the "Plays and Players" of Philadelphia, and the 
production revealed the truly remarkable qualities of the play, which was staged 
under the direction of Mrs. Otis Skinner. 



THE 



CONTRAST, 

A 

COMEDY; 

IN FIVE ACTS: 

WRITTEN BY A 

CITIZEN oi THL UNITED STATES; 

Performed with Applaufe at the Theatres in New-York, 
Philadelphia, and Maryland; 

AND PUBLISHED (under an AJJlgnment of the Copy.RightJ b y 

THOMAS WIGNELL. 



Primus ego in patriam 

^onio deduxi vertice Mufas. 

ViKGIt. 

(Imitated.) 

Firft on our fhores I try Thalia's powers. 
And bid the laughing, u/efulMzid. be ours. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

fROM THE pivEss OF PRICHARD & HALLt in market street* 

BETWEEN SECOND AND FRONT STREETS, 

M. oec. xc. 



PROLOGUE 

Written by a Young Gentleman of Kew-York, and Spoken by Mr. Wignell 

Exult each patriot heart ! — this night is shewn 

A piece, which we may fairly call our own ; 

Where the proud titles of "My Lord ! Your Grace !" 

To humble Mr. and plain Sir give place. 

Our Author pictures not from foreign climes 

The fashions, or the follies of the times; 

But has confin'd the subject of his w^ork 

To the gay scenes — the circles of New-Y"ork. 

On native themes his Muse displays her pow'rs; 

If ours the faults, the virtues too are ours. 

Why should our thoughts to distant countries roam, 

When each refinement may be found at home? 

Who travels now to ape the rich or great, 

To deck an equipage and roll in state; 

To court the graces, or to dance with ease, 

Or by hypocrisy to strive to please? 

Our free-born ancestors such arts despis'd; 

Genuine sincerity alone they priz'd; 

Their minds, with honest emulation fir'd. 

To solid good — not ornament — aspir'd; 

Or, if ambition rous'd a bolder flame, 

Stern virtue throve, where indolence was shame. 

But modern youths, with imitative sense. 
Deem taste in dress the proof of excellence; 
And spurn the meanness of your homespun arts, 
Since homespun habits would obscure their parts; 
Whilst all, which aims at splendour and parade. 
Must come from Europe, and be ready made. 
Strange ! we should thus our native worth disclaim, 
And check the progress of our rising fame. 
Yet one, whilst imitation bears the sway. 
Aspires to nobler heights, and points the way. 
Be rous'd, my friends! his bold example view; 
Let your own Bards be proud to copy you! 
Should rigid critics reprobate our play. 
At least the patriotic heart will say, 
"Glorious our fall, since in a noble cause. 
"The bold attempt alone demands applause." 
Still may the wisdom of the Comic Muse 
Exalt your merits, or your faults accuse, 

4§ 



PROLOGUE 49 



But think not, 't is her aim to be severe ; — 
We all are mortals, and as mortals err. * 
If candour pleases, we are truly blest; 
Vice trembles, when compelled to stand confess'd. 
Let not light Censure on your faults, offend, 
Which aims not to expose them, but amend. 
Thus does our Author to your candour trust; 
Conscious, the free are generous, as just. 



CHARACTERS 

New York Maryland 

Col. Manly Mr. Henry Mr. Hallam 

Dimple Mr. Hallam Mr. Harper 

Vanrough Mr. Morris Mr. Morris 

Jessamy Mr. Harper Mr. Biddle 

Jonathan Mr. Wignell Mr. Wignell 

Charlotte Mrs. Morris Mrs. Morris 

Maria Mrs. Harper Mrs. Harper 

Letitia ; Mrs. Kenna Mrs. Williamson 

Jenny Miss Tuke Miss W. Tuke 

Servants 
Scene, New York 

N. B. The lines marked with inverted commas, *'thus'* are omitted in the 
representation. 

[For the sake of uniformity in this collection, the portions omitted in repre- 
sentation are enclosed in brackets of this character <>.] 



THE CONTRAST 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1. An Apartment at Charlotte's. 

Charlotte and Letitia discovered. 

Letitia. And so, Charlotte, you really 
think the pocket-hoop unbecoming. 

Charlotte. No, I don't say so ; It may be 
very becoming to saunter round the house 
of a rainy day ; to visit my grand-mamma, 
or go to Quakers' meeting: but to swim 
in a minuet, with the eyes of fifty well- 
dressed beaux upon me, to trip it in the 
Mall, or w^alk on the battery, give me the 
luxurious, jaunty, flowing, bell-hoop. It 
would have delighted you to have seen me 
the last evening, my charming girl! I 
was dangling o'er the battery with Billy 
• Dimple; a knot of young fellows were 
upon the platform; as I passed them I 
faultered with one of the most bewitch- 
ing false steps you ever saw, and then 
recovered myself with such a pretty con- 
fusion, flirting my hoop to discover a 
jet black shoe and brilliant buckle. Gad ! 
how my little heart thrilled to hear the 
confused raptures of — "Demme, Jack, 
what a delicate foot!" "Ha! General, 
what a well-turn'd — " 

Letitia. Fie! fie! Charlotte, {stopping her 
mouth) I protest you are quite a liber- 
tine. 

Charlotte. Why, my dear little prude, 
are we not all such libertines? Do you 
think, when I sat tortured two hours 
under the hands of my friseur, and an 
hour more at my toilet, that I had any 
thoughts of my aunt Susan, or my cousin 
Betsey? though they are both allowed 
to be critical judges of dress. 

Letitia. Why, who should we dress to 
please, but those who are judges of its 
merit ? 

Charlotte. Why a creature who does not 
know Buff on from Souflee — Man! — my 
Letitia — Man! for whom we dress, walk, 
dance, talk, lisp, languish, and smile. 
Does not the grave Spectator assure us, 
that even our much bepraised difiidence, 
modesty, and blushes, are all directed to 



51 



make ourselves good wives and mothers 
as fast as we can. Why, I '11 undertake 
with one flirt of this hoop to bring more 
beaux to my feet in one week, than the 
grave Maria, and her sentimental circle, 
can do, by sighing sentiment till their 
hairs are grey. 

Letitia. Well, I won't argue with you; 
you always out talk me ; let us change the 
subject. I hear that Mr. Dimple and 
Maria are soon to be married. 

Charlotte. You hear true. I was con- 
sulted in the choice of the wedding 
clothes. She is to be married in a deli- 
cate white sattin, and has a monstrous 
pretty brocaded lutestring for the second 
day. It would have done you good to 
have seen with what an affected indiffer- 
ence the dear sentimentalist <turned 
over a thousand pretty things, just as if 
her heart did not palpitate with her ap- 
proaching happiness, and at last made 
her choice, and> arranged her dress with 
such apathy, as if she did not know that 
plain white sattin, and a simple blond 
lace, would shew her clear skin, and dark 
hair, to the greatest advantage. 

Letitia. But they say her indifference to 
dress, and even to the gentleman himself, 
is not entirely affected. 

Charlotte. How ? 

Letitia. It is whispered, that if Maria 
gives her hand to Mr. Dimple, it will be 
without her heart. 

Charlotte. Though the giving the heart 
is one of the last of all laughable con- 
siderations in the marriage of a girl of 
spirit, yet I should like to hear what anti- 
quated notions the dear little piece of 
old fashioned prudery has got in her 
head. 

Letitia. Why you know that old 
Mr. John-Richard-Robert- Jacob-Isaac- 
Abraham-Cornelius Van Dumpling, Billy 
Dimple's father, (for he has thought fit to 
soften his name, as well as manners, dur- 
ing his English tour) was the most inti- 
mate friend of Maria's father. The old 
folks, about a year before Mr. Van 
Dumpling's death, proposed this match: 
the young folks were accordingly intro- 



52 



THE CONTRAST 



duced, and told they must love one 
another. Billy was then a good natured, 
decent, dressing young fellow, with a 
little dash of the coxcomb, such as our 
young fellows of fortune usually have. 
At this time, I really believe she thought 
she loved him; and had they then been 
married, I doubt not, they might have 
jogged on, to the end of the chapter, a 
good kind of a sing-song lack-a-daysaical 
life, as other honest married folks do. 

Charlotte. Why did they not then 
marry ? 

Letitia. Upon the death of his father, 
Billy went to England to see the world, 
and rub oft* a little of the patroon rust. 
During his absence, Maria like a good 
girl, to keep herself constant to her nown 
true-love, avoided company, and betook 
herself, for her amusement, to her books, 
and her dear Billy's letters. But, alas! 
how many ways has the mischievous 
demon of inconstancy of stealing into a 
woman's heart! Her love was destroyed 
by the very means she took to support it. 

Charlotte. How? — Oh! I have it — some 
likely young beau found the way to her 
study. 

Letitia. Be patient, Charlotte — your head 
so runs upon beaux. — Why she read 
Sir Charles Grandison, Clarissa Harlow, 
Shenstone, and the Sentimental Journey ; 
and between whiles, as I said, Billy's let- 
ters. But as her taste improved, her love 
declined. The contrast was so striking 
betwixt the good sense of her books, and 
the flimsiness of her love-letters, that she 
discovered she had unthinkingly engaged 
her hand without her heart ; and then the 
whole transaction managed by the old 
folks, now appeared so unsentimental, 
and looked so like bargaining for a bale 
of goods, that she found she ought to 
have rejected, according to every rule of 
romance, even the man of her choice, if 
imposed upon her in that manner — Clary 
Harlow would have scorned such a match. 

Charlotte. Well, how was it on Mr. 
Dimple's return? Did he meet a more 
favourable reception than his letters'? 

Letitia. Much the same. She spoke of 
him with respect abroad, and with con- 
tempt in her closet. She watched his 
conduct and conversation, and found that 
he had by travelling acquired the wicked- 
ness of Lovelace without his wit, and tlie 
politeness of Sir Charles Grandison with- 
out his generosity. The ruddy youtli 
who washed his face at the cistern every 



morning, and swore and looked eternal 
love and constancy, was now metamor- 
phosed into a flippant, palid, polite beau, 
who devotes the morning to his toilet, 
reads a few pages of Chesterfield's let- 
ters, and then minces out, to put the in- 
famous principles in practice upon every - 
woman he meets. I 

Charlotte. But, if she is so apt at con- ■ 
juring up these sentimental bugbears, 
why does she not discard him at once? 

Letitia. Why, she thinks her word too 
sacred to be trifled with. Besides, her 
father, who has a great respect for the 
memory of his deceased friend, is ever 
telling her how he shall renew his years 
in their union, and repeating the dying 
injunctions of old Van Dumpling. 

Charlotte. A mighty pretty story ! And 
so you would make me believe, that the 
sensible Maria would give up Dumpling 
manor, and the all-accomplished Dimple 
as a husband, for the al)surd, ridiculous 
reason, forsooth, because she despises and 
abhors him. Just as if a lady could not 
be privileged to spend a man's fortune, 
ride in his carriage, be called after his 
name, and call him her nown dear lovee 
when she wants money, without loving 
and respecting the great he-creature. 
Oh! my dear girl, you are a monstrous 
prude. 

Letitia. I don't say what I would do; I 
only intimate how I suppose she wishes 
to act. 

Charlotte. No, no, no! A fig for senti- 
ment. If she breaks, or wishes to break, 
with Mr. Dimple, depend upon it, she 
has some other man in her eye. A 
woman rarely discards one lover, until 
she is sure of another. — Letitia little 
thinks what a clue I have to Dimple's 
conduct. The generous man submits to 
render himself disgusting to Maria, in 
order that she may leave him at liberty 
to address me. I must change the sub- 
ject. {Aside, and rings a hell.) 

{Enter Servant.) 

Frank, order the horses to. — Talking 
of marriage — did you hear that Sally 
Bloomsbury is going to be married next 
week to Mr. Indigo, the rich Carolinian? 

Letitia. Sally Bloomsbury married! — 
Why, she is not yet in her teens. 

Charlotte. I do not know how tliat is, 
but, you may depend upon it, 't is a done 
affair. I have it from the best authority. 
There is my aunt Wyerley's Hannah 



ROYALL TYLER 



53 



(you know Hannah — though a black, she 
is a wench that was never caught in a lie 
in her hfe) ; now Hannah has a brother 
who courts Sarah, Mrs. Catgut the mil- 
liners girl, and she told Hannah's 
brother, and Hannah, who, as I said be- 
fore, is a girl of undoubted veracity, told 
it directly to me, that Mrs. Catgut was 
making a new cap for Miss Bloomsbury, 
which, as it was very dressy, it is very 
probable is designed for a wedding cap: 
now, as she is to be married, who can 
it be to, but to Mr. Indigo? Why, there 
is no other gentleman that visits at her 
papa's. 

Letitia. Say not a word more, Charlotte. 
Your intelligence is so direct and well 
grounded, it is almost a pity that it is 
not a piece of scandal. 

Charlotte. Oh! I am the pink of pru- 
dence. Though I cannot charge myself 
with ever having discredited a tea-party 

. by my silence, yet I take care never to 
report any thing of my acquaintance, 
especially if it is to their credit, — dis- 
credit, I mean — until I have searched to 
the bottom of it. It is true, there is 
infinite pleasure in this charitable pur- 
suit. Oh! how delicious to go and con- 
dole with the friends of some backsliding 
sister, or to retire with some old dowager 
or maiden aunt of the family, who love 
scandal so well, that they cannot forbear 
gratifying their appetite at the expence 
of the reputation of their nearest rela- 
tions! And then to return full fraught 
with a rich collection of circumstances, to 
retail to the next circle of our acquaint- 
ance under the strongest injunctions of 
secrecy, — ha, ha, ha ! — interlarding the 
melancholy tale with so many doleful 
shakes of the head, and more doleful, 
"Ah ! who would have thought it ! so ami- 
able, so prudent a young lady, as we all 
thought her, what a monstrous pity! 
well, I have nothing to charge myself 
with; 1 acted the part of a friend, I 
warned her of the principles of that 
rake, I told her what would be the conse- 
quence; I told her so, I told her so." — 
Ha, ha, ha! 
Letitia. Ha, ha, ha! Well, but Char- 
lotte, you don't tell me what you think 
of Miss Bloomsbury's match. 
Charlotte. Think! why I think it is 
probable she cried for a plaything, and 
they have given her a husband. Well, 
well, well, the puling chit shall not be 
deprived of her plaything: 'tis only ex- 



changing London dolls for American 
babies — Apropos, of babies, have you 
heard what Mrs. Affable's high-flying no- 
tions of delicacy have come to? 

Letitia. Who, she that was Miss Lovely? 

Charlotte. The same; she married Bob 
Affable of Schenectady. Don't you re- 
member? 

{Enter Servant.) 

Servant. Madam, the carriage is ready. 

Letitia. Shall we go to the stores first, or 
visiting ? 

Charlotte. I should think it rather too 
early to visit; especially Mrs. Prim: you 
know she is so particular. 

Letitia. Well, but what of Mrs. Affable? 

Charlotte. Oh, I'll tell you as we go; 
come, come, let us hasten. I hear Mrs. 
Catgut has some of the prettiest caps ar- 
rived, you ever saw. I shall die if I have 
not the first sight of them. (Exeunt.) 

Scene 2. A Room in Van Rough's House. 
Maria sitting disconsolate at a Table, 
with Books, etc. 

Song. 
I 

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun 
the day; 

But glory remains when their lights fade 
away ! 

Begin, ye tormentors! your threats are in 
vain, 

For the son of Alknomook shall never com- 
plain. 

II 

Remember the arroAvs he shot from his 
bow ; 

Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid 
low : 

Why so slow? — do you wait till I shrink 
from the pain? 

No — the son of Alknomook will never com- 
plain. 

Ill 

Remember the wood where in ambush we 
lay; 

And the scalps which we bore from your 
nation away : 

Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my 
pain; 

But the son of Alknomook can never com- 
plain. 

IV 

I go to the land where my father is gone; 
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his 
son: 



54 



THE CONTRAST 



Death comes like a friend, he relieves me 

from pain; 
And thy son, Oh Alknomook! has scorn'd 

to complain. 

There is something in this song which 
ever calls forth my affections. The 
manly virtue of courage, that fortitude 
which steels the heart against the keenest 
misfortunes, which interweaves the laurel 
of glory amidst the instruments of tor- 
ture and death, displa3^s something so 
noble, .so exalted, that in despite of the 
prejudices of education, I cannot but ad- 
mire it, even in a savage. The prepos- 
session which our sex is supposed to en- 
tertain for the character of a soldier, is, 
I know, a standing piece of raillery 
among the wits. A cockade, a lapell'd 
coat, and a feather, they will tell you, are 
irresistible by a female heart. Let it be 
so. — Who is it that considers the help- 
less situation of our sex, that does not 
see we each moment stand in need of a 
protector, and that a brave one too. 
<Formed of the more delicate materials 
of nature, endowed only with the softer 
passions, incapable, from our ignorance 
of the world, to guard against the wiles 
of mankind, our security for happiness 
often depends upon their generosity and 
courage: — Alas! how little of the 
former do we find.> How inconsistent! 
that man should be leagued to destroy 
that honour, upon which, solely rests his 
respect and esteem. Ten thousand temp- 
tations allure us, ten thousand passions 
betray us ; yet the smallest deviation from 
the path of rectitude is followed by the 
contempt and insult of man, and the 
more remorseless pity of woman: years 
of penitence and tears cannot wash away 
the stain, nor a life of virtue obliterate 
its remembrance. <Reputation is the 
life of woman; yet courage to protect 
it, is masculine and disgusting; and the 
only safe asylum a woman of delicacy 
can find, is in the arms of a man of 
honour. How naturally then, should we 
love the brave, and the generous; how 
gratefully should we bless the arm raised 
for our protection, when nerv'd by virtue, 
and directed by honour !> Heaven 
grant that the man with whom I may 
be connected — may be connected! — 
Whither has my imagination transported 
me — whither does it now lead me? — 
Am I not indissolubly engaged <by every 
obligation of honour, which my own con- 



sent, and my father's approbation can 
give,> to a man who can never share 
my affections, and whom a few days 
hence, it will be criminal for me to dis- 
approve — to disapprove ! would to heaven 
that were all — to despise. For, can the 
most frivolous manners, actuated by the 
most depraved heart, meet, or merit, any- 
thing but contempt from every woman 
of delicacy and sentiment? 

(Van Rough, without. Mary!) 

Ha, my father's voice— Sir! — 

(Enter Van Rough.) 

Van Rough. What, Mary, always singing 
doleful ditties, and moping over these 
plaguy books. 

Maria. I hope, Sir, that it is not criminal 
to improve my mind with books; or to 
divert my melancholy with singing at my 
leisure hours. 

Van Rough. W^hy, I don't know that, 
child ; I don't know that. They us 'd 
to say when I was a young man, that if 
a woman knew how to make a pudding, 
and to keep herself out of fire and water, 
she knew enough for a wife. Now, what 
good have these books done you? have 
they not made you melancholy? as you 
call it. Pray, what right has a girl of 
your age to be in the dumps ? hav n't you 
every thing your heart can wish; an't 
you going to be married to a yojung 
man of great fortune; an't you going to 
have the quit-rent of twenty miles 
square ? 

Maria. One hundredth part of the land, 
and a lease for life of the heart of a man 
I could love, would satisfy me. 

Van Rough. Pho, pho, pho! child; non-^ 
sense, downright nonsense, child. This 
comes of your reading your story-books; 
your Charles Grandisons, your Sentimen- 
tal Journals, and your Robinson Crusoes, 
and such other trumpery. No, no, no! 
child, it is money makes the mare go; 
keep your eye upon the main chance, 
Mary. 

Maria. Marriage, Sir, is, indeed, a very 
serious affair. 

Van Rough. You are right, child ; you are 
right. I am sure I found it so to my 
cost. 

Maria. I mean, Sir, that as marriage is a 
portion for life, and so intimately in- 
volves our happiness, we cannot be too 
considerate in the choice of our compan- 
ioii. 



ROYALL TYLER 



55 



Van Rough. Right, child; very right. A 
young woman should be very sober when 
she is making her choice, but when she 
has once made it, as you have done, I 
don't see why she should not be as merry 
as a grig; I am sure she has reason 
enough to be so — Solomon says, that 
"there is a time to laugh, and a time to 
weep"; now a time for a young woman 
to laugh is when she has made sure of a 
good rich husband. Now a time ta cry, 
according to you, Mary, is when she is 
making choice of him: but, I should 
think, that a young woman's time to cry 
was, when she despaired of getting one. — 
Why, there was your mother now; to be 
sure when I popp'd the question to her, 
she did look a little silly; but when she 
had once looked down on her apron- 
strings, as all modest young women us'd 
to do, and drawled out ye-s, she was as 
brisk and as merry as a bee. 

Maria. My honoured mother, Sir, had no 
motive to melancholy; she married the 
man of her choice. 

Van Rough. The man of her choice! 
And pray, Mary, an't you going to marry 
the man of your choice — what trumpery 
notion is this? — It is these vile books 
{throwing them away). I 'd have you to 
know, Mary, if you won't make young 
Van Dumpling the man of your choice, 
you shall marry him as the man of my 
choice. 

Maria. You terrify me. Sir. Indeed, Sir, 
I am all submission. My will is yours. 

Van Rough. Why, that is the way your 
mother us'd to talk. "My will is yours, 
my dear Mr. Van Rough, my will is 
yours" : but she took special care to have 
her own way though for all that. 

Maria. Do not reflect upon my mother's 
memory, Sir — 

Van Rough. Why not, Mary, why not? 
She kept me from speaking my mind all 
her life, and do you think she shall hen- 
peek me now she is dead too? Come, 
come; don't go to sniveling: be a good 
girl, and mind the main chance. I '11 see 
you well settled in the world. 

Maria. I do not doubt your love. Sir; and 
it is my duty to obey you. — I will en- 
deavor to make my duty and inclination 
go hand in hand. 

Van Rough. Well, well, Mary; do you be 
a good girl, mind the main chance, and 
never mind inclination. — Why, do you 
know that I have been down in the cellar 
this very morning to examine a pipe of 



Madeira which I purchased the week you 
were born,^ and mean to tap on your 
wedding day. — That pipe cost me 
fifty pounds sterling. It was well worth 
sixty pounds; but I over-reached Ben 
Bulkhead, the supercargo : I '11 tell 
you the whole story. You must know 
that— 

{Enter Servant.) 

Servant. Sir, Mr. Transfer, the broker, is 
below. ( Exit. ) 

Van Rough. Well, Mary, I must go. — 
Remember, and be a good girl, and mind 
the main chance. {Exit.) 

Maria. {Alone.) How deplorable is my 
situation ! How distressing for a daugh- 
ter to find her heart militating with her 
filial duty! I know my father loves me 
tenderly, why then do I reluctantly obey 
him? <Heaven knows! with what re- 
luctance I should oppose the will of a 
parent, or set an example of filial dis- 
obedience>; at a parent's command I 
could wed aukwardness and deformity. 
<Were the heart of my husband good, I 
would so magnify his good qualities with 
the eye of conjugal affection, that the 
defects of his person and manners should 
be lost in the emanation of his virtues. > 
At a father's command, I could embrace 
poverty, Were the poor man my hus- 
band, I would learn resignation to my 
lot ; I would enliven our frugal meal with 
good humour, and chase away misfortune 
from our cottage with a smile. At a 
father's command, I could almost sub- 
mit, to what every female heart knows 
to be the most mortifying, to marry a 
weak man, and blush at my husband's 
folly in every company I visited. — But 
to marry a depraved wretch, whose only 
virtue is a polished exterior; <who is 
actuated by the unmanly ambition of 
conquering the defenceless; whose heart, 
insensible to the emotions of patriotism, 
dilates at the plaudits of every unthink- 
ing girl>: whose laurels are the sighs 
and tears of the miserable victims of his 
specious behaviour. — Can he, who has 
no regard for the peace and happiness 
of other families, ever have a due regard 
for the peace and happiness of his own? 
Would to heaven that my father were not 
so hasty in his temper! Surely, if I 
were to state my reasons for declining 
this match, he would not compel me to 
marry a man — whom, though my lips 



56 



THE CONTRAST 



may solemnly promise to honour, I find 
my heart must ever despise. {Exit.} 



END OF THE FIRST ACT. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. 
(Enter Charlotte and Letitia.) 

Charlotte. {At entering.) Betty, take 
those things out of the carriage and carry 
them to my chamber; see that you don't 
tumble them. — My dear, I protest, I 
think it was the homeliest of the whole. 
I declare I was almost tempted to return 
and change it. 

Letitia. Why would you take it? 

Charlotte. <Didn't Mrs. Catgut say it 
was the most fashionable? 

Letitia. But, my dear, it will never sit 
becomingly on you. 

Charlotte. I know that; but did not you 
hear Mrs. Catgut say it was fashionable? 

Letitia. Did you see that sweet airy cap 
with the white sprig? 

Charlotte. Yes, and I longed to take it; 
but,> my dear, what could I do? — Did 
not Mrs. Catgut say it w^as the most fash- 
ionable; and if I had not taken it, w^as 
not that aukward gawky, Sally Slender, 
ready to purchase it immediately? 

<Letitia. Did you observe how she tum- 
bled over the things at the next shop, and 
then went off without purchasing any 
thing, nor even thanking the poor man 
for his trouble? — But of all the auk- 
ward creatures, did you see Miss Blouze, 
endeavouring to thrust her unmerciful 
arm into those small kid gloves? 

Charlotte. Ha, ha, ha, ha !> 

Letitia. Then did you take notice, with 
what an affected warmth of friendship 
she and Miss Wasp met? when all their 
acquaintances know how much pleasure 
they take in abusing each other in every 
company? 

Charlotte. Lud! Letitia, is that so ex- 
traordinary? Why, my dear, I hope you 
are not going to turn sentimentalist. — 
Scandal, you know, is but amusing our- 
selves with the faults, foibles, follies and 
reputations of our friends; — indeed, I 
don't know why we should have friends, 
if we are not at liberty to make use of 
them. But no person is so ignorant of 
the world as to suppose, because I amuse 



myself with a lady's faults, that I am 
obliged to quarrel with her person, every 
time we meet; believe me, my dear, we 
should have very few acquaintances at 
that rate. 

(Servant enters and deliv-ers a letter 
to Charlotte, and Exit.) 

Charlotte. You '11 excuse me, my dear. 
{Opens and reads to herself.) 

Letitia. Oh, quite excusable. 

Charlotte. As I hope to be married, my 
brother Henry is in the city. 

Letitia. What, your brother. Colonel 
Manly? 

Charlotte. Yes, my dear; the only 
brother I have in the world. 

Letitia. Was he never in this city? 

Charlotte. Never nearer than Harlem 
Heights, where he lay with his regiment. 

Letitia. What sort of a being is this 
brother of yours? If he is as chatty, as 
pretty, as sprightly as you, half the belles 
in the city will be pulling caps for him. 

Charlotte. My brother is the very coun- 
terpart and reverse of me : I am gay, he 
is grave ; I am airy, he is solid ; I am ever 
selecting the most pleasing objects for 
my laughter, he has a tear for every piti- 
ful one. And thus, whilst he is plucking 
the briars and thorns from the path of 
the unfortunate, I am strewing my own 
path with roses. 

Letitia. My sweet friend, not quite so po- 
etical, and little more particular. 

Charlotte. Hands off, Letitia. I feel 
the rage of simile upon me; I can't talk 
to you in any other way. My brother 
has a heart replete with the noblest sen- 
timents, but then, it is like — it is like — 
Oh! you provoking girl, you have de- 
ranged all my ideas — it is like — Oh ! I" 
have it — his heart is like an old maiden 
lady's band-box; it contains many costly 
things, arranged w^ith the most scrupulous 
nicety, yet the misfortune is, that they 
are . too delicate, costly, and antiquated, 
for common use. 

Letitia. By what I can pick out of your 
flowery description, your brotlier is no 
beau. 

Charlotte. No, indeed ; he makes no pre- 
tension to the character. He 'd ride, or 
rather fly, an hundred miles to relieve a 
distressed object, or to do a gallant act 
in the service of his country : but, should 
you drop your fan or bouquet in his pres- 
ence, it is ten to one that some beau at 
the farther end of the room would have 



ROYALL TYLER 



57 



the honour of presenting it to you, before 
he had observed that it fell. I '11 tell 
you one of his antiquated, anti-gallant 
notions. — He said once in my presence, 
in a room full of company — would you 
believe it — in a large circle of ladies, that 
the best evidence a gentleman could give 
a young lady of his respect and alfection, 
was, to endeavour in a friendly manner to 
rectify her foibles. I protest I was crim- 
son to the eyes, upon reilectmg tliat I 
was known as his sister. 

Letitia. Insupportable creature! tell a 
lady of her faults I If he is so grave, I 
fear I have no chance of captivating liim. 

Charlotte. <His conversation is like a 
rich old fashioned brocade, it will stand 
alone; every sentence is a sentiment. 
Now j'ou may judge what a time I had 
with him, in my twelve months' visit to 
my father. He read me such lectures, 
out of pure brotherly affection, against 
the extremes of fashion, dress, flirting, 
and coquetry, and all the other dear 
things which he knows I doat upon, that, 
I protest, his conversation made me as 
melancholy as if I had been at church; 
and heaven knows, though I never prayed 
to go there but on one occasion, yet I 
would have exchanged his conversation 
for a psalm and a sermon. Church is 
rather melancholy, to be sure; but then 
I can ogle the beaux, and be regaled 
with "here endeth the first lesson"; but 
his brotherly here, you would think had 
no end.> You captivate him! Why, my 
dear, he would as soon fall in love with 
a box of Italian flowers. There is Maria 
now, if she were not engaged, she might 
do something. — Oh! how I should like 
to see tliat pair of pensorosos together, 
looking as grave as two sailors' wives of 
a stormy night, with a flow of sentiment 
meandering through their conversation 
like purling streams in modern poetry. 

Letitia. Oh! my dear fanciful — 

Charlotte. Hush ! I hear some person 
coming through the entry. 

{Enter Servant.) 

Servant. Madam, there 's a gentleman be- 
low who calls himself Colonel JManly; do 
you chuse to be at home? 

Charlotte. Shew him in. {Exit Serv- 
ant.) Now for a sober face. 

{Enter Colonel Manly.) 

Manly. My dear Charlotte, I am happy 
that I once more enfold you within the 



arms of fraternal affection. I know you 
are going' to ask (amiable impatience!) 
how our parents do, — the venerable pair 
transmit you their blessing by me — they 
totter on the verge of a well-spent life, 
and wish only to see their children set- 
tled in the world, to depart in peace. 

Charlotte. I am very happy to hear that 
they are well. {Coolly.) Brother, wiU 
you give me leave to introduce you to our 
uncle's ward, one of my most intimate 
friends. 

Manly. {Saluting Letitia.) I ought to 
regard your friends as my own. 

Charlotte. Come, Letitia, do give us a 
little dash of your vivacity; my brother 
is so sentimental, and so grave, that I 
protest he '11 give us the vapours. 

Manly. Though sentiment and gravity, I 
know, are banished the polite world, yet, 
I hoped, they might find some counte- 
nance in the meeting of sucii near con- 
nections as brother and sister. 

Charlotte. Positively, brother, if you go 
one step further in this strain, you will 
set me crying, and that, you know, would 
spoil my eyes; and then I should never 
get the husband which our good papa 
and mamma have so kindly wished me — 
never be established in the world. 

Manly. Forgive me, my sister — I am no 
enemy to mirth; I love your sprightli- 
ness; and I hope it will one day enliven 
the hours of some worthy man; but when 
I mention the respectable authors of my 
existence, — the cherishers and protectors 
of my helpless infancy, whose hearts 
glow with such fondness and attachment, 
that they would willingly lay down their 
lives for my welfare, you will excuse me, 
if I am so unfashionable as to speak of 
tliem with some degree of respect and 
reverence. 

Charlotte. "Well, well, brother; if you 
won't be gay, we '11 not differ ; I will be 
as grave as you wish. {Affects gravity.) 
And so, brother, j^ou have come to the 
city to exchange some of your commuta- 
tion notes for a little pleasure. 

Manly. Indeed, you are mistaken; my 
errand is not of amusement, but business ; 
and as I neither drink nor game, my ex- 
pences will be so trivial, I shall have no 
occasion to sell my notes. 

Charlotte. Then you won't have occa- 
sion to do a very good thing. Why, 
there was the Vermont General — he came 
down some time since, sold all his musty 
notes at one stroke, and then laid the 



58 



THE CONTRAST 



cash out in trinkets for bis dear Fanny. 
I want a dozen pretty things myself; 
have you got the notes with you? 

Manly. I shall be ever willing to eon- 
tribute as far as it is in my power, to 
adorn, or in any way to please my sister; 
yet, I hope, I shall never be obliged for 
this, to sell my notes. I may be roman- 
tic, but I preserv^e them as a sacred de- 
posit. Their full amount is justly due 
to me, but as embarrassments, the natu- 
ral consequences of a long war, disable 
my country from supporting its credit, 
I shall wait with patience until it is rich 
enough to discharge them. If that is not 
in my day, they shall be transmitted as 
an honourable certificate to posterity, 
that I have humbly imitated our illus- 
trious Washington, in having exposed 
my health and life in the service of my 
country, without reaping any other re- 
ward than the glory of conquering in 
so arduous a contest. 

Charlotte. Well said heroics. Why, my 
dear Henry, you have such a lofty way of 
saj^ing things, that I protest I almost 
tremble at the thought of introducing 
you to the polite circles in the city. The 
belles would think you were a player 
run mad, with your head filled with old 
scraps of tragedy: and, as to the beaux, 
they might admire, because they would 
not understand you. — But, however, I 
must, I believe, venture to introduce you 
to two or three ladies of my acquaint- 
ance. 

Letitia. And that will make him ac- 
quainted with thirty or forty beaux. 

Charlotte. Oh! brother, you don't know 
what a fund of happiness you have in 
store. 

Manly. I fear, sister, I have not refine- 
ment sufficient to enjoy it. 

Charlotte. Oh! you cannot fail being 
pleased. 

Letitia. Our ladies are so delicate and 
dressy. 

Charlotte. And our beaux so dressy and 
delicate. 

Letitia. Our ladies chat and flirt so agree- 
ably. 

Charlotte. And our beaux simper and 
bow so gracefully. 

Letitia. With their hair so trim and 
neat. 

Charlotte. And their faces so soft and 
sleek. 

Letitia. Their buckles so tonish and 
bright. 



Charlotte. And their hands so slender 
and white. 

Letitia. I vow, Charlotte, we are quite 
poetical. 

Charlotte. And then, brother, the faces 
of the beaux are of such a lily white hue 1 
None of that horrid robustness of con- 
stitution, that vulgar corn-fed glow of 
health, which can only serve to alarm 
an unmarried lady with apprehensions, 
and prove a melancholy memento to a 
married one, that she can never hope for 
the happiness of being a widow. I will 
say this to the credit of our city beaux, 
that such is the delicacj'- of their com- 
plexion, dress, and address, that, even 
had I no reliance upon the honour of the 
dear Adonises, I would trust myself in 
any possible situation with them, without 
the least apprehensions of rudeness. 

Manly. Sister Charlotte! 

Charlotte. Now, now, now brother {in- 
terrupting him), now don't go to spoil 
my mirth with a dash of your gravity;, 
I am so glad to see you, I am in tip-top 
spirits. Oh! that you could be with us 
at a little snug party. There is Billy 
Simper, Jack C basse, and Colonel Van 
Titter, Miss Promonade, and the two 
Miss Tambours, sometimes make a party, 
with some other ladies, in a side-box at 
the play. Everything is conducted with 
such decorum, — first we bow round to the 
company in general, then to each one in 
particular, then we have so many in- 
quiries after each other's health, and we 
are so happy to meet each other, and it is 
so many ages since we last had that 
pleasure, <and, if a married lady is in 
company, we have such a sweet disserta- 
tion upon her son Bobby's chin-cough> 
then the curtain rises, then our sensibil- 
ity is all awake, and then by the mere 
force of apprehension, we torture some 
harmless expression into a double mean- 
ing, which the poor author never dreamt 
of, and then we have recourse to our fans, 
and then we blush, and then the gentle- 
men jog one another, peep under the fan, 
and make the prettiest remarks; and 
then we giggle and they simper, and they 
giggle and we simper, and then the cur- 
tain drops, and then for nuts and 
oranges, and then we bow, and it 's pray 
Ma'am take it, and pray Sir keep it, and 
oh ! not for the world, Sir : and then the 
curtain rises again, and then we blush, 
and giggle, and simper, and bow, all over 
again. Oh! the sentimental charms of a 



ROYALL TYLER 



59 



side-box conversation! {All laugh.) 

Manly. Well, sister, I join heartily with 
you in the laugh ; for, in my opinion, it is 
as justifiable to laugh at folly, as it is 
reprehensible to ridicule misfortune. 

Charlotte. Well, but brother, positively, 
I can't introduce you in these clothes: 
why, your coat looks as if it were calcu- 
lated for the vulgar purpose of keeping 
yourself comfortable. 

Manly. This coat was my regimental coat 
in the late war. The public tumults of 
our state have induced me to buckle on 
the sword in support of that government 
which I once fought to establish. I can 
only say, sister, that there was a time 
when this coat was respectable, and some 
people even thought that those men who 
had endured so many winter campaigns 
in the service of their country, without 
bread, clothing, or pay, at least deserved 
that the poverty of their appearance 
should not be ridiculed. 

Charlotte. We agree in opinion entirely, 
brother, though it would not have done 
for me to have said it: it is the coat 
makes the man respectable. In the time 
of the war, when we were almost fright- 
ened to death, why, your coat was re- 
spectable, that is, fashionable; now an- 
other kind of coat is fashionable, that is, 
respectable. And pray direct the taylor 
to make yours the height of the fashion. 

Manly. Though it is of little consequence 
to me of what shape my coat is, yet, as 
to the height of the fashion, there you 
will please to excuse me, sister. You 
know my sentiments on that subject. I 
have often lamented the advantage which 
the French have over us in that particu- 
lar. In Paris, the fashions have their 
dawnings, their routine and declensions, 
and depend as much upon the caprice of 
the day as in other countries; but there 
every lady assumes a right to deviate 
from the general ton, as far as will be of 
advantage to her own appearance. In 
America, the cry is, what is the fashion? 
and we follow it, indiscriminately, be- 
cause it is so. 

Charlotte. Therefore it is, that when 
large hoops are in fashion, we often see 
many a plump girl lost in the immensity 
of a hoop petticoat, whose want of height 
and em-bon-point would never have been 
remarked in any other dress. When the 
high head-dress is the mode, how then do 
we see a lofty cushion, with a profusion 
of gauze, feathers, and ribband, sup- 



ported by a face no bigger than an apple; 
whilst a broad full-faced lady, who really 
would have appeared tolerably handsome 
in a large head-dress, looks with her 
smart chapeau as masculine as a soldier. 

Manly. But remember, my dear sister, 
and I wish all my fair country-women 
would recollect, that the only excuse a 
young lady can have for going extrava- 
gantly into a fashion, is, because it makes 
her look extravagantly handsome. — 
Ladies, I must wish you a good morning. 

Charlotte. But, brother, you are going 
to make home with us. 

Manly. Indeed, I cannot. I have seen 
my uncle, and explained that matter. 

Charlotte. Come and dine with us, then. 
We have a family dinner about half past 
four o'clock. 

Manly. I am engaged to dine with the 
Spanish ambassador. I was introduced 
to him by an old brother officer; and in- 
stead of freezing me with a cold card of 
compliment to dine with him ten days 
hence, he, with the true old Castilian 
frankness, in a friendly manner, asked 
me to dine with him to-day — an honour 
I could not refuse. Sister, adieu — 
Madam, your most obedient — {Exit.) 

Charlotte. I will wait upon you to the 
door, brother; I have something particu- 
lar to say to you. {Exit.) 

Letitia {alone). What a pair! — She the 
pink of flirtation, he the essence of every- 
thing that is outre and gloomy. — I 
think I have completely deceived Char- 
lotte by my manner of speaking of Mr. 
Dimple ; she 's too much the friend of 
Maria to be confided in. He is certainly 
rendering himself disagreeable to Maria, 
in order to break with her and proffer his 
hand to me. This is what the delicate 
fellow hinted in our last conversation. 

{Exit.) 



Scene 2. The Mall. 

{Enter Jessamy.) 

Positively this Mall is a very pretty 
place. I hope the city won't ruin it by 
repairs. To be sure, it won't do to speak 
of in the same day with Ranelagh or 
Vauxhall ; however, it 's a fine place for 
a young fellow to display his person to 
advantage. Indeed, nothing is lost here; 
the girls have taste, and I am very happy 
to find they have adopted the elegant 



60 



THE CONTRAST 



London fashion of looking back, after a 
genteel fellow like me has passed them. 
Ah! who comes here? This, by his auk- 
wardness, must be the Yankee colonel's 
servant. I '11 accost him. 

{Enter Jonathan.) 

Votre tres — humble serviteur. Mon- 
sieur. I understand Colonel Manly, the 
Yankee officer, has the honour of your 
services. 

Jonathan. Sir ! — ' 

Jessamy. I say, Sir, I understand that 
Colonel Manly has the honour of having 
you for a servant. 

Jonathan. Servant! Sir, do you take 
me for a neger, — I am Colonel Manly's 
waiter. 

Jessamy. A true Yankee distinction, egad, 
without a difference. Wh}^, Sir, do you 
not perform all the offices of a servant? 
Do 3^ou not even blacken his boots? 

Jonathan. Yes; I do grease them a bit 
sometimes; but I am a true blue son of 
liberty, for all that. Father said I 
should come as Colonel Manly's waiter to 
see the world, and all that; but no man 
shall master me : my father has as good a 
farm as the colonel. 

Jessamy. Well, Sir, we will not quarrel 
about terms upon the eve of an acquaint- 
ance, from which I promise myself so 
much satisfaction, — therefore sans cere- 
monie — 

Jonathan. What ? — 

Jessamy. I say, I am extremely happy to 
see Colonel Manly's waiter. 

Jonathan. Well, and I vow, too, I am 
pretty considerably glad to see you — but 
what the dogs need of all this outlandish 
lingo? Who may you be, Sir, if I may 
be so bold? 

Jessamy. I have the honour to be Mr. 
Dimple's servant, or, if you please, 
waiter. We lodge under the same roof, 
and should be glad of the honour of your 
acquaintance. 

Jonathan. You a waiter! By the living 
jingo, you look so topping, I took you 
for one of the agents to Congress. 

Jessamy. The brute has discernment not- 
withstanding his appearance. — Give me 
leave to say I wonder then at your fa- 
miliarity. 

Jonathan. Why, as to the matter of that, 
Mr. — pray, what's your name? 

Jessamy. Jessamy, at your service. 

Jonathan. Why, I swear we don't make 
any great matter of distinction in our 



state, between quality and other folks. 

Jessamy. This is, indeed, a levelling prin- 
ciple. I hope, Mr. Jonathan, you have 
not taken part with the insurgents. 

Jonathan. Why, since General Shays has 
sneaked off, and given us the bag to 
hold, I don't care to give my opinion ; but 
you '11 promise not to tell — put your ear 
this way — you won't tell? — I vow, I 
did think the sturgeons were right, 

Jessamy. I thought, Mr. Jonathan, you 
Massachusetts men always argued with a 
gun in your hand. — Why didn't you 
join them? 

Jonathan. Why, the colonel is one of 
those folks called the Shin — shin — dang 
it all, I can't speak them lignum vitse 
words — you know who I mean — there is 
a company of them — they wear a China 
goose at their button-hole — a kind of gilt 
thing. — Now the colonel told father 
and brother, — you must know there are, 
let me see — there is Elnathan, Silas, and 
Barnabas, Tabitha — no, no, she 's a she- 
tarnation, now I have it — there 's Elna- 
than, Silas, Barnabas, Jonathan, that 's I 
— seven of us, six went into the wars, and 
I staid at home to take care of mother. 
Colonel said that it was a burning shame 
for the true blue Bunker-hill sons of lib- 
erty, w^ho had fought Governor Hutchin- 
son, Lord North, and the Devil, to have 
any hand in kicking up a cursed dust 
against a government, which we had every 
mother's son of us a hand in making. 

Jessamy. Bravo ! — Well, have you been 
abroad in the city since your arrival? 
What have you seen that is curious and 
entertaining ? 

Jonathan. Oh! I have seen a power of 
fine sights. I went to see two marblcr^ 
stone men and a leaden horse, that stands 
out in doors in all weathers; and when 
I came where they was, one had got no 
head, and t' other wer 'nt there. They 
said as how the leaden man was a damn'd 
tory, and that he took wit in his anger 
and rode off in the time of the troubles. 

Jessamy. But this was not the end of 
your excursion. 

Jonathan. Oh, no; I went to a place they 
call Holy Ground. Now I counted this 
was a place where folks go to meeting; 
so I put my hymn-book in my pocket, 
and walked softly and grave as a min- 
ister; and when I came there, the dogs a 
bit of a meeting-house could I see. At 
last I spied a young gentlewoman stand- 
ing by one of the seats^ which they have 



ROYALL TYLER 



61 



here at the doors — I took her to be the 
deacon's daughter, and she looked so 
kind, and so obhging, that I thought I 
would go and ask her the way to lecture, 
and would you think it — she called me 
dear, and sweeting, and honey, just as if 
we Avere married; by the living jingo, I 
had a month's mind to buss her. 

Jessamy. Well, but how did it end? 

Jonathan. Why, as I was standing talk- 
ing with her, a parcel of sailor men- and 
boys got round me, the snarl headed curs 
fell a-kicking and cursing of me at such 
a tarnal rate, that, I vow, I was glad to 
take to my heels and split home, right off, 
tail on end like a stream of chalk. 

jESSAiiY. Why, my dear friend, you are 
not acquainted with the city; that girl 
you saw was a. — {Whispers.) 

Jonathan. Mercy on my soul! was that 
young woman a harlot! — Well, if this 
is New York Holy Ground, what must 
the Holy-day Ground be ! 

jESSA^iY. Well, you should not judge of 
the city too rashly. We have a number 
of elegant fine girls here, that make a 
man's leisure hours pass very agreeably. 
I would esteem it an honour to announce 
you to some of them. — Gad! that an- 
nounce is a select word; I wonder where 
I picked it up. 

Jonathan. I don't want to know them. 

Jessamy. Come, come, my dear friend, I 
see that I must assume the honour of 
being the director of your amusements. 
Nature has give us passions, and youth 
and opportunity stimulate to gratify 
them. It is no shame, my dear Blueskin, 
for a man to amuse himself with a little 
gallantry. 

Jonathan. Girl huntry! I don't alto- 
gether understand. I never played at 
that game. I know how to play hunt the 
squirrel, but I can't play anything with 
the girls ; I am as good as married. 

Jessamy. Vulgar, horrid brute! Mar- 
ried, and above a hundred miles from his 
wife, and think that an objection to his 
making love to every woman he meets! 
He never can have read, no, he never 
can have been in a room with a volume of 
the divine Chesterfield. — So you are 
married ? 

Jonathan. No, I don't say so; I said I 
w^as as good as married, a kind of prom- 
ise. 

Jessamy. As good f^ married! — 

Jonathan. Why, yes ; there 's Tabitha 
Wymen, the deacon's daughter, at home. 



she and I have been courting a great 
while, and folks say as how we are to be 
married ; and so I broke a piece of money 
with her when we parted, and she prom- 
ised not to spark it with Solomon Dyer 
while I am gone. You would n't have 
me false to my true love, would you? 

Jessamy. May be you have another reason 
for constancy; possibly the young lady 
has a fortune? Ha! Mr. Jonathan, the 
solid charms ; the chains of love are never 
so binding as when the links are made of 
gold. 

Jonathan. Why, as to fortune, I must 
needs say her father is pretty dumb rich ; 
he went representative for our town last 
year. He will give her — let me see — four 
times seven is — seven times four — nought 
and carry one; — he will give her twenty 
acres of land — somewhat rocky though — 
a bible, and a cow. 

Jessamy. Twenty acres of rock, a bible, 
and a cow! Why, my dear Mr. Jona- 
than, we have servant maids, or, as you 
would more elegantly express it, wait- 
'resses, in this city, who collect more in 
one year from their mistresses' east 
clothes. 

Jonathan. You don't say so! — 

Jessamy. Yes, and I '11 introduce you to 
one of them. There is a little lump of 
flesh and delicacy that lives at next door, 
wait'ress to Miss Maria ; we often see her 
on the stoop. 

Jonathan. But are you sure she would 
be courted by me? 

Jessamy. Never doubt it; remember a 
faint heart never — blisters of my tongue 
— I was going to be guilty of a vile 
proverb; flat against the authority of 
Chesterfield. — I say there can be no 
doubt, that the brilliancy of your merit 
will secure you a favourable reception. 

Jonathan. Well, but what must I say to 
her? 

Jessamy. Say to her! whj^, my dear 
friend, though I admire your profound 
knowledge on every other subject, yet, 
you will pardon my saying, that your 
want of opportunity^ has made the female 
heart escape the poignancy of your pene- 
tration. Say to her! — Why, when a 
man goes a-courting, and hopes for suc- 
cess, he must begin with doing, and not 
snying. 

Jonathan. Well, what must I do? 

Jessamy. Why, when you are introduced 
you must make five or six elegant 
bows. 



62 



THE CONTRAST 



Jonathan. Six elegant bows! I under- 
stand that; six, you say? Well — 

Jessamy. Then you must press and kiss 
her hand; then press and kiss, and so on 
to her hps and cheeks; then talk as much 
as you can about hearts, darts, flames, 
nectar and ambrosia — the more inco- 
herent the better. 

Jonathan. Well, but suppose she should 
be angry with I? 

Jessamy. Why, if she should pretend — 
please to observe, Mr. Jonathan — if she 
should pretend to be offended, you must — 
But I '11 tell you how my master acted in 
such a case: He was seated by a young 
lady of eighteen upon a soplia, plucking 
with a wanton hand the blooming sweets 
of youth and beaut3\ When the lady 
thought it necessary to check his ardour, 
she called up a frown upon her lovely 
face, so irresistably alluring, that it 
would have warmed the frozen bosom of 
age : remember, said she, putting her deli- 
cate arm upon his, remember 3'our char- 
acter and my honour. My master in- 
stantly dropped upon his knees, with eyes 
swimming with love, cheeks glowing with 
desire, and in the gentlest modulation of 
voice, he said — My dear Caroline, in a 
few months our hands will be indissolubly 
united at the altar; our hearts I feel are 
already so — the favours you now grant 
as evidence of your affection, are favours 
indeed; yet when the ceremony is once 
past, what will now be received with rap- 
ture, will then be attributed to duty. 

Jonathan. Well, and what was the conse- 
quence ? 

Jessamy. The consequence!— Ah! for- 
give me, my dear friend, but you New- 
England gentlemen have such a laudable 
curiosity of seeing the bottom of every 
thing; — why, to be honest, I confess I 
saw the blooming cherub of a conse- 
quence smiling in its angelic mother's 
arms, about ten months afterwards. 

Jonathan. Well, if I follow all your 
plans, make them six bows, and all that; 
shall I have such little cherubim conse- 
quences ? 

Jessamy. Undoubtedly. — What are you 
musing upon? 

Jonathan. You say you '11 certainly make 
me acquainted? — Why, I was thinking 
then how I should contrive to pass this 
broken piece of silver — won't it buy a 
sugar-dram ? 

Jessamy. Wliat is that, the love-token 
from the deacon's daughter? — You 



come on bravely. But I must hasten to 
my master. Adieu, my dear friend. 

Jonathan. Stay, Mr. Jessamy — must I 
buss her when I am introduced to her? 

Jessamy. I told you, you must kiss her. 

Jonathan. Well, but must I buss her? 

Jessamy. Why, kiss and buss, and buss 
and kiss, is all one. 

Jonathan. Oh! my dear friend, though 
you have a profound knowledge of all, a 
puguancy ^ of tribulation, you don't 
know everything. {Exit.) 

Jessamy (alone). Well, certainly I im- 
prove; my master could not have insinu- 
ated himself with more address into the 
heart of a man he despised. — Now will 
this blundering dog sicken Jenny with 
his nauseous pawings, until she flies into 
my arms for very ease. How sweet will 
the contrast be, between the blundering 
Jonathan, and the courtly and accom- 
plished Jessamy! 

end of the second act. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene 1. Dimple's Room. 

Dimple discovered at a Toilet, Reading. 

"Women have in general but one ob- 
ject, which is their beauty." Very true, 
my lord; positively very true. ''Nature 
has hardly formed a woman ugly enough 
to be insensible to flattery upon her per- 
son." Extremely just, my lord; every 
day's delightful experience confirms this. 
"If her face is so shocking, that she must, 
in some degree, be conscious of it, her 
figure and air, she thinks, make ample 
amends for it." The sallow Miss Wan 
is a proof of this. — Upon my telling 
the distasteful wretch, the other day, that 
her countenance spoke the pensive lan- 
guage of sentiment, and that Lady Wort- 
ley Montague declared, that if the ladies 
were arrayed in the garb of innocence, 
the face would be the last part which 
would be admired as Monsieur Milton 
expresses it, she grin'd horribly a ghastly 
smile. "If her figure is deformed, she 
thinks her face counterbalances it." 

(Enter Jessamy with letters.) 

1 There is an obsolete word "pugnancy" meaning 
"opposition" but this is probably an attempt to imi- 
tate Jessamy's "poignancy." See p. 61. 



ROYALL TYLER 



63 



Dimple. Where got you these, Jessamy'? 
Jessamy. Sir, the English packet is ar- 
rived. 

(Dimple opens and reads a letter en- 
closing notes.) 

"Sir, 

"I have drawn bills on you in favour 
of Messrs. Van Cash and Co. as per mar- 
gin. I have taken up your note to Col. 
Piquet, and discharged your debts to my 
Lord Lurcher and Sir Harry Rook. I 
herewith enclose you copies of the bills, 
which I have no doubt will be immedi- 
ately honoured. On failure, I shall em- 
power some lawyer in your country to 
recover the amounts. 

"I am, Sir, 

"Your most humble servant, 
"John Hazard." 

Now, did not my lord expressly say, 
that it was unbecoming a well-bred man 
to be in a passion, I confess I should be 
ruffled. (Reads.) "There is no accident 
so unfortunate, which a wise man may 
not turn to his advantage; nor any acci- 
dent so fortunate, which a fool will not 
turn to his disadvantage." True, my 
lord: but how advantage can be derived 
from this, I can't see. Chesterfield him- 
self, who made, however, the worst prac- 
tice of the most excellent precepts, was 
never in so embarrassing a situation. I 
love the person of Charlotte, and it is 
necessary I should command the fortune 
of Letitia. As to Maria! — I doubt not 
by my sang-froid behavior I shall com- 
pel her to decline the match; but the 
blame must not fall upon me. A pru- 
dent man, as my lord says, should take 
all the credit of a good action to himself, 
and throw the discredit of a bad one upon 
others. I must break with Maria, marry 
Letitia, and as for Charlotte — why, Char- 
lotte must be a companion to my wife. — 
Here, Jessamy! 

[Enter Jessamy.) 

(Dimple folds and seals two letters.) 

Dimple. Here, Jessamy, take this letter 
to my love. (Gives one.) 

Jessamy. To which of your honour's 
loves? — Oh! (reading) to Miss Letitia, 
your honour's rich love. 

Dimple. And this (delivers another) to 
Miss Charlotte Manly. See that you de- 
liver them privately. 

Jessamy. Yes, your honour. (Going.) 



Dimple. Jessamy, who are these strange 
lodgers that came to the house last night 1 

Jessamy. Why, the master is a Yankee 
colonel; I have not seen much of him; 
but the man is the most unpolished ani- 
mal your honour ever disgraced your eyes 
by looking upon. I have had one of the 
most outre conversations with him! — 
He really has a most prodigious effect 
upon my risibility. 

Dimple. I ought, according to every rule 
of Chesterfield, to wait on him and in- 
sinuate myself into his good graces. — 
Jessamy, wait on the colonel with my 
compliments, and if he is disengaged, I 
will do myself the honour of paying him 
my respects. — Some ignorant unpol- 
ished boor — 

(Jessamy goes off and returns.) 

Jessamy. Sir, the colonel is gone out, and 
Jonathan, his servant, says that he is 
gone to stretch his legs upon the Mall — 
Stretch his legs! what an indelicacy of 
diction ! 

Dimple. Very well. Reach me my hat 
and sword. I '11 accost him there, in my 
way to Letitia's, as by accident; pretend 
to be struck with his person and address, 
and endeavour to steal into his confidence. 
Jessamy, I have no business for you at 
present. (Exit.) 

Jessamy. (Taking up the hook.) My 
master and I obtain our knowledge from 
the same source; — though, gad! I think 
myself much the prettier fellow of the 
two. (Surveying himself in the glass.) 
That w^as a brilliant thought, to insinu- 
ate that I folded my master's letters for 
him; the folding is so neat, that it does 
honour to the operator. I once intended 
to have insinuated that I WT:'ote his let- 
ters too ; but that w^as before I saw them ; 
it won't do now; no honour there, posi- 
tively. — "ISTothing looks more vulgar 
(reading affectedly), ordinary, and illib- 
eral, than ugly, uneven, and ragged nails ; 
the ends of which should be kept even 
and clean, not tipped with black, and 
cut in small segments of circles" — Seg- 
ments of circles! surely my lord did not 
consider that he wrote for the beaux. 
Segments of circles! what a crabbed 
term ! Now I dare answer, that my mas- 
ter, with all his learning, does not know 
that this means, according to the present 
mode, to let the nails grow long, and then 
cut them off even at top. (Laughing 
without.) Ha! that's Jenny's titter. I 
protest I despair of ever teaching that 



CA 



THE CONTRAST 



girl to laugh; she has something so 
execrably natural in her laugh, that I 
declare it absolutely discomposes my 
nerves. How came she into our house ! — 
(Calls.) Jenny! 

(Enter Jenny.) 

Jessamy. Prythee, Jenny, don't spoil your 
fine face with laughing. 

Jenny. Why, mustn't I laugh, Mr. Jes- 
sani}^ ? 

Jessamy. You may smile; but, as my lord 
says, nothing can authorise a laugh. 

Jenny. Well, but I can't help laughing — 
Have you seen him, Mr. Jessamy? Ha, 
ha, ha! 

Jessamy. Seen whom? — 

Jenxy. Why, Jonathan, the New-England 
colonel's servant. Do you know he was 
at the play last night, and the stupid 
creature don't know where he has been. 
He would not go to a play for the world ; 
he thinks it was a show, as he calls it. 

Jessamy. As ignorant and unpolished as 
he is, do you know, Miss Jenny, that I 
propose to introduce him to the honour 
of your acquaintance. 

Jenny. Introduce him to me! for what? 

Jessamy. Why, my lovely girl, that you 
may take him under your protection, as 
Madam Ramboulliet did young Stan- 
hope; that you may, by your plastic 
hand, mould this uncouth cub into a gen- 
tleman. He is to make love to you. 

Jenny. Make love to me! — 

Jessamy. Yes, Mistress Jenny, make love 
to you; and, I doubt not, when he shall 
become domesticated in your kitchen, 
that this boor, under your auspices, will 
soon become un aimahJe petit Jonathan. 

Jenny. I must say, Mr. Jessamy, if he 
copies after me, he will be vastly mon- 
strously polite. 

Jessamy. Stay here one moment, and I. 
will call him. — Jonathan! — Mr. Jona- 
than!— (Calls.) 

Jonathan. (Within.) Holla! there. — 
(Enters.) You promise to stand by me 
— six bows you say. (Bows.) 

Jessamy. Mrs. Jenny, I have the honour 
of presenting Mr. Jonathan, Colonel 
Manly's waiter, to you. I am extremely 
happy that I have it in my power to 
make two worthy people acquainted with 
each other's merit. 

Jenny. So, Mr. Jonathan, I hear you 
were at the phay last niglit. 

Jonathan. At the play! why, did you 



think I went to the devil's drawing- 
room ! 

Jenny. The devil's drawing'-room ! 

Jonathan. Yes; why an't cards and dice 
the devil's device ; and tiie play-house the 
shop where the devil hangs out tlie vani- 
ties of the w^orld, upon the tenterhooks 
of temptation. I believe you have not 
heard how they WTre acting the old boy 
one night, and the wicked one came 
among them sure enough ; and went right 
oft' in a storm, and carried one quarter 
of the play-liouse with him. Oh ! no, no, 
no! you won't catch me at a play-house, 
I warrant you. 

Jenny. Well, Mr. Jonathan, though I 
don't scruple your veracity, I have some 
reasons for believing you were there; 
pray, where were you about six o'clock? 

Jonathan. Why, I went to see one Mr. 
Morrison, the hocus pocus man ; they 
said as how he could eat a case knife. 

Jenny. Well, and how did you find the 
place? 

Jonathan. As I was going about here 
and there, to and again, to find it, I saw 
a great croud of folks going into a long 
entry, that had lantherns over the door; 
so I asked a man, whether that was not 
the place where they played hocus pocus f 
He was a very civil kind man, though he 
did speak like the Hessians; he lifted up 
his eyes and said — "they play hocus 
pocus tricks enough there. Got knows, 
mine friend." 

Jenny. Well — 

Jonathan. So I w^ent right in, and they 
shewed me away clean up to the garret, 
just like a meeting-house gallery. And 
so I saw a power of topping folks, all 
sitting round in little cabbins, <just like 
father's corn-cribs ;> — and then there 
was such a squeaking with the fiddles, 
and such a tamal blaze with the lights, 
my liead was near turned. At last the 
people that sat near me set up such a 
hissing — hiss — like so many mad cats; 
and then they went thump, thump, 
thump, just like our Peleg threshing 
wheat, and stampt away, just like the 
nation; and called out for one Mr. 
Langolee, — I suppose he helps act<s> 
the tricks. 

Jenny. Well, and what did you do all 
tliis time? 

Jonathan. Gor, I — I liked tlie fun, and 
so I thumpt away, and liiss'd as lustily 
ns the best of 'em. One saik)r-looking 
man that sat by me, seeing me stamp, and 



ROYALL TYLER 



65 



knowing I was a eutc fellow, because I 
could make a roaring noise, clapt me on 

the shoulder and said, you are a d d 

hearty cock, smite my timbers ! I told 
him so I was, but I thought he need not 
swear so, and make use of such naughty 
words. 

jESSAiiY. The savage ! — Well, and did you 
see the man with his triclis? 

JONATiiAX. Why, I vow^, as I was looking 
out for him, they lifted up a great green 
cloth, and let us look right into the next 
neighbour's house. Have you a good 
many houses in New York made so in 
that 'ere w^ay? 

Jenxy. Not many: but did you see the 
family ? 

JoNATHAisr. Yes, swamp it; I see'd the 
family. 

Jexxy. Well, and how did you like them? 

Jonathan. Why, I vow they were pretty 
much like other families; — there was a 
poor, good natured, curse of a husband, 
and a sad rantipole of a wife. 

Jenny. But did you see no other folks? 

Jonathan. Yes. There w^as one young- 
ster, they called him Mr. Joseph; he 
talked as sober and as pious as a min- 
ister; but like some ministers that I 
know, he was a fly tike in his heart for 
all that: He was going to ask a young 
w^oman to spark it with him, and — the 
Lord have merc^^ on my soul! — she was 
another man's wife. 

Jessa^iy. The Wabash! 

Jenny. And did you see any more folks? 

Jonathan. Why they came on as thick 
as mustard. For my part, I thought the 
house was haunted. There was a soldier 
fellow, who talked about his row de dow 
dow, and courted a young woman: but 
of all the cute folk I saw^, I liked one 
little fellow— 

Jenny. Aye! who was he? 

Jonathan. Why, he had red hair, and a 
little round plump face like mine, only 
not altogether so handsome. His name 
was Darby: — that was his baptizing 
name, his other name I forgot. Oh! 
it was, Wig — Wag — Wag-all, Darby 
Wag-all; — pray, do you know" him? — I 
should like to take a sling with him, 
or a drap of cyder with a pepper-pod 
in it, to make it warm and comfort- 
able. 

Jenny. I can't say I have that pleasure. 

Jonathan. I wish you did, he is a cute 
fellow. But there was one thing I 
didn't like in that Mr. Darby; and that 



was, he was afraid of some of them 'ere 
shooting irons, such as your troopers 
wear on training days. Now, I 'm a true 
born Yankee American son of liberty, 
and I never was afraid of a gun yet in 
all my life. 

Jenny. Well, Mr. Jonathan, you were 
certainly at the play-house. 

Jonathan. I at the play-house! — Why 
didn't I see the play then? 

Jenny. Why, the people you saw were 
players. 

Jonathan. Mercy on my soul! did I see 
the wicked players? — Mayhap that 'ere 
Darby that I liked so, was the old ser- 
pent himself, and had his cloven foot in 
his pocket. Why, I vow, now I come to 
think on 't, the candles seemed to burn 
blue, and I am sure where I sat it smelt 
tarnally of brimstone. 

Jessamy. Well, Mr. Jonathan, from your 
account, which I confess is very accu- 
rate, you must have been at the play- 
house. 

Jonathan. Why, I vow I began to smell 
a rat. When I came away, I went to 
the man for my money again: you want 
your money, says he; yes, says I; for 
what, says he; why, says I, no man shall 
jocky me out of my money; I paid my 
money to see sights, and the dogs a bit 
of a sight have I seen, unless you call 
listening to people's private business a 
sight. Why, says he, it is the School for 
Scandalization. — The School for Scan- 
dalization ! — Oh, ho ! no wonder you 
New York folks are so cute at it. when 
you go to school to learn it: and so I 
jogged off. 

Jessamy. My dear Jenny, my master's 
business drags me from you; would to 
heaven I knew no other servitude than 
to your charms. 

Jonathan. Well, but don't go; you won't 
leave me so. — 

Jessamy. Excuse me. — Remember the 
cash. {Aside to him, and — Exit.) 

Jenny. Mr. Jonathan, won't you please 
to sit down. Mr. Jessamy tells me you 
wanted to have some conversation with 
me. 

{Having brought forward two cliairs, 
they sit.) 

Jonathan. Ma'am ! — 

Jenny. Sir ! — 

Jonathan. Ma'am ! — 

Jenny. Pray, how do you like the city, 
Sir? 

JoNATHAir. Ma'am ! — 



66 



THE CONTRAST 



Jenny. I say, Sir, how do you like New 
York? 

Jonathan. Ma'am ! — 

Jenny. The stupid creature! but I must 
pass some little time with him, if it is 
only to endeavour to learn, whether it 
was his master that made such an abrupt 
entrance into our house, and my young 
mistress's heart, this morning. (Aside.) 
As you don't seem to like to talk, Mr. 
Jonathan — do you sing? 

Jonathan. Gor, I — I am glad she asked 
that, for I forgot what Mr. Jessamy bid 
me say, and I dare as well be hanged as 
act what he bid me do, I 'm so ashamed. 
(Aside.) Yes, Ma'am, I can sing — I 
can sing Mear, Old Hundred, and Ban- 
gor. 

Jenny. Oh! I don't mean psalm tunes. 
Have you no little song to please the 
ladies; such as Roslin Castle, or the 
Maid of the Mill? 

Jonathan. Why, all my tunes go to 
meeting tunes, save one, and I count you 
won't altogether like that 'ere. 

Jenny. What is it called? 

Jonathan. I am sure you have heard 
folks talk about it, it is called Yankee 
Doodle. 

Jenny. Oh! it is the tune I am fond of; 
and, if I know anything of my mistress, 
she would be glad to dance to it. Pray, 
sing ? 

Jonathan. ( Sings. ) 

Father and I went to camp, 

Along with Captain Goodwin; 

And there we saw the men and boys, 

As thick as hasty pudding. 

Yankee Doodle do, etc. 

And there we saw a swamping gun. 
Big as log of maple, 
On a little deuced cart, 
A load for father's cattle. 

Yankee Doodle do, etc. 

And every time they fired it off. 

It took a horn of powder, 

It made a noise — like father's gun. 

Only a nation louder. 

Yankee Doodle do, etc. 

There was a man in our town. 
His name was 

No, no, that won't do. Now, if I was 
with Tabitha Wymen and Jemima Caw- 
ley, down at father Chase's, I shouldn't 
mind singing this all out before them — 
you would be affronted if I was to sing 
that, though that's a lucky thought; if 



you should be affronted, I have some- 
thing dang'd cute, which Jessamy told 
me to say to you. 

Jenny. Is that all! I assure you I like 
it of all things. 

Jonathan. No, no; I can sing more, 
some other time, when you and I are bet- 
ter acquainted, I '11 sing the whole of it 
— no, no — that 's a fib — I can't sing but 
a hundred and ninety verses: our Ta- 
bitha at home can sing it all. — (Sings.) 

Marblehead 's a rocky place, 
And Cape-Cod is sandy; 
Charleston is burnt down, 
Boston is the dandy. 

Yankee Doodle do, etc. 

I vow, my own town song has put me 
into such topping spirits, that I believe 
I '11 begin to do a little, as Jessamy says 
we must when we go a courting — (Runs 
and kisses her.) Burning rivers! cool- 
ing flames! red hot roses! pig-nuts! 
hasty-pudding and ambrosia! 

Jenny. What means this freedom! you 
insulting wretch. (Strikes him.) 

Jonathan. Are you affronted? 

Jenny. Affronted! with what looks shall 
I express my anger? 

Jonathan. Looks! w4iy, as to the matter 
of looks, you look as cross as a witch. 

Jenny. Have you no feeling for the deli- 
cacy of my sex? 

Jonathan. Feeling! Gor, I — I feel the 
delicacy of your sex pretty smartly 
(ruhhing his cheek), though, I vow, I 
thought when you city ladies courted 
and married, and all that, you put feel- 
ing out of the question. But I want to 
know whether you are really affronted, 
or only pretend to be so? 'Cause, if 
you are certainly right down affronted," 
I am at the end of my tether; — Jessamy 
did n't tell me what to say to you. 

Jenny. Pretend to be affronted ! 

Jonathan. Aye, aye, if you only pretend, 
you shall hear how I '11 go to work to 
make, cherubim consequences. 

(Runs up to her.) 

Jenny. Begone, you brute! 

Jonathan. That looks like mad; but I 
won't lose my speech. My dearest 
Jenny — your name is Jenny, I think? 
My dearest Jenny, though I have the 
highest esteem for the sweet favours you 
have just now granted me — Gor, that 's 
a fib though, but Jessamy says it is not 
wicked to tell lies to the women, 
(Aside.) I say, though I have the high- 



ROYALL TYLER 



67 



est esteem for the favours you have just 
now granted me, yet, you will consider, 
that as soon as the dissolvable knot is 
tied, they will no longer be favours, but 
only matters of duty, and matters of 
course. 

Jenny. Marry you! you audacious mon- 
ster! get out of my sight, or rather let 
me fly from you. {Exit hastily.) 

Jonathan. Gor! she's gone off in a 
swinging passion, before I had time to 
think of consequences. If this is the 
way with your city ladies, give me the 
twenty acres of rock, the bible, the cow, 
and Tabitha, and a little peaceable 
bundling. 



Scene 2. The Mall. 

{Enter Manly.) 

It must be so, Montague ! and it is not 
all the tribe of Mandevilles shall con- 
vince me, that a nation, to become great, 
must first become dissipated. Luxury is 
surely the bane of a nation: Luxury! 
which enervates both soul and body, by 
opening a thousand new sources of en- 
joyment, opens, also, a thousand new 
sources of contention and want: Lux- 
ury! which renders a people weak at 
home, and accessible to bribery, corrup- 
tion, and force from abroad. When the 
Grecian states knew no other tools than 
the axe and the saw, the Grecians were 
a great, a free^ and a happy people. 
TJie kings of Greece devoted their lives 
to the service of their country, and her 
senators knew no other superiority over 
their fellow-citizens than a glorious pre- 
eminence in danger and virtue. They 
exhibited to the world a noble spectacle, 
— a number of independent states united 
by a similarity of language, sentiment, 
manners, common interest, and common 
consent, in one grand mutual league of 
protection. — And, thus united, long 
might they have continued the cherishers 
of arts and sciences, the protectors of 
the oppressed, the scourge of tyrants, 
and the safe asylum of liberty: But 
when foreign gold, and still more per- 
nicious, foreign luxury, had crept among 
them, they sapped the vitals of their 
virtue. The virtues of their ancestors 
.were only found in their writings. 
Envy and suspicion, the vices of little 
minds, possessed them. The various 



states engendered jealousies of each 
other; and, more unfortunately, growling 
jealous of" their great federal councih 
the Amphictyons, they forgot that their 
common safety had existed, and would 
exist, in giving them an honourable ex- 
tensive prerogative. The common good 
was lost in the pursuit of private inter- 
est; and that people, who, by uniting, 
might have stood against the world in 
arms, by dividing, crumbled into ruin; — 
their name is now only known in tlie 
page of the historian, and what they once 
were, is all we have left to admire. Oh! 
that America! Oh! that my country, 
would in this her day, learn the things 
which belong to her peace! 

{Enter Dimple.) 

Dimple. You are Colonel Manly, I pre- 
sume? 

Manly. At your service, Sir. 

Dimple. My name is Dimple, Sir. I 
have the honour to be a lodger in the 
same house with you, and hearing you 
were in the Mall, came hither to take the 
liberty of joining you. 

Manly. You are very obliging, Sir. 

Dimple. As I understand you are a 
stranger here, Sir, I have taken the lib- 
erty to introduce myself to your ac- 
quaintance, as possibly I may have it in 
my power to point out some things in 
this city worthy your notice. 

Manly. An attention to strangers is wor- 
thy a liberal mind, and must ever be 
gratefully received. But to a soldier, 
who has no fixed abode, such attentions 
are particularly pleasing. 

Dimple. Sir, there is no character so re- 
spectable as that of a soldier. And, in- 
deed, when we reflect how much we owe 
to those brave men who have suffered so 
much in the service of their country, and 
secured to us those inestimable blessings 
that we now enjoy, our liberty and inde- 
pendence, they demand every attention 
which gratitude can pay. For my own 
part, I never meet an officer, but I em- 
brace him as my friend, nor a private 
in distress, but I insensibly extend my 
charity to him. — I have hit the Bum[p]- 
kin off very tolerably. (Aside.) 

Manly. Give me your hand, Sir! I do 
not proffer this hand to everybody; but 
you steal into my heart. I hope I am 
as insensible to flattery as most men; 
but I declare (it may be my weak side), 
that I never hear the name of soldier 



68 



THE CONTRAST 



mentioned with respect, but I experience 
a thrill of pleasure, which I never feel 
on any otlier occasion. 

Dimple. Will you give me leave, my dear 
colonel, to confer an obligation on my- 
self, by shewing you some civilities dur- 
ing your stay here, and giving a similar 
opportunity to some of my friends? 

Manly. Sir, I thank you; but I believe 
my stay in this city will be very short. 

Dimple. I can introduce you to some men 
of excellent sense, in whose company 
you will esteem yourself liappy; and, by 
way of amusement, to some fine girls, 
who will listen to your soft things with 
pleasure. 

Manly. Sir, I should be proud of the 
honour of being acquainted with those 
gentlemen; — but, as for the ladies, I 
don't understand you. 

Di:mple. Why, Sir, I need not tell you, 
that when a young gentleman is alone 
with a young lady, he must say some 
soft things to her fair cheek — indeed 
the lady will expect it. To be sure, 
there is not much pleasure, when a man 
of the world and a finished coquet meet, 
who perfectly know each other; but how 
delicious is it to excite the emotions of 
joy, hope, expectation, and delight, in 
the bosom of a lovely girl, who believes 
every tittle of what you say to be serious. 

Manly. Serious, Sir! In my opinion, 
the man, who, under pretensions of mar- 
riage, can plant thorns in the bosom of 
an innocent, unsuspecting girl, is more 
detestable than a common robber, in the 
same proportion, as private violence is 
more despicable than open force, and 
money of less value than happiness. 

Dimple. How he awes me by the superi- 
ority of his sentiments. (Aside.) As 
you say, Sir, a gentleman should be cau- 
tious how he mentions marriage. 

Manly. Cautious, Sir ! <No person more 
approves of an intercourse between the 
sexes than I do. Female conversation 
softens our manners, whilst our dis- 
course, from the superiority of our lit- 
erary advantages, improves their minds. 
But, in our young country, where there 
is no such thing as gallantry, when a 
gentleman speaks of love to a lady, 
whether he mentions marriage, or not, 
she ought to conclude, either that he 
meant to insult her, or, that his inten- 
tions are the most serious and honour- 
able. > How mean, how cruel, is it, by 
a thousand tender assiduities, to win the 



affections of an amiable girl, and though 
you leave her virtue unspotted, to betray 
her into the appearance of so many ten- 
der partialities, that every man of deli- 
cacy would suppress his inclination to- 
wards her, by supposing her heart 
engaged! Can any man, for the trivial 
gratification of his leisure hours, affect 
the happiness of a whole life! His not 
having spoken of marriage, may add to 
his perfidy, but can be no excuse for his 
conduct. 

Dimple. Sir, I admire your sentiments; 
— they are mine. The light observations 
that fell from me, were only a principle 
of the tongue; they came not from the 
heart — my practice has ever disapproved 
these principles. 

Manly. I believe you. Sir. I should 
with reluctance suppose tJiat those per- 
nicious sentiments could find admittance 
into the heart of a gentleman. 

Dimple. I am now. Sir, going to visit a 
family, where, if you please, I will have 
the honour of introducing you. Mr. 
Manly's ward. Miss Letitia, is a young 
lady of immense fortune; and his niece, 
Miss Charlotte Manly, is a young lady 
of great sprightliness and beauty. 

Manly. That gentleman, Sir, is my uncle, 
and Miss Manly my sister. 

Dimple. The devil she is! (Aside.) 
Miss Manly your sister, Sir? I rejoice 
to hear it, and feel a double pleasure in 
being known to you. — Plague on him! 
I wish he was at Boston again with all 
my soul. (Aside.) 

Manly. Come, Sir, will you go? 

Dimple. I will follow you in a moment. 
Sir. (Exit Manly.) Plague on it! 
this is unlucky. A fighting brother is a 
cursed appendage to a fine girl. Egad-l 
I just stopped in time; had he not dis- 
covered himself, in two minutes more I 
should have told him how well I was 
with his sister. — Indeed, I cannot see the 
satisfaction of an intrigue, if one can't 
have the pleasure of communicating it to 
our friends. (Exit.) 

end of the third act. 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene 1. Charlotte's Apartment. 

(Charlotte leading in Maria.) 

Charlotte. This is so kind, my sweet 
friend, to come to see me at this moment. 



ROYALL TYLER 



I declare, if I were going to be married 
in a few days, as you are, I should 
scarce have found time to visit my 
friends. 

Maria. Do you think then that there is an 
impropriety in it? — How should you 
dispose of your time? 

Charlotte. Why, I should be shut up in 
my chamber; and my head would so run 
upon — upon — upon the solemn ceremony 
that I was to pass through — I declare 
it would take me above two hours merely 
to learn that little monosyllable — Yes. 
Ah! my dear, your sentimental imagina- 
tion does not conceive what that little 
tiny word implies. 

Maria. Spare me your raillery, my sweet 
friend; I should love your agreeable 
vivacity at any other time. 

Charlotte. Wliy this is the very time to 
amuse you. You grieve me to see you 
look so unhappy. 

Maria. Have I not reason to look so? 

< Charlotte. 



What new grief distresses 



you 



Maria. Oh! how sweet it is, w^hen the 
heart is borne down with misfortune, to 
recline and repose on the bosom of 
friendship ! Heaven knows, that, al- 
though it is improper for a young lady 
to praise a gentleman, yet I have ever 
concealed Mr. Dimple's foibles, and 
spoke of him as of one whose reputation 
I expected would be linked with mine: 
but his late conduct towards me, has 
turned my coolness into contempt. He 
behaves as if he meant to insult and dis- 
gust me; whilst my father, in the last 
conversation on the subject of our mar- 
riage, spoke of it as a matter which laid 
near his heart, and in which he would 
not bear contradiction. 

Charlotte. This works well: oh! the 
generous Dimple. I '11 endeavour to ex- 
cite her to discharge him. (Aside.) 
But, my dear friend, your happiness de- 
pends on yourself: — Why don't you dis- 
card him? Though the match has been 
of long standing, I would not be forced 
to make myself miserable: no parent in 
the world should oblige me to marry the 
man I did not like. 

Maria. Oh! my dear, you never lived 
with your parents, and do not know 
what influence a father's frowns have 
upon a daughter's lieart. Besides, what 
have I to allege against Mr. Dimple, to 
justify myself to the world? He carries 
himself so smoothly, that every one 



would impute the blame to me, and call 
me capricioys. 

Charlotte. And call her capricious! 
Did ever such an objection start into 
the heart of woman? For my part, I 
wish I had fifty lovers to discard, for no 
other reason, than because I did not 
fancy them.> My dear Maria, you will 
forgive me; I know your candour and 
confidence in me; but I have at times, 
I confess, been led to suppose, that some 
other gentleman was the cause of your 
aversion to Mr. Dimple. 

Maria. No, my sweet friend, you may be 
assured, that though I have seen many 
gentlemen I could prefer to Mr. Dimple, 
yet I never saw one that I thought I 
could give my hand to, until this morn- 
ing. 

Charlotte. This morning! 

Maria. Yes; — one of the strangest acci- 
dents in the world. The odious Dimple, 
after disgusting me with his conversa- 
tion, had just left me, when a gentleman, 
who, it seems, boards in the same house 
with him, saw him coming out of our 
door, and the houses looking very much 
alike, he came into our house instead of 
his lodgings ; nor did he discover his mis- 
take until he got into the parlour, where 
I was: he then bowed so gracefully; 
made such a genteel apology, and looked 
so manly and noble! — 

Charlotte. I see some folks, though it 
is so great an impropriety, can praise a 
gentleman, when he happens to be the 
man of their fancy. (Aside.) 

Maria. I don't know how it was, — I hope 
he did not think me indelicate — but I 
asked him, I believe, to sit down, or 
pointed to a chair. He sat down, and 
instead of having recourse to observa- 
tions upon the weather, or hackneyed 
criticisms upon the theatre, he entered 
readily into a conversation worthy a 
man of sense to speak, and a lady of 
delicacy and sentiment to hear. He was 
not strictly handsome, but he spoke the 
language of sentiment, and his eyes 
looked tenderness and honour. 

Charlotte. Oh! (eagerly) you senti- 
mental grave girls, when your hearts are 
once touched, beat us rattles a bar's 
length. And so, you are quite in love 
with this he-angel? 

Maria. In love with him! How can you 
rattle so, Charlotte? am I not going to 
be miserable? (Sighs.) In love with a 
gentleman I never saw but one hour in 



70 



THE CONTRAST 



ray life, and don't know his name! — No: 
I only wished that the man I shall 
marry, may look, and talk, and act, just 
like him. Besides, my dear, he is a mar- 
ried man. 

Charlotte. Why, that was good natured. 
— He told you so, I suppose, in mere 
charity, to prevent your falling in love 
with him? 
'Maria. He didn't tell me so (peevishly) ; 
he looked as if he was married. 

Charlotte. How, my dear, did he look 
sheepish ? 

Maria. I am sure he has a susceptible 
heart, and the ladies of his acquaintance 
must be very stupid not to — 

Charlotte. Hush! I hear some person 
coming. 

<i{Enter Letitia.) 

Letitia. My dear Maria, I am happy to 
see you. Lud ! what a pity it is that you 
have purchased your wedding clothes. 

Maria. I think so. {Sighing.) 

Letitia. Why, my dear, there is the 
sweetest parcel of silks come over you 
ever saw. Nancy Brilliant has a full 
suit come; she sent over her measure, 
and it fits her to a hair; it is immensely 
dressy, and made for a court-hoop. I 
thought they said the large hoops were 
going out of fashion. 

Charlotte. Did you see the hat? — Is it 
a fact, that the deep laces round the bor- 
der is still the fashion ?> 

Dimple. {Within.) Upon my honour, 
Sir! 

Maria. Ha! Dimple's voice! My dear, 
I must take leave of you. There are 
some things necessary to be done at our 
house. — Can't I go through the other 
room? 

{Enter Dimple and Manly.) 

Dimple. Ladies, your most obedient. 
Charlotte. Miss Van Rough, shall I 

present my brother Henry to you? 

Colonel Manly, Maria, — Miss Van 

Rough, brother. 
Maria. Her brother! {Turns and sees 

Manly.) Oh! my heart! The very 

gentleman I have been praising. 
Manly. The same amiable girl I saw this 

morning ! 
Charlotte. Why, you look as if you were 

acquainted. 
Manly. I unintentionally intruded into 

this lady's presence this morning, for 



which she was so good as to promise me 
her forgiveness. 
Charlotte. Oh! ho! is that the case! 
Have these two penserosos been to- 
gether? Were they Henry's eyes that 
looked so tenderly? {Aside.) And so 
you promised to pardon him? and could 
you be so good natured? — have you 
really forgiven mm? I beg you would 
do it for my sake. {Whispering loud to 
Maria.) But, my dear, as you are in 
such haste, it would be cruel to detain 
you: I can show you the way through 
the other room. 

Maria. Spare me, my sprightly friend. 

Manly. The lady does not, I hope, intend 
to deprive us of the pleasure of her com- 
pany so soon. 

Charlotte. She has only a mantua- 
maker who waits for her at home. But, 
as I am to give my opinion of the dress, 
I think she cannot go yet. We were 
talking of the fashions when you came 
in; but I suppose the subject must be 
changed to something of more impor- 
tance now. — Mr. Dimple, will you fa- 
vour us with an account of the public 
entertainments ? 

Dimple. Why, really, Miss Manly, you 
could not have asked me a question more 
mal-apropos. For my part, I must con- 
fess, that to a man who has travelled, 
there is nothing that is worthy the name 
of amusement to be found in this city. 

Charlotte. Except visiting the ladies. 

Dimple. Pardon me, Madam; that is the 
avocation of a man of taste. But, for 
amusement, I positively know of nothing 
that can be called so, unless you dignify 
with that title the hopping once a fort- 
night to the sound of two or three 
squeaking fiddles, and the clattering of 
the old tavern windows, or sitting to see 
the miserable mummers, whom you call 
actors, murder comedy, and make a farce 
of tragedy. 

Manly. Do you never attend the theatre. 
Sir? 

Dimple. I was tortured there once. 

Charlotte. Pray, Mr. Dimple, was it a 
tragedy or a comedy? 

Dimple. Faith, Madam, I cannot tell; for 
I sat with my back to the stage all the 
time, admiring a much better actress 
than any there; — a lady who played the 
fine woman to perfection ;— though, by 
the laugh of the horrid creatures around 
me, I suppose it was comedy. Yet, on 
second thoughts, it might be some hero 



ROYALL TYLER 



71 



in a tragedy, dying so comically as to 
set the whole house in an uproar. — Colo- 
nel, I presume you have been in Europe? 

Manly. Indeed, Sir, I was never ten 
leagues from the continent. 

Dimple. Believe me. Colonel, you have an 
immense pleasure to come; and when 
you shall have seen the bigilliant exhibi- 
tions of Europe, you will learn to de- 
spise the amusements of this country as 
much as I do. 

Manly. Therefore I do not wish to see 
them ; for I can never esteem that knowl- 
edge valuable, which tends to give me a 
distaste for my native country. 

Dimple. Well, Colonel, though you have 
not travelled, you have read. 

Manly. I have, a little: and by it have 
discovered that there is a laudable par- 
tiality, which ignorant, untravelled men 
entertain for everything that belongs to 
their native country. I call it laudable; 
— it injures no one; adds to their own 
happiness; and, when extended, becomes 
the noble principle of patriotism. Trav- 
elled gentlemen rise superior, in their 
own opinion, to this: but, if the con- 
tempt which they contract for their 
country is the most valuable acquisition 
of their travels, I am far from thinking 
that their time and money are well 
spent. 

Maria. What noble sentiments! 

Charlotte. Let my brother set out from 
where he will in the fields of conversa- 
tion, he is sure to end his tour in the 
temple of gravity. 

Manly. Forgive me, my sister. I love 
my countrj^; it has its foibles undoubt- 
edly; — some foreigners will with pleas- 
ure remark them — but such remarks fall 
very ungracefully from the lips of her 
citizens. 

DniPLE. You are perfectly in the right. 
Colonel — America has her faults. 

Manly. Yes, Sir; and we, her children, 
should blush for them in private, and 
endeavour, as individuals, to reform 
them. But, if our country has its errors 
in common with other countries, I am 
proud to say America, I mean the United 
States, have displayed virtues and 
achievements which modern nations may 
admire, but of which they have seldom 
set us the example. 

Charlotte. But, brother, we must intro- 
duce you to some of our gay folks, and 
let you see the city, such as it is. Mr. 
Dimple is known to almost every family 



in town; — he will doubtless take a pleas- 
ure in introducing you. 

Dimple. I shall esteem every service I 
can render your brother an honour. 

Manly. I fear the business I am upon 
will take up all my time, and my family 
will be anxious to hear from me. 

Maria. His family! But what is it to 
me that he is married! (Aside.) Pray, 
how did you leave your lady. Sir? 

Charlotte. My brother is not married 
{observing her anxiety)) it is only an 
odd way he has of expressing himself. 
— Pray, brother, is this business, which 
you make your continual excuse, a 
secret ? 

Manly. No, sister: I came hither to so- 
licit the honourable Congress that a 
number of my brave old soldiers may be 
put upon the pension-list^ who were, at 
first, not judged to be so materially 
wounded as to need the public assistance. 
— My sister says true: [To Maria.) 
I call my late soldiers my family. — 
Those who were not in the field in the 
late glorious contest, and those who were, 
have their respective merits; but, I con- 
fess, my old brother-soldiers are dearer 
to me than the former description. 
Friendships made in adversity are last- 
ing; our countrymen may forget us; but 
that is no reason why we should forget 
one another. But I must leave you; my 
time of engagement approaches. 

Charlotte. Well, but brother, if you will 
go, will you please to conduct my fair 
friend home? You live in the same 
street ; — I was to have gone with her my- 
self — {Aside.) A lucky thought. 

Maria. I am obliged to your sister. Sir, 
and was just intending to go. {Going.) 

Manly. I shall attend her with pleasure. 
{Exit with Maria, followed by Dim- 
ple and Charlotte.) 

Maria. Now, pray don't betray me to 
your brother. 

< Charlotte. {Just as she sees him make 
a motion to take his leave.) One word 
with you, brother, if you please. 

{Follows them out.) 
{Manent Dimple and Letitia.) 

Dimple. You received the billet I sent 

you, I presume? 
Letitia. Hush ! — Yes. 
Dimple. When shall I pay my respects 

to you? 
Letitia. At eight I shall be unengaged. 
{Be-enter Charlotte.) 



72 



THE CONTRAST 



Dimple. Did my lovely angel receive my 

billet? {To Charlotte.) 
Charlotte. Yes. 
Dimple. What -hour shall I expect with 

impatience? 
Charlotte. At eight I shall be at home, 

unengaged. 
Dimple. Unfortunate! I have a horrid 

engjigement of business at that hour.— 

Can't you finish your visit earlier, and 

let six be the happy hour? 
Charlotte. You know your influence 

over me. > {Exeunt severally.) 



Scene 2. Van Rough's House. 
(Van Rough, alone.) 

It cannot possibly be true! The son 
of my old friend can't have acted so un- 
advisedly. Seventeen thousand pounds! 
in bills! — Mr. Transfer must have been 
mistaken. He always appeared so pru- 
dent, and talked so well upon money- 
matters, and even assured me that he in- 
tended to change his dress for a suit of 
clothes which would not cost so much, 
and look more substantial, as soon as he 
married. No, no, no ! it can't be ; it 
cannot be. — But, however, I must look 
out sharp. I did not care what his prin- 
ciples or his actions were, so long as he 
minded the main chance. Seventeen 
thousand pounds! — If he had lost it in 
trade, why the best men may have ill- 
luck; but to game it away, as Transfer 
says — why, at this rate, his w^iole estate 
may go in one night, and, w^iat is ten 
times worse, mine into the bargain. No, 
no ; Mary is right. Leave women to look 
out in these matters; for all they look 
as if they did n't know a journal from a 
ledger, when their interest is concerned, 
they know what's what; they mind the 
main chance as well as the best of us. — 
I wonder Mary did not tell me she knew 
of his spending his money so foolishly. 
Seventeen thousand pounds! Why, if 
my daughter was standing up to be mar- 
ried, I would forbid the banns, if I 
found it was to a man who did not mind 
the main chance. — Hush ! I hear some- 
body coming. 'T is Mary's voice : a man 
with her too ! I should n't be surprized 
if this should be the other string to her 
bow. — Aye, aye, let them alone; women 
understand the main chance. — Though, 
i' faith^ I '11 listen a little. 

{Retires into a closet.) 



(Manly leading in Maria.) 

Manly. I hope you will excuse my speak- 
ing upon so important a subject, so 
abruptly; but the moment I entered your 
room, you struck me as the lady whom 
I had long loved in imagination, and 
never hoped to see. 

Maria. Indeed, Sir, I have been led to 
hear more upon this subject than I ought. 

Manly. Do you then disapprove my suit, 
Madam, or the abruptness of my intro- 
ducing it? If the latter, my peculiar 
situation, being obliged to leave the city 
in a few days, will, I hope, be my ex- 
cuse; if the former, I will retire: for I 
am sure I would not give a moment's 
inquietude to her, whom I could devote 
my Ufe to please. I am not so indelicate 
as to seek your immediate approbation; 
permit me only to be near you, and by a 
thousand tender assiduities to endeavour 
to excite a grateful return. 

Maria. I have a father, whom I would die 
to make happy — he will disapprove — 

Manly. Do you think me so ungenerous 
as to seek a place in your esteem with- 
out his consent? You must — you ever 
ought to consider that man as unworthy 
of you, who seeks an interest in your 
heart, contrary to a father's approba- 
tion. A young lady should reflect, that 
the loss of a lover may be supplied, but 
nothing can compensate for the loss of 
a parent's affection. Yet, why do you 
suppose your father would disapprove? 
In our country, the affections are not 
sacrificed to riches, or family aggrandize- 
ment: — should you approve, my family 
is decent, and my rank honourable. 

Maria. You distress me. Sir. 

Manly. Then I will sincerely beg youi 
excuse for obtruding so disagreeable a 
subject and retire. (Going.) 

Maria. Stay, Sir! your generosity and 
good opinion of me deserve a return; but 
why must I declare what, for these few 
hours, I have scarce suffered myself to 
think? — I am — 

Manly. What?— 

Maria. Engaged, Sir; — and, in a few 
days, to be married to the gentleman you 
saw at your sister's. 

Manly. Engaged to be married! And 
have I been basely invading the rights of 
another? Why liave you permitted this? 
— Is this the return for the partiality 1 
declared for you? 

Maria. You distress me. Sir. What 



EOYALL TYLER 



73 



would you have me say? You are too 
generous to wish the truth: ought I to 
say that I dared not suffer myself to 
think of my engagement, and that I am 
going to give my hand without my heart? 
— Would you have me confess a partial- 
ity for you? If so, your triumph is 
complete ; and can be only more so, when 
days of misery, w^ith the man I cannot 
love, w^ill make me think of him whom 
I could prefer. 
Maxly. {After a pause.) We are both 
unhappy; but it is your duty to obey 
your parent, — mine to obey my honour. 
Let us, therefore, both follow the path 
of rectitude; and of this we may be as- 
sured, that if we are not happy, we shall, 
at least, deserve to be so. Adieu! I 
dare not trust myself longer with you. 
{Exeunt severally.) 

END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 



ACT FIFTH. 

Scene 1. Dimple's Lodgings. 
Jessamy meeting Jonathan. 

Jessamy. Well, Mr. Jonathan, what suc- 
cess with the fair? 

Jonathan. Why, such a tarnal cross tike 
you never saw! — You would have 
counted she had lived upon crab-apples 
and vinegar for a fortnight. But what 
the rattle makes you look so tarnation 
glum? 

Jessamy. I was thinking, Mr. Jonathan, 
what could be the reason of her carrying 
herself so coolly to you. 

Jonathan. Coolly, do you call it? Why, 
I vow, she was fire-hot angry: may be 
it was because I buss'd her. 

Jessamy. No, no, Mr. Jonathan; there 
must be some other cause: I never yet 
knew a lady angry at being kissed. 

Jonathan. Well, if it is not the young 
woman's bashfulness, I vow I can't con- 
ceive why she sliou'd n't like me. 

Jessamy. May be it is because you have 
not the Graces, Mr, Jonathan. 

Jonathan. Grace! Why, does the young 
woman expect I must be converted be- 
fore I court her? 

Jessamy. I mean graces of person; for 
instance, my lord tells us that we must 
cut off our nails even at top, in small 
segments of circles; — though you won't 



understand that — In the next place, you 
must regulate your laugh. 

Jonathan. Maple-log seize it! don't I 
laugh natural? 

Jessamy. That 's the very fault, Mr. Jon- 
athan. Besides, you absolutely misplace 
it. I was told by a friend of mine that 
you laughed outright at the play the 
other night, when you ought only to have 
tittered. 

Jonathan. Gor! I — what does one go 
to see fun for if they can't laugh ? 

Jessamy. You may laugh; — but you must 
laugh by rule. 

Jonathan. Swamp it — laugh by rule! 
Well, I should like that tarnally. 

Jessamy. Why you know^, Mr. Jonathan, 
that to dance, a lady to play with, her 
fan, or a gentleman with his cane, and 
all other natural motions, are regulated 
by art. My master has composed an 
immensely pretty gamut, by which any 
lady, or gentleman, with a few years' 
close application, may learn to laugh as 
gracefully as if they were born and bred 
to it. 

Jonathan. Mercy on my soul ! A gamut 
for laughing — just like fa, la, sol? 

Jessamy. Yes. It comprises every possi- 
ble display of jocularity, from an ajfet- 
tuoso smile to a piano titter, or full 
chorus fortissimo ha, ha, ha! My mas- 
ter employs his leisure-hours in marking 
out the plays, like a cathedral chanting- 
book, that the ignorant may know where 
to laugh; and that pit, box, and gallery 
may keep time together, and not have a 
snigger in one part of the house, a 

broad grin in the other, and a d d 

grum look in the third. How delightful 
to see the audience all smile together, 
then look on their books, then twist their 
mouths into an agreeable simper, then 
altogether shake the house with a general 
ha, ha, ha ! loud as a full chorus of Han- 
del's, at an Abbey-commemoration. 

Jonathan. Ha, ha, ha I that 's dang'd 
cute, I swear. 

Jessamy. The gentlemen, you see, will 
laugh the tenor; the ladies will play the 
counter-tenor; the beaux will squeak the 
treble; and our jolly friends in the gal- 
lery a thorough bass, ho, ho, ho ! 

Jonathan. Well, can't you let me see 
that gamut? , 

Jessamy. Oh! yes, Mr. Jonathan; here it • 
is. {Takes out a book.) Oh! no, this 
is only a titter with its variations. Ah, 
here it is. {Takes out another.) Now 



74 



THE CONTRAST 



you must know, Mr. Jonathan, this is a 
piece written by Ben Jonson, which I 
have set to my master's gamut. The 
places where you must smile, look grave, 
or laugh outright, are marked below 
the line. Now look over me. — "There 
was a certain man" — now you must 
smile. 

Jonathan. Well, read it again; I war- 
rant I '11 mind my eye. 

Jessamy. "There was a certain man, who 
had a sad scolding wife," — now you must 
laugh. 

Jonathan. Tarnation ! That 's no laugh- 
ing matter, tiiough. 

Jessamy. "And she lay sick a-dying;" — 
now you must titter. 

Jonathan. What, snigger when the good 
woman 's a-dying ! Gor, I — 

Jessamy. Yes; the notes say you must — 
"And she asked her husband leave to 
make a will," — now you must begin to 
look grave; — "and her husband said" — 

Jonathan. Ay, what did her husband 
say? — Something dang'd cute, I reckon. 

Jessamy. "And her husband said, you 
have had your will all your life time, and 
would you have it after you are dead 
too?" 

Jonathan. Ho, ho, ho! There the old 
man was even with her; he was up to 
the notch — ha, ha, ha! 

Jessamy. But, Mr. Jonathan, you must 
not laugh so. Why, you ought to have 
tittered piano, and you have laughed 
fortissimo. Look here; you see these 
marks, A. B. C. and so on; these are the 
references to the other part of the book. 
Let us turn to it, and you will see the 
directions how to manage the muscles. 
This {turns over) was note D you blun- 
dered at. — "You must purse the mouth 
into a smile, then titter, discovering the 
lower part of the three front upper 
teeth." 

Jonathan. HowM read it again. 

Jessamy. "There was a certain man" — 
very well! — "who had a sad scolding 
wife," — why don't you laugh? 

Jonathan. Now, that scolding wife sticks 
in my gizzard so pluckily, that I can't 
laugh for the blood and nowns of me. 
Let me look grave here, and I '11 laugli 
your belly full wliere the old creature 's 
a-dying.— 

Jessamy. "And she asked her husband" 
— {Bell rings.) My .master's bell! he's 
returned, I fear — Here, Mr. Jonatlian, 
take tliis gamut; and, I make no doubt 



but with a few years' close application, 
you may be able to smile gracefully. 

{Exeunt severally.) 



Scene 2. Chaelotte's Apartment. 

{Enter Manly.) 

Manly. What, no one at home? How 
unfortunate to meet the only lady my 
heart was ever moved by, to find her 
engaged to another, and confessmg her 
partiality for me! Yet engaged to a 
man, who, by her intimation, and his 
libertine conversation with me, I fear, 
does not merit her. Aye ! there 's the 
sting ; for, were I assured that Maria was 
happy, my heart is not so selfish, but 
that it would dilate in knowing it, even 
though it were with another. — But to 
know she is unhappy! — I must drive 
these thoughts from me. Charlotte has 
some books; and this is what I believe 
she calls her little library. 

{Enters a closet.) 

{Enter Dimple leading Letitia.) 

Letitia. And will you pretend to say, 
now, Mr. Dimple, that you propose to 
break with Maria? Are not the banns 
published? Are not the clothes pur- 
chased? Are not the friends invited? 
In short, is it not a done affair? 

Dimple. Believe me, my dear Letitia, I 
would not marry her. 

Letitia. Why have you not broke with 
her before this, as you all along deluded 
me by saying you would? 

Dimple. Because I was in hopes she 
would ere this have broke with me. 

Letitia. You could not expect it. 

Dimple. Nay, but be calm a moment; 
't was from my regard to you that I did 
not discard her. 

Letitia. Regard to me! 

Dimple. Yes; I have done everything in 
my power to break with her, but the 
foolish girl is so fond of me, that noth- 
ing can accomplish it. Besides, how can 
I offer her my hand, when my heart is 
indissolubly engaged to you? — 

I/ETiTiA. There may be reason in this ; but 
why so attentive to Miss Manly? 

Dimple. Attentive to Miss Manly! For 
heaven's sake, if you have no better 
opinion of my constancy, pay not so ill 
a compliment to my taste. 



ROYALL TYLER 



75 



<Letitia. Did I not see you whisper her 
to-day ? 

Dimple. Possibly I might — but something 
of so very trifling a nature, that I have 
already forgot what it was. 

Letitia. I believe, she has not forgot it. 

Dimple. My dear crGature,> how can you 
for a moment suppose I should have any 
serious thoughts of that trifling, gay, 
flighty coquette, that disagreeable — 

{Enter Charlotte.) 

Dimple. My dear Miss Manly, I rejoice 
to see you; there is a charm in your con- 
versation that always marks your en- 
trance into company as fortunate. 

Letitia. Where have you been, my dear? 

Charlotte. Why, I have been about to 
twenty shops, turning over pretty things, 
and so have left twenty visits unpaid. 
I wish you would step into the caniage 
and whisk round, make my apology, and 
leave my cards where our friends are 
not at home; that you know will serve 
as a visit. Come, do go. 

Letitia. So anxious to get me out! but 
I '11 watch you. (Aside.) Oh! yes, I '11 
go; I want a little exercise. — Positively 
(Dimple offering to accompany her), Mr. 
Dimple, you shall not go, why, half my 
visits are cake and caudle visits; it 
won't do, you know, for j^ou to go. — 
{Exit, but returns to the door in the 
back scene and listens.) 

Dimple. This attachment of your brother 
to Maria is fortunate. 

Charlotte. How did you come to the 
knowledge of it? 

Dimple. I read it in their eyes. 

Charlotte. And I had it from her 
mouth. It would have amused you to 
have seen her! She that thought it so 
great an impropriety to praise a gentle- 
man, that she could not bring out one 
word in your favour, found a redun- 
dancy to praise him. 

Dimple. I have done everything in my 
power to assist his passion there: your 
delicacy, my dearest girl, would be 
shocked at half the instances of neglect 
and misbehaviour. 

Charlotte. I don't know how I should 
bear neglect; but Mr. Dimple must mis- 
behave himself, indeed, to forfeit my 
good opinion. 

Dimple. Your good opinion, my angel, is 
the pride and pleasure of my heart ; and 
if the most respectful tenderness for 
you and an utter indifference for all your 



sex besides, can make me worthy of your 
esteem, I shall richly merit it. 

Charlotte. All my sex besides, Mr. Dim- 
ple—you forgot your tete-a-tete with 
Letitia. 

Dimple. How can you, my lovely angel, 
cast a thought on that insipid, wry- 
mouthed, ugly creature! 

Charlotte. But her fortune may have 
charms? 

Dimple. Not to a heart like mine. The 
man who has been blessed with the good 
opinion of my Charlotte, must despise 
the allurements of fortune. 

Charlotte. I am satisfied. 

Dimple. Let us think no more on the odi- 
ous subject, but devote the present hour 
to happiness. 

Charlotte. Can I be happy, when I see 
the man I prefer going to be married to 
another? 

Dimple. Have I not already satisfied my 
charming angel that I can never think of 
marrying the puling Maria. But, even 
if it were so, could that be any bar to 
our happiness; for, as the poet sings — 

"Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, 
'"Spreads his light wings, and in a moment 
flies." 

Come then, my charming angel! why de- 
lay our bliss! The present moment is 
ours; the next is in the hand of fate. 

{Kissing her.) 

Charlotte. Begone, Sir! By your delu- 
sions you had almost lulled my honour 
asleep. 

Dimple. Let me lull the demon to sleep 
again with kisses. 

{He struggles with her; she screams.) 

{Enter Manly.) 

Manly. Turn, villain! and defend your- 
self.— 

{Draws. Van Rough enters and beats 
down their swords.) 
Van Rough. Is the devil in you? are you 
going to murder one another? 

{Holding Dimple.) 
Dimple. Hold him, hold him, — I can com- 
mand my passion. 

{Enter Jonathan.) 

Jonathan. What the rattle ails you? 
Is the old one in you? Let the colonel 
alone, can't you? I feel chock full of 
fight, — do you want to kill the colonel? — 

Manly. Be still, Jonathan; the gentle- 
man does not want to hurt me. 



76 



THE CONTRAST 



Jonathan. Gor ! I — I wish he did ; I 'd 
shew him Yankee boys phiy, pretty 
quick — Don't you see you have fright- 
ened the young woman into the hys- 
trikesf 

Van Rough. Pray, some of you explain 
this; what has been the occasion of all 
this racket? 

Manly. That gentleman can explain it to 
you ; it will be a very diverting story for 
an intended father-in-law to hear. 

Van Rough. How was this matter, Mr. 
Van Dumpling? 

Dimple. Sir, — upon my honour — all I 
know is, that I was talking to this young 
lady, and this gentleman broke in on us, 
in a very extraordinary manner. 

Van Rough. Why, all this is nothing to 
the purpose: can you explain it, Miss? 
{To Charlotte.) 

{Enter Letitia tlirough tlie hack scene.) 

Letitia. I can explain it to that gentle- 
man's confusion. Though long be- 
trothed to your daughter {to Van 
Rough), yet allured by my fortune, it 
seems (with shame do I speak it), he 
has privately paid his addresses to me. 
I was drawn in to listen to him by his 
assuring me that the match was made by 
his father without his consent, and that 
he proposed to break with Maria, 
whether he married me or not. But 
whatever were his intentions respecting 
your daughter, Sir, even to me he was 
false ; for he has repeated the same story, 
with some cruel reflections upon my per- 
son, to Miss Manly. 

Jonathan. What a tarnal curse! 

Letitia. Nor is this all, Miss Manly. 
When he was with me this very morning, 
he made the same ungenerous reflections 
upon the weakness of your mind as he 
has so recently done upon the defects of 
my person. 

Jonathan. What a tarnal curse and 
damn too! 

Dimple. Ha! since I have lost Letitia, I 
believe I had as good make it up with 
Maria — Mr. Van Rough, at present I 
cannot enter into particulars; but, I be- 
lieve I can explain everything to your 
satisfaction in private. 

Van Rough. There is another matter, 
Mr. Van Dumpling, which I would have 
you explain: — pray. Sir, have Messrs. 
Van Cash and Co. presented you those 
bills for acceptance? 

Dimple. The deuce! Has he heard of 



those bills ! Nay, then, all 's up with 
Maria, too ; but an aif air of this sort can 
never prejudice me among the ladies; 
they will rather long to know what the 
dear creature possesses to make him so 
agreeable. {Aside.) Sir, you'll hear 
from me. {To Manly.) 
Manly. And you from me. Sir. — 
Dimple. Sir, you wear a sword. — 
Manly. Yes, Sir: — This sword was pre- 
sented to me by that brave Gallic hero, 
the Marquis De La Fayette. I have 
drawn it in the service of my country, 
and in private life, on the only occasion 
where a man is justified in drawing his 
sword, in defence of a lady's honour. I 
have fought too many battles in the 
service of my country to dread the im- 
putation of cowardice. — Death from a 
man of honour would be a glory you do 
not merit; you shall live to bear the in- 
sult of man, and the contempt of that 
sex, wiiose general smiles afforded you 
all your happiness. 
Dimple. You won't meet me. Sir? — Then 

I '11 post you for a coward. 
Manly. I'll venture that. Sir. — The rep- 
utation of my life does not depend upon 
the breath of a Mr. Dimple. I would 
have you to know, however, Sir, that I 
have a cane to chastise the insolence of 
a scoundrel, and a sword and the good 
laws of my country, to protect me from 
the attempts of an assassin. — 
Dimple. Mighty well ! Very fine, indeed ! 
— ladies and gentlemen, I take my leave, 
and you will please to observe, in the 
case of my deportment, the contrast be- 
tween a gentleman, who has read Ches- 
terfield and received the polish of Eu- 
rope, and an unpolished, untravelled 
American. {Exit.) 

{Enter Maria.) 

Maria. Is he indeed gone? — 

Letitia. I hope never to return. 

Van Rough. I am glad I heard of those 
bills ; though it 's plaguy unlucky : I 
hoped to see Mary married before I 
died. 

Manly. Will you permit a gentleman, 
Sir, to offer himself as a suitor to your 
daughter? Though a stranger to you, 
he is not altogether so to her, or un- 
known in this city. You may find a son- 
in-law of more fortune, but you can 
never meet witli one who is richer in love 
for her, or respect for you. 



ROYALL TYLER 



77 



Van Rough. Why, Mary, you have not 
let this gentleman make love to you with- 
out my leave? 

Manly. I did not say, Sir — 

Maria. Say, Sir! — I — the gentleman, to 
be sure, met me accidentally. 

Van Rough. Ha, ha, ha! Mark me, 
Mary; young folks think old folks to be 
fools; but old folks know young folks 
to be fools. — Why, I knew all about this 
affair: — This was only a cunning way 
I had to bring it about — Hark ye! I 
was in the closet when you and he were 
at our house. {Turns to the company.) 
I heard that little baggage say she loved 
her old father, and would die to make 
him happy! Oh! how I loved the little 
baggage! — And you talked very pru- 
dently, young man. I have inquired 
into your character, and find you to be 
a man of punctuality and mind the main 
chance. And so, as you love Mary, and 
Mary loves you, you shall have my con- 
sent immediately to be married. I '11 set- 
tle my fortune on you, and go and live 
with you the remainder of my life. 

Manly. Sir, I hope — 

Van Rough. Come, come, no fine 
speeches; mind the main chance, young 
man, and you and I shall always agree. 

Letitia. I sincerely wish you joy (ad- 
vancing to Maria) ; and hope your par- 
don for my conduct. 

Maria. I thank you for your congratula- 
tions, and hope we shall at once forget 



me ; you 



the wretch who has given us so much 
disquiet, and the trouble that he has oc- 
casioned. 

Charlotte. And I, my dear Maria, — 
how shall I look up to you for forgive- 
ness? I, who, in the practice of the 
meanest arts, have violated the most 
sacred rights of friendship? I can 
never forgive myself, or hope charity 
from the world, but I confess I have 
much to hope from such a brother; and 
I am happy that I may soon say, such 
a sister. — 

Maria. My dear, you distress 
have all my love. 

Manly. And mine. 

Charlotte. If repentance can entitle me 
to forgiveness, I have already much 
merit; for I despise the littleness of my 
past conduct. I now find, that the heart 
of any w^orthy man cannot be gained by 
invidious attacks upon the rights and 
characters of others; — by countenancing 
the addresses of a thousand; — or that 
the finest assemblage of features, the 
greatest taste in dress, the genteelest ad- 
dress, or the most brilliant wit, cannot 
eventually secure a coquette from con- 
tempt and ridicule. 

Manly. And I have learned that probity, 
virtue, honour, though they should not 
have received the polish of Europe, will 
secure to an honest American the good 
graces of his fair countrywoman, and, I 
hope, the applause of THE PUBLIC. 



the end. 



ANDRE 

BY 

William Dunlap 



ANDRE 

Andre represents the tragedy of American history. It was not the first 
historical tragedy, but its predecessors were either school pieces like Brecken- 
ridge's Battle of Bunker Hill or else, like John Burk's dramatization of the same 
conflict, were of little worth. 

William Dnnlap was born February 19, 1766, at Perth Amboy, New Jersey. 
He grew up with a fondness for the theatre, and saw many of the productions 
of the British soldiers in New York City during the Eevolution. From 1784 
to 1787, he spent in England and there saw the best actors of that period. 
Returning to New York, he was inspired by the success of The Contrast to write 
plays. His first play to be performed, The Father or American Shandyism, was 
plaj^ed by the American Company at the John Street Theatre, New York, Sep- 
tember 7, 1789, and was a comedy of manners. His career as a playwright, 
which lasted until 1828, his activity as the manager of the American Company 
from 1796 to 1805, and his invaluable History of the American Theatre, make 
him the most important figure in our early dramatic history. He was connected 
with the tiieatre again from 1810 to 1811, but his most important work was 
done before 1805. He became Assistant Paymaster General of New York State 
from 1813 to 1816. Dunlap died in 1839. 

Dunlap wrote or adapted more than sixty plays. Of the various fields in 
whi^h he worked, the' most significant were first, his plays based on native 
material, and second, his adaptations from the German and from the French. 
To the first group belong beside The Father, Darty's Return, played November 
24, 1789, and printed in 1789, interesting on account of its association with 
Washington; Andre; The Glory of Columbia; and Yankee Chronology, an ac- 
count of the fight between the Constitution and the Guerriere, played September 
9, 1812, nine days after the battle, and printed in the same year. His last play, 
A Trip to Niagara, performed November 28, 1828, and printed in 1830, was 
upon a native theme. 

The Stranger, his first adaptation from the German of Kotzebue, was played 
December 10, 1798. It was made from an English version, but its success en- 
couraged him to study German, and he adapted at least thirteen plays of 
Kotzebue, the best being False Shame, or the American Orphan in Germany, a 
domestic comedy played December 11, 1799, and printed in 1800; The Virgin 
of the Sun, a play laid in Peru, performed March 12, 1800, and printed the 
same year, and Fraternal Discord, a domestic drama, played October 24, 1800, 

81 



82 INTRODUCTION 



and printed in 1809. He also adapted Ahaellino the Great Bandit, from the 
German of Zchokke, performed February 11, 1801, and printed in 1802, while 
from a French source he produced The Voice of Nature, played February 4, 
1803, and published in the same year. 

One of the best of his plays, printed in 1807 as Leicester and played April 
24, 1794, as The Fatal Deception, is a verse tragedy laid in Elizabethan England. 

'Andre was performed at the Park Theatre, New York, March 30, 1798, 
It was received, Dunlap tells us, with warm applause, until Cooper, who acted 
"Bland," in pleading for Andre's life, tore the American cockade from his 
casque and threw it from him. The incident was hissed, but the play proceeded 
and a change m the lines was made on the second night, which removed the 
cause of the trouble. The new lines have been inserted in their proper places 
in this edition. 

On July 4, 1803, Dunlap produced a version of Andre, much changed, 
called The Glory of Columbia. The first Act deals with Andre's capture, and 
the last Act occurs at Yorktown. Washington is introduced with his officers and 
then Andre 's captors come in and there is a general glorification of the American 
arms. Andre was more of a unit than The Glory of Columbia and the dramatic 
action was more intelligible. The Glory of Columbia, however, was printed in 
1817 and held the stage as late as 1847. 

Dunlap 's plays must be read usually in the early editions, difficult now to 
obtain. The proposed Collected Edition in ten volumes seems to have been 
carried only to three; Vol. I, Philadelphia, 1806 and Vols. 2 and 3, New York, 
1816. 

Darby ^s Return has been reprinted in an appendix to Washington and the 
Theatre, by Paul Leicester Ford, Dunlap Society Reprint. New York, 1899. 
Andre was reprinted by the Dunlap Society with a very interesting introduction 
by Brander Matthews, New York, 1887. The Father was reprinted by the 
Dunlap Society with an introduction by T. J. McKee, New York, 1887. Dun- 
lap's History of the American Theatre, New York, 1832, or in better form, 
London, 1833, should be consulted for his life and for a description of his plays. 
For a complete bibliography of his plays prepared by the present editor, see the 
Cambridge History of American Literature (Vol. I, pp. 496-499). 

The present text is based on the edition of 1798. With the permission of 
the editor of the Dunlap Society Reprint, Professor Brander Matthews, that 
text has also been used in the preparation of this volume. 

Note to Revised Edition. 
A scholarly biography, William Dunlap, a Study of His Life and Works, 
by Oral S. Coad, was published in 1917. A complete Bibliography is included. 



ANDRE; 

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS: 

AS PERFORMED BY THE OLD AMERICAN COMPANY, 
NEW-YORK, MARCH 30, 1798. 

TO WHICH ARE ADDED 

AUTHENTIC DOCUMENTS 

RESPECTING 

MAJOR ANDR^', 

CONSISTING OF 

LETTERS TO Miss SEWARD, 

THE 

COW CHACE, 
PROCEEDINGS OF THE COURT MARTIAL, (3c, 



COPY RIGHT SECURED, 



NEW- YORK : 

Printed by T. &> J. SWORDS, No. 99 Pearl-ftreet. 
— 1798.— 



PROLOGUE 

Spoken by Mr. Martin. 

A Native Bard, a native scene displays, 
And claims your candour for his daring layss 
Daring, so soon, in mimic scenes to shew, 
"What each remembers as a real woe. 
Who has forgot when gallant Andre died ? 
A name by Fate to Sorrow's self allied. 
Who has forgot, when o'er the untimely bier^ 
Contending armies paus'd, to drop a tear. 

Our Poet builds upon a fact to-night; 
Yet claims, in building, every Poet 's right ; 
To choose, embellish, lop, or add, or blendy 
Fiction with truth, as best may suit his end ; 
Which, he avows, is pleasure to impart. 
And move the passions but to mend the heart. 

0, may no party spirit blast his views. 
Or turn to ill the meanings of the ]\Iuse ; 
She sings of wrongs long past. Men as they were, 
To instruct, without reproach, the Men that are ; 
Then judge the Story by the genius shown. 
And praise, or damn it, for its worth alone. 



CHARACTEES 

General, dress, American staff uniform, blue, faced with buff, large 
gold epaulets, cocked hat, with the black and white cockade, in- 
dicating the union with France, buff waistcoat and breeches, 
boots Mr. Hallaix 

M 'Donald, a man of forty years of age, uniform nearly the same as 

the first Mr. Tyler 

Seward, a man of thirty years of age, staff uniform Mr. Martin 

Andre, a man of twenty-nine years of age, full British uniform 

after the first scene Mr. Hodgkinson 

Bland, a youthful but military figure, in the uniform of a Captain 
of horse — dress, a short blue coat, faced with red, and trimmed 
with gold lace, two small epaulets, a white waistcoat, leather 
breeches, boots and spurs ; over the coat, crossing the chest from 
the right shoulder, a broad buff belt, to which is suspended a 
manageable hussar sword; a horseman's helmet on the head, 
decorated as usual, and the union cockade affixed Mr. Cooper 

Melville, a man of middle age, and grave deportment; his dress 
a Captain's uniform when on duty; a blue coat with red fac- 
ings, gold epaulet, white waistcoat and breeches, boots and 
cocked hat, with the union cockade Mr. Williamson 

British Officer Mr. Hogg 

AMERICx^JT Officer Mr. Miller 

Children Master Stockwell and Miss Hogg 

American Sergeant Mr. Seymour 

American Officers and Soldiers, &c. 

Mrs. Bland Mrs. Melmoth 

HoNORA Mrs. Johnson 

Scene, the Village of Tappan, Encampment, and adjoining country. Time, ten 

hours. 



ANDRE 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1. A Wood seen by star-light; an 
Encampment at a distance appearing be- 
tween the trees. 

{Enter Melville.) 

Melville. The solemn hour, "when night 
and morning meet," 

Mysterious time, to superstition dear, 

And superstition's guides, now passes 
by; 

Deathlike in solitude. The sentinels, 

In drowsy tones, from post to post send 
on 

The signal of the passing hour. "All's 
well," 

Sounds through the camp. Alas, all is 
not well; 

Else, why stand I, a man, the friend of 
man. 

At midnight's depth, deck'd in this mur- 
derous guise. 

The habiliment of death, the badge of 
dire 

Necessitous coercion. 'T is not well. 

— In vain the enlighten'd friends of suf- 
fering man 

Point out, of war, the folly, guilt, and 
madness. 

Still, age succeeds to age, and war to 
war; 

And man, the murderer, marshals out in 
hosts 

In all the gaiety of festive pomp. 

To spread around him death and deso- 
lation. 

How long! how long! — 

— Methinks I hear the tread of feet this 
way. 

My meditating mood may work me woe. 

(Draws.) 

Stand, whoso'er thou art. Answer. 
Who's there? 

• 
{Enter Bland.) 

Bland. A friend. 

Melville. Advance and give the 

countersign. 



87 



Bland. Hudson. 
Melville. What, Bland! 

Bland. Melville, my friend, you here? 

Melville. And well, my brave young 
friend. But why do you. 
At this dead hour of night, approach the 

camp 
On foot, and thus alone? 
Bland. I have but now 

Dismounted, and from yon sequester'd 

cot. 
Whose lonely taper through the crannied 

wall 
Sheds its faint beams and twinkles midst 

the trees. 
Have I, adventurous, grop'd my dark- 
some way. 
My servant and my horses, spent with 

toil. 
There wait till morn. 
Melville. Why waited not yourself? 

Bland. Anxious to know the truth of 
those reports 
Which, from the many mouths of busy 

fame. 
Still, as I pass'd, struck varying on my 

ear. 
Each making th' other void. Nor does 

delay 
The color of my hasteful business suit. 
I bring dispatches for our great Com- 
mander ; 
And hasted hither with design to wait 
His rising, or awake him with the sun. 
Melville. You will not need the last, for 
the blest sun 
Ne'er rises on his slumbers; by the dawn 
We see him mounted gaily in the field, 
Or find him wrapt in meditation deep, 
Planning the welfare of our war-worn 
land. 
Bland. Prosper, kind Heaven, and rec- 
ompense his cares. 
Melville. You're from the South, if I 

presume aright? 
Bland. I am; and, Melville, I am fraught 
with news. 
The South teems with events — convul- 
sing ones. 
The Briton, there, plays at no mimic 
war; 



88 



ANDRfi 



With gallant face be moves, and gal- 
lantly is met. 

Brave spirits, rous'd by glory, throng 
our camp; 

The hardy hunter, skilFd to fell the 
deer. 

Or start the sluggish bear from covert 
rude; 

And not a clown that comes, but from 
his youth 

Is trained to pour from far the leaden 
death, 

To climb the steep, to struggle with the 
stream, 

To labor firmly under scorching skies, 

And bear, unshrinking, winter's rough- 
est blast. 

This, and that heaven-inspir'd enthusi- 
asm 

Which ever animates the patriot's breast, 

Shall far outweigh the lack of discipline. 
Melnille. Justice is ours; what shall 

prevail against her? 
Bland. But as I pass'd along, many 
strange tales 

And monstrous rumors have my ears as- 
sail'd: 

That Arnold had prov'd false; but he 
was ta'en 

And hung, or to be hung — I know not 
what. 

Another told that all our army, with 
their 

Much-lov'd Chief, sold and betray'd, were 
captur'd. 

But as I nearer drew, at yonder cot 

'T was said that Arnold, traitor like, had 
fled; 

And that a Briton, tried and prov'd a 

spy, 

Was, on this day, as such, to suffer 
death. 
Melville. As you drew near, plain truth 
advanced to meet you. 
'T is even as you heard, my brave young 

friend. 
Never had people on a single tlirow^ 
More interest at stake ; when he who held 
For us the die prov'd false and play'd us 

foul. 
But for a circumstance of that nice kind, 
Of cause so microscopic that the tongues 
Of inattentive men call it the effect 
Of chance, we must have lost the glori- 
ous game. 
Bland. Blest, blest be heaven! whatever 

was the cause! 
Melville. The blow ere this had fallen 
that would have bruis'd 



The tender plant which we have striven 

to rear, 
Crush'd to the dust, no more to bless this 

soil. 
Bland. What warded off the blow? 
Melville. The brave young man, who this 

day dies, was seiz'd 
Within our bounds, in rustic garb dis- 

guis'd. 
He oft'er'd bribes to tempt the band that 

seiz'd him; 
But the rough farmer, for his country 

arm'd, 
That soil defending which his plough- 
share turn'd, 
Those laws his father chose and he ap- 

prov'd. 
Cannot, as mercenary soldiers may. 
Be brib'd to sell the public weal for 

gold. 
Bland. 'T is well. Just Heaven ! grant 

that thus may fall 
All those who seek to bring this land to 

woe. 
All those, who, or by open force, or dark 
And secret machinations, seek to shake 
The Tree of Liberty, or stop its growth. 
In any soil where thou hast pleased to 

plant it. 
Melville. Yet not a heart but pities and 

would save him; 
For all confirm that he is brave and vir- 
tuous ; 
Known, but till now, the darling child of 

Honor. 
Bland. (Contemptuously.) And how is 

call'd this — honorable spy? 
Melville. Andre 's his name. 
Bland. (Much agitated.) Andre! 
INIelville. Aye! Major Andre. 

Bland. Andre ! — no, my friend, you 're, 

sure deceiv'd — 
I '11 pawn my life, my ever sacred fame. 
My General's favor, or a soldier's honor. 
That gallant Andre never yet put on 
The guise of falsehood. 0, it cannot be ! 
Melville. How might I be deceiv'd? 

I 've heard him, seen him. 
And what I tell, I tell from well-prov'd 

knowledge ; 
No second tale-bearer who heard the 

news. 
Bland. Pardon me, Melville. 0, that 

well-known name, 
So link'd with circumstances infamous! 
My friend must pardon me. Thou wilt 

not blame 
When I shall tell what cause I have to 

love him; 



WILLIAM DUNLAP 



89 



What cause to think him nothing more 
the pupil 

Of Honor stern, than sweet Humanity. 

Rememberest thou, when eover'd o'er 
with wounds 

And left upon the field, I fell the prey 

Of Britain? To a loathsome prison- 
ship 

Confin'd, soon had I sunk, victim of 
death, 

A death of aggravated miseries; 

But, by benevolence urg'd, this best of 
men. 

This gallant youth, then favor'd, high in 
power, 

Sought out the pit obscene of foul dis- 
ease, 

Where I and many a suffering soldier 
lay, 

And, like an angel, seeking good for man, 

Restor'd us light and partial liberty. 

Me he mark'd out his own. He nurst 
and cur'd. 

He lov'd and made his friend. I liv'd 
by him. 

And in my heart he liv'd, till, when ex- 
chang'd. 

Duty and honor call'd me from my 
friend. 

Judge how my heart is tortur'd. — Gra- 
cious Heaven, 

Thus, thus to meet him on the brink of 
death — 

A death so infamous. Heav'n grant my 
prayer. (Kneels.) 

That I may save him, inspire my heart 

With thoughts, my tongue with words 
that move to pity. (Rises.) 

Quick, Melville, show me where my 
Andre lies. 

Melville. Good wishes go with you. 
J jLAND. I'll save my friend. (Exeunt.) 



Scene, the Encampment hij star-light. 

(Enter the General, M'Donald, and 
Seward.) 

General. 'T is well. Each sentinel upon 
his post 
Stands firm, and meets me at the bayo- 
net's point; 
While in his tent the weary soldier lies, 
The sweet reward of wholesome toil en- 
joying; 
Resting secure as erst within his cot 
He careless slept, his rural labor o'er; 
Ere Britons dar'd to violate those laws. 



Those boasted laws by which themselves 
are govern'd. 

And strove to make their fellow-subjects 
slaves. 
Seward. They know to whom they owe 

their present safety. 
General. I hope they know that to them- 
selves they owe it; 

To that good discipline which they ob- 
serve. 

The discipline of men to order train'd 

Who know its value, and in whom 'tis 
virtue ; 

To that prompt hardihood w^ith which 
they meet 

Or toil or danger, poverty or death. 

Mankind who know not whence that 
spirit springs. 

Which holds at bay all Britain's boasted 
power, 

Gaze on their deeds astonish'd. See the 
youth 

Start from his plough and straightway 
play the hero; 

Unmurmuring bear such toils as vet- 
erans shun; 

Rest all content upon the dampsome 
earth ; 

Follow undaunted to the deathful 
charge ; 

Or, when occasion asks, lead to the 
breach. 

Fearless of all the unusual din of war, 

His former peaceful mates. patriot- 
ism! 

Thou wondrous principle of godlike ac- 
tion. 

Wherever liberty is found, there reigns 

The love of country. Now the self-same 
spirit 

Which fill'd the breast of great Leoni- 
das 

SavcIIs in the hearts of thousands on 
these plains, 

Thousands who never heard the hero's 
tale. 

'T is this alone which saves thee, my 
country ! 

And, till that spirit flies these western 
shores, 

No power on earth shall crush thee. 
Seward. 'T is wondrous ! 

The men of other climes from this shall 
see 

How easy 'tis to shake oppression off; 

How all-resistless is a union'd people; 

And hence, from our success (which, by 
my soul, 

I feel as much secur'd as though our foes 



90 



ANDRE 



Were now within their floating prisons 

hous'd, 
And their proud prowls all pointing to 

the east), 
Shall other nations break their galling 

fetters, 
And re-assume the dignity of man. 
M'DoNALD. Are other nations in that 

happy state, 
That, having broke Coercion's iron yoke, 
They can submit to Order's gentle voice, 
And walk on earth self -ruled? I much 

do fear it. 
As to ourselves, in truth, I nothing see, 
In all the wondrous deeds which we per- 
form. 
But plain effects from causes full as 

plain. 
Rises not man forever 'gainst oppres- 
sion? 
It is the law of life; he can't avoid it. 
But when the love of property unites 
With sense of injuries past and dread of 

future, 
Is it then wonderful that he should brave 
A lesser evil to avoid a greater? 
General. {Sportively.) 'T is hard, quite 

hard, we may not please ourselves, 
By our great deeds ascribing to our 

virtue. 
Seward. M'Donald never spares to lash 

our pride. 
M'Donald. In truth I know of naught to 

make you proud. 
I think there 's none within the camp 

that draws 
"With better will his sword than does 

M'Donald. 
I have a home to guard. My son is — 

butcher'd — 
Seward. Hast thou no nobler motives for 

thy arms 
Than love of property and thirst for. 

vengeance? 
M'Donald. Yes, my good Seward, and 

yet nothing wondrous. 
I love this country for the sake of man. 
My parents, and I thank them, cross'd 

the seas. 
And made me native of fair Nature's 

world. 
With room to grow and thrive in. I 

have thriven; 
And feel my mind unshackled, free, ex- 
panding, 
Grasping with ken unbounded mighty 

thouglits. 
At w^liich, if chance my mother had, good 

dame, 



In Scotia, our revered parent soil. 
Given me to see the day, I should have 

shrunk 
Affrighted. Now, I see in this new 

world 
A resting spot for man, if he can stand 
Firm in his place, while Europe howls 

around him, 
And all unsettled as the thoughts of vice. 
Each nation in its turn threats him with 

feeble malice. 
One trial, now, we prove; and I have 

met it. 
General. And met it like a man, my 

brave M'Donald. 
M'Donald. I hope so; and I hope my 

every act 
Has been the offspring of deliberate 

judgment ; 
Yet feeling seconds reason's cool resolves. 
! I could hate, if I did not more pity 
These bands of mercenary Europeans, 
So wanting in the common sense of na- 
ture. 
As, without shame, to sell themselves for 

pelf 
To aid the cause of darkness; murder 

man — 
Without inquiry murder, and yet call 
Their trade the trade of honor — high- 

soul'd honor — 
Yet honor shall accord in act with false- 
hood. 
0! that proud man should e'er descend 

to play 
The tempter's part, and lure men to their 

ruin ! 
Deceit and honor badly pair together. 
Seward. You have much shew of reason; 

yet, methinks 
What you suggest of one, whom fickle- 

Fortune, 
In her changeling mood, hath hurl'd, un- 

pitying. 
From her topmost height to lowest mis- 
ery, 
Tastes not of charity. Andre, I mean. 
M'Donald. I mean him, too; sunk by 

misdeed, not fortune. 
Fortune and chance, 0, most convenient 

words ! 
Man runs the wild career of blind ambi- 
tion. 
Plunges in vice, takes falsehood for his 

buoy. 
And when he feels the waves of ruin 

o'er him. 
Curses, "in good set terms,'' poor Lady 

Fortune, 



WILLIAM DUNLAP 



91 



General. {Sportively to Seward.) His 
mood is all untoward; let us leave 
him. 

The' he maj^ think that he is bound to 
rail, 

We are not bound to hear him. {To 
M'DoNALD.) Grant you that? 
M'DoNALD. 0, freely, freely! You I 

never rail on. 
General. No thanks for that; youVe 

courtesy for office. 
M'DoNALD. You slander me. 
General. Slander that would not wound. 

Worthy M'Donald, though it suits full 
well 

The virtuous man to frown on all mis- 
deeds, 

Yet ever keep in mind that man is frail ; 

His tide of passion struggling still with 
Reason's 

Fair and favorable gale, and adverse 

Driving his unstable Bark upon the 

Rocks of error. Should he sink thus 
shipwreck'd, 

Sure, it is not Virtue's voice that tri- 
umphs 

In his ruin. I must seek rest. Adieu! 
{Exeunt General and Seward.) 
M'Donald. Both good and great thou 
art; first among men; 

By nature, or by early habit, grac'd 

With that blest quality which gives due 
force 

To every faculty, and keeps the mind 

In healthful equipoise, ready for action; 

Invaluable temperance — by all 

To be acquired, yet scarcely known to 
any. {Exit.) 

END OF THE FIRST ACT. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene, a Prison. Andre discovered, in a 
pensive posture, sitting at a table; a 
hook by him and candles; his dress neg- 
lected, his hair dishevelled; he rises and 
comes forward. 

Andre. Kind Heaven be thank'd for that 
I stand alone 

In this sad hour of life's brief pilgrim- 
age! 

Single in misery; no one else involving. 

In grief, in shame, and ruin. 'T is my 
comfort. 

Thou, my thrice honor'd sire, in peace 
went'st down 



Unto the tomb, nor knew to blush, nor 
knew - 

A pang for me. And thou, revered 
matron, 

Could'st bless thy child, and yield thy 
breath in peace! 

No wife shall weep, no child lament my 
loss. 

Thus may I consolation find in what 

Was once my woe. I little thought to 
joy 

In not possessing, as I erst possest. 

Thy love, Honora! Andre's death, per- 
haps. 

May cause a cloud pass o'er thy lovely 
face; 

The pearly tear may steal from either 
eye; 

For thou mayest feel a transient pang, 
nor wrong 

A husband's rights: more than a tran- 
sient pang 

mayest thou never feel! The mom 

draws nigh 
To light me to my shame. Frail nature 

shrinks — 
And is death then so fearful? I have 

brav'd 
Him, fearless, in the field, and steel'd my 

breast 
Against his thousand horrors; but his 

cool, 
His sure approach, requires a fortitude 
Which naught but conscious rectitude 

can give. 

{Retires, and sits leaning.) 

{Enter Bland, unperceived by Andre.) 

Bland. And is that Andre? 0, how 
changed ! Alas ! 
Where is that martial fire, that generous 

warmth. 
Which glow'd his manly countenance 

throughout. 
And gave to every look, to every act. 
The tone of high chivalrous animation? 
Andre, my friend, look up ! 
Andre. Who calls me friend? 

Bland. Young Arthur Bland. 
Andre. {Rising.) That name sounds like 
a friend's. {With emotion.) 

1 have inquired for thee — wish'd much 

to see thee — 
I prythee take no note of these fool's 

tears — 
My heart was full — and seeing thee — 
Bland. {Embracing him.) Andre! 

I have but now arrived from the South—' 



92 



ANDRE 



Nor heard — till now — of this — I cannot 
speak. 

Is this a place? — 0, thus to find my 
friend ! 
Andre. Still dost thou call me friend? 
I, who dared act 

Against my reason, my declared opinion ; 

Against my conscience and a soldier's 
fame? 

Oft in the generous heat of glowing 
youth. 

Oft have I said how fully I despis'd 

All bribery base, all treacherous tricks 
in war: 

Rather my blood should bathe these hos- 
tile shores, 

And have it said, "he died a gallant sol- 
dier," 

Than with my country's gold encourage 
treason. 

And thereby purchase gratitude and 
fame. 
Bland. Still mayest thou say it, for thy 

heart 's the same. 
Andre. Still is my heart the same, still 
may I say it; 

But now my deeds will rise against my 
words ; 

And should I dare to talk of honest truth, 

Frank undissembling pro])it3^ and faith, 

Memory would crimson o'er my burning 
cheek, 

And actions retrospected choak the tale. 

Still is my heart the same. But there 
has past 

A dav, an hour, which ne'er can be re- 
call'd. 

Unhappy man! Tho' all thy life pass 
pure; 

Mark'd by benevolence thy every deed; 

The out-spread map, which shows the 
way thou 'st trod, 

Without one devious track or doubtful 
line ; 

It all avails thee naught, if in one hour. 

One hapless hour, thy feet are led 
astray ; — 

Thy happy deeds all blotted from re- 
membrance ; 

Cancel'd the record of thy former good. 

Is it not hard, my friend ? Is 't not un- 
just? 
Bland. Not every record cancel'd. — 0, 
there are hearts 

Where Virtue's image, when 'tis once 
engraved. 

Can never know erasure. 
Andre. Generous Bland! 

(Takes his hand.) 



The hour draws nigh which ends my 
life's sad story. 

I should be firm — 
Bland. By heaven, thou shalt not die! 

Thou dost not sure deserve it. Betray'd, 
perhaps — 

Condemn'd without due circumstance 
made known? 

Thou didst not mean to tempt our offi- 
cers? 

Betray our yeoman soldiers to destruc- 
tion? 

Silent ! Nay, then 't was from a duteous 
wish 

To serve the cause thou wast in honor 
bound. — 
Andre. Kind is my Bland, who to his 
generous heart 

Still finds excuses for his erring friend. 

Attentive hear and judge me. — 

Pleas'd with the honors daily shower'd 
upon me, 

I glow'd with martial heat my name to 
raise 

Above the vulgar herd, who live to die. 

And die to be forgotten. Thus I stood, 

When avarice or ambition Arnold 
tempted, 

His country, fame, and honor to betray, 

Linking his name to infamy eternal. 

In confidence it w^as to me proposed 

To plan with him the means which should 
ensure 

Thy country's downfall. Nothing then 
I saw 

But confidential favor in the service. 

My country's glory, and my mounting 
fame; 

Forgot my former purity of thought, 

And high-ton'd honor's scruples disre- 
garded. 
Bland. It was thy duty so to serve thy 

country. 
Andre. Nay, nay; be cautious ever to ad- 
mit 

That duty can beget dissimulation. 

On ground, unoccupied by either part, 

Neutral esteem'd, I landed, and was met. 

But ere my conference was with Arnold 
clos'd. 

The day began to dawn; I then was told 

That till the night I must my safety seek 

In close concealment. Within your 
posts convey'd, 

I found myself involved in unthought 
dangers. 

Night came. I sought the vessel which 
had borne 

Me to the fatal spot; but she was gone. 



WILLIAM DUNLAP 



93 



Retreat that way cut oft', again I sought 
Concealment with the traitors of your 

army. 
Arnold now granted passes, and I doff'd 
My martial garb, and put on curs'd dis- 
guise. 
Thus in a peasant's form I pass'd your 

posts ; 
And when, as I conceiv'd, my danger 

o'er, 
Was stopt and seiz'd by some returning 

scouts. 
So did ambition lead me, step by step. 
To treat with traitors, and encourage 

treason ; 
And then, bewilder'd in the guilty scene, 
To quit my martial designating badges. 
Deny my name, and sink into the spy. 
Bland. Thou didst no more than was a 

soldier's duty. 
To serve the part on which he drew his 

sword. 
Thou shalt not die for this. Straight 

wdll I fly— 
I surely shall prevail — 
Andre. It is in vain. 

All has been tried. Each friendly argu- 
ment — 
Bland. All has not yet been tried. The 

powerful voice 
Of friendship in thy cause has not been 

heard. 
My General favors me, and loves my 

father — 
My gallant father! would that he were 

here! 
But he, perhaps, now wants an Andre's 

care, 
To cheer his hours — perhaps now lan- 
guishes 
Amidst those horrors whence thou sav'd'st 

his son. 
The present moment claims my thought. 

Andre, 
I fly to save thee ! 
Andre. Bland, it is in vain. 

But, hold — there is a service thou may'st 

do me. 
Bland. Speak it. 

Andre. 0, think, and as a soldier think, 
How I must die — the manner of my 

death — 
Like the base rufi&an, or the midnight 

thief, 
Ta'en in the act of stealing from the 

poor. 
To be turn'd off the felon's — murderers 

cart, 
A mid-air spectacle to gaping clowns; — 



To run a short, an envied course of 
glory, ' 

And end it on a gibbet. — 
Bland. Damnation ! 

Andre. Such is my doom. 0, have the 
manner changed, 

And of mere death I '11 think not. Dost 
thou think—? 

Perhaps thou canst gain that — ? 
Bland. {Almost in a plirenzy.) Thou 

shalt not die. 
Andre. Let me, 0, let me die a soldier's 
death. 

While friendly clouds of smoke shroud 
from all eyes 

My last convulsive pangs, and I 'm con- 
tent. 
Bland. {With increasing emotion.) Thou 
shalt not die ! Curse on the laws of 
war! 

If worth like thine must thus be sacri- 
ficed 

To pohcy so cruel and unjust, 

I will forswear my country and her 
service ; 

I '11 hie me to the Briton, and with fire, 

And sword, and every instrument of 
death 

Or devastation, join in the work of war! 

What! shall worth weigh for nought ? I 
will avenge thee! 
Andre. Hold, hold, my friend; thy coun- 
try's woes are full. 

What! wouldst thou make me cause an- 
other traitor? 

No more of this; and, if I die, believe 
me. 

Thy country for my death incurs no 
blame. 

Restrain thy ardor — but ceaselessly en- 
treat 

That Andre may at least die as he lived, 

A soldier. 

Bland. By heaven thou shalt not die ! 

(Bland rushes off; Andre looks after 

him wit] I an expression of love and 

gratitude, then retires up the stage. 

Scene closes.) 



Scene, the General's Quarters. 

{Enter M'Donald and Seward, in conver- 
sation.) 

M'DoNALD. {Coming forward.) Three 
thousand miles the Atlantic wave 
rolls on, 



94 



ANDRfi 



Whicli bathed Columbia's shores, ere, on 
the strand 

Of Europe, or of Africa, their conti- 
nents, 

Or sea-girt isles, it chafes. 
Seward. 0, would to heaven 

That in midway between these sever'd 
worlds 

Rose barriers, all impassable to man. 

Cutting off intercourse, till either side 

Had lost all memory of the other! 
M'DoNALD. What spur now goads thy 

warm imagination? 
Seward. Then might, perhaps, one land 
on earth be found, 

Free from th' extremes of poverty and 
riches ; 

Where ne'er a scepter'd tyrant should be 
known, 

Or tyrant lordling, curses of creation; — 

Where the faint shrieks of woe-exhausted 
age. 

Raving, in feeble madness, o'er the corse 

Of a polluted daughter, stained by lust 

Of viand-pampered luxury, might ne'er 
be heard; 

Where the blasted form of much abused 

Beauty, by villany seduced, by knowl- 
edge 

All unguarded, might ne'er be viewed, 
flitting 

Obscene, 'tween lamp and lamp, i' th' 
midnight street 

Of all-defiling city; where the child — 
M'DoNALD. Hold! Shroud thy raven im- 
agination. 

Torture not me with images so curst! 
Seward. Soon shall our foes, inglorious, 
fly these shores. 

Peace shall again return. Then Eu- 
rope's ports 

Sliall pour a herd upon us, far more fell 

Than those, her mercenary sons, who now 

Threaten our sore chastisement. 
M'DoNALD. -Prophet of ill, 

From Europe shall enriching commerce 
flow. 

And many an ill attendant; but from 
thence 

Shall likewise flow blest science. Eu- 
rope's knowledge. 

By sharp experience bought, we should 
appropriate ; 

Striving thus to leap from that simplic- 
ity, 

With ignorance curst, to that simplicity, 

By knowledge blest; unknown the gulf 
between. 
Seward. Mere theoretic dreaming. 



M'DoNALD. Blest wisdom 

Seems, from out the chaos of the social 
world, 

Where good and ill in strange commix- 
ture float, 

To rise, by strong necessity impell'd; 

Starting, like Love divine, from womb of 
Night, 

Illuming all, to order all reducing; 

And showing by its bright and noontide 
blaze 

That happiness alone proceeds from jus- 
tice. 
Seward. Dreams, dreams ! Man can know 

naught but ill on earth. 
M'DoNALD. I '11 to my bed, for I have 
watch'd all night; 

And may my sleep give pleasing repeti- 
tion 

Of these my waking dreams! Virtue's 
incentives. (Exit.) 

Seward. Folly's chimeras rather: guides 
to error. 

{Enter Bland, preceded hy a Sergeant.) 

Sergeant. Pacquets for the General. 

(Exit.) 
Bland. Seward, my friend! 

Seward. Captain, I 'm glad to see the hue 
of health 
Sit on a visage from the sallow south. 
Bland. The lustihood of youth hath yet 
defied 
The parching sun, and chilling dew of 

even. 
The General— Seward— ? 
Seward. I will lead you to him. 

Bland. Seward, I must make bold. Leave 
us together. 
When occasion offers. 'T will be friendly. 
Seward. I will not cross your purpose. 

(Exeunt. y. 



Scene, a Chamber . 

(Enter Mrs. Bland.) 

Mrs. Bland. Yes, ever be this day a fes- 
tival 
In my domestic calendar. This mom 
Will see my husband free. Even now^ 

perhaps. 
Ere yet Aurora flies the eastern hills, 
Shunning the sultry sun, my Bland em- 
barks. 
Already, on the Hudson's dancing wave, 
He chides the sluggish rowers, or suppli- 
cates 



WILLIAM DUNLAP 



95 



For gales propitious ; that bis eager arms 

May clasp his wife, may bless his little 
ones. 

0, bow the tide of joy makes my heart 
bound, 

Glowing with high and ardent expecta- 
tion ! 

{Enter two Children.) 

First Child. Here we are, Mamma, up, 
and dress'd already. 

Mrs. Bland. And why were ye so early? 

First Child. Why, did not you tell us 
that Papa was to be home to-day ? 

Mrs. Bland. I said, perhaps. 

•Second Child. (Disappointed.) Perhaps! 

First Child. I don't like perhaps's. 

►Second Child. No, nor I neither; nor 
"may-be-so's." 

Mrs. Bland. We make not certainties, 
my pretty loves ; 
I do not like "perhaps's" more than you 
do. 

Second Child. 0, don't say so. Mama! 
for I 'm sure I hardly ever ask you 
anything but you answer me with "may 
be so," — "perhaps," — or "very likely." 
"Mamma, shall I go to the camp to-mor- 
row, and see the General?" "May be so, 
my dear." Hang "may be so," say I ! 

Mrs. Bland. Well said, Sir Pertness! 

First Child. But I am sure, Mama, you 
said, that, to-day. Papa would have his 
liberty. 

Mrs. Bland. So your dear father, by his 
letters, told me. 

Second Child. Why, then, I am sure he 
will be here to-day. When he can come 
to us, I 'm sure he will not stay among 
those strange Englishmen and Hessians. 
I often wish'd that I had wings to lly, 
for then I would soon be with him. 

Mrs. Bland. Dear boy! 

{Enter Servant, and gives a letter to 
Mrs. Bland.) 

Servant. An express. Madam, from New 
York to Head-quarters, in passing, deliv- 
ered this. 
Second Child. Papa's coming home to- 
day, John. 

{Exeunt Servant and Children.) 
Mrs. Bland. What fears assail me! 0, 
I did not want 
A letter now ! 

{She reads in great agitation, exclaim- 
ing, while her eyes are fixed on the 
paper:) 



My husband ! doomed to die ! 
Retaliation ! 
{She looks forward with wildness, con- 
sternation, and horror.) 
To die, if Andre dies! He dies to-day! 
My husband to be murdered! And to- 
day! 
To-day, if Andre dies! Retaliation! 

curst contrivance! Madness relieve 

me! 

Burst, burst, my brain! Yet — Andre is 
not dead; 

My husband lives. {Looks at the let- 
ter.) "One man has power." 

1 fly to save the father of my children! 

{Rushes out.) 

end of the second act. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene, the General's quarters. The Gen- 
eral and Bland come forward. 

General. {Papers in his hand.) Cap- 
tain, you are noted here with hon- 
orable 

Praises. Depend upon that countenance 

From me, which you have prov'd your- 
self so richly 

Meriting. Both for your father's virtues 

And your own, your country owes you 
honor — 

The sole return the poor can make for 
service. 
Bland. If from my country ought I 've 
merited. 

Or gain'd the approbation of her cham- 
pion. 

At any other time I should not dare. 

Presumptuously, to show my sense of it; 

But now my tongue, all shameless, dares 
to name 

The boon, the precious recompense, I 
wish, 

Which, granted, pays all service, past or 
future, 

O'erpays the utmost I can e'er achieve. 
General. Brief, my young friend, briefly, 

your purpose. 
Bland. If I have done my duty as a sol- 
dier ; 

If I have brav'd all dangers for my coun- 
try; 

If my brave father has deserved aught; 

Call all to mind — and cancel all — but 
grant 

My one request — mine, and humanity's. 



96 



ANDRfi 



General. Be less profuse of words, and 
name your wish; 

If fit, its titness is the best assurance 

That not in vain you sue; but, if unjust. 

Thy merits, nor the merits of thy race, 

Cannot its nature alter, nor my mind, 

From its determined opposition change. 
Bland. You hold the fate of my most 
lov'd of friends; 

As gallant soldier as e'er fac'd a foe, 

Bless'd with each polish'd gift of social 
life, 

And every virtue of humanity. 
. To me, a savior from the pit of death, 

To me, and many more, my countrymen. 

Oh, could my words pourtray him Avliat 
he is! 

Bring to your mind the blessings of his 
deeds, 

"While thro' the fever-heated, loathsome 
holds 

Of floating hulks, dungeons obscene, 
where ne'er 

The dewy breeze of morn, or evening's 
coolness, 

Breath'd on our parching skins, he 
pass'd along, 

Diffusing blessings; still liis power ex- 
erting. 

To alleviate the woes which ruthless war. 

Perhaps thro' dire necessity, lieap'd on 
us; 

Surely the scene would move you to for- 
get 

His late intent — (tho' only serving then 

As duty prompted) — and turn the rigor 

Of War's iron law from him, the best of 
men. 

Meant only for the worst. 
General. Captain, no more. 

Bland. If Andre lives, the prisoner finds 
a friend; 

Else helpless and forlorn — 

All men will bless the act, and bless thee 
for it. 
General. Think'st thou thy country 
would not curse the man 

Who, by a clemency ill-tim'd, ill-judg'd, 

Encourag'd treason? That pride en- 
courag'd. 

Which, by denying us the rights of na- 
tions, 

Hath caus'd those ills which thou hast 
now pourtray'd? 

Our prisoners, brave and generous peas- 
antry, 

As rebels have been treated, not as men. 

'T is mine, brave yeomen, to assert your 
rights; 



'T is mine to teach the foe, that, though 
array'd 

In rude simplicity, ye yet are men. 

And rank among the foremost. Oft 
their scouts. 

The very refuse of the English arms, 

Unquestion'd, have our countrymen con- 
sign'd 

To death, when captur'd, mocking their 
agonies. 
Bland. Curse them! {Checking himself .) 
Yet, let not censure fall on Andre. 

0, there are Englishmen as brave, as 
good. 

As ever land on earth might call its own ; 

And gallant Andre is among the best! 
General. Since they have hurl'd war on 
us, we must show 

That by the laws of war we will abide; 

And have the power to bring their acts 
for trial 

To that tribunal, eminent 'mongst men. 

Erected by the policy of nations. 

To stem the flood of ills, which else fell 
war 

Would pour, uncheck'd, upon the sicken- 
ing world, 

Sweeping away all trace of civil life. 
Bland. To pardon him would not encour- 
age ill. 

His case is singular; his station high; 

His qualities admir'd; his virtues lov'd. 
General. No more, my good young 
friend: it is in vain. 

The men entrusted with thy country's 
rights 

Have weigh'd, attentive, every circum- 
stance. 

An individual's virtue is by them 

As highly prized as it can be by thee. 

I know the virtues of this man and love^ 
them. 

But the destiny of millions, millions 

Yet unborn, depends upon the rigor 

Of this moment. The haughty Briton 
laughs 

To scorn our armies and our councils. 
Mercy, 

Humanity, call loudly, that we make 

Our now despised power be felt, vindic- 
tive. 

Millions demand the death of this young 
man. 

My injur'd country, he his forfeit life 

Must yield, to shield thy lacerated breast 

From torture. {To Bland.) Thy mer- 
its are not overlook'd. 

Promotion shall immediately attend thee. 
Bland. {With contemptuous irony.) Par- 



WILLIAM DUNLAP 



97 



don me, sir, I never shall deserve it. 
{With increasing heat.) The country 
that forgets to reverence virtue; 

That makes no difference 'twixt the sor- 
did wretch 

Who, for reward, risks treason's penalty, 

And him unfortunate, whose duteous 
service 

Is, by mere accident, so chang'd in form 

As to assume guilt's semblance, I serve 
not: 

Scorn to serve. I have a soldier's honor, 

But 't is in union with a freeman's judg- 
ment, 

And wlien I act, both prompt. Thus 
from my helm 

I tear what once I proudly thought, the 
badge 

Of virtuous fellowship. {Tears tJie 
cockade from his helmet.) My 
sword I keep. {Puts on his helmet.) 

Would, Andre, thou hadst never put 
thine off. 

Then hadst thou through opposers' hearts 
made way 

To liberty, or bravely pierc'd thine own ! 

{Exit.) 
General. Rash, headstrong, maddening 
boy ! 

Had not this action past without a wit- 
ness. 

Duty would ask that thou shouldst rue 
thy folly— 

But, for the motive, be the deed forgot- 
ten. {Exit.) 



ScEXE, a Village. At a distance some 
tents. In front muskets, drums, and 
other indications of soldiers' quarters. 

{Enter Mrs. Bland and Children, at- 
tended by Melville.) 

Melville. The General's doors to you are 
ever open. 
But why, mv worthy friend, this agita- 
tion? 
Our colonel, your husband — 
Mrs. Bland. {In tears, gives him the let- 
ter.) Read, Melville. 
First Child. Do not cry, Mama, for 
I 'm sure if Papa said he w^ould come 
home to-day, he will come yet ; for he al- 
ways does what he says he will. 
Mrs. Bland. He cannot come, dear love; 

they will not let him. 
Second Child. Why, then, they told him 
lies. 0, fye upon them! 



Melville. {Returning the letter.) Fear 
nothing,* Madam, 'tis an empty 
threat : 

A trick of policy. They dare not do it. 
Mrs. Bland. Alas, alas! what dares not 
power to do? 

What art of reasoning, or what magic 
words. 

Can still the storm of fears these lines 
have raised? 

The w^ife's, the mother's fears? Ye in- 
nocents. 

Unconscious on the brink of what a 
perilous 

Precipice ye stand, unknowing that to- 
day 

Ye are cast down the gulph, poor babes, 
ye weep 

From sympathy. Children of sorrow, 
nurst, 
. Nurtur'd, 'midst camps and arms; un- 
knowing man. 

But as man's fell destroyer; must ye 
now, 

To crown your piteous fate, be father- 
less? 

0, lead me, lead me to him! Let me 
kneel. 

Let these, my children, kneel, till Andre, 
pardon'd, 

Ensures to me a husband, them a father. 
Melville. Madam, duty forbids further 
attendance. 

I am on guard to-day. But see your 
son; 

To him I leave your guidance. Good 
wishes 

Prosper you. {Exit Melville.) 

{Enter Bland.) 

Mrs. Bland. My Arthur, my Arthur! 
Bland. My mother! {Embracing her.) 
Mrs. Bland. My son, I have been wishing 
For you — 

(Bursts into tears, unable to proceed.) 
Bland. But whence this grief, these tears, 
my mother? 
Why are these little cheeks bedew'd with 
sorrow ? 
{lie kisses the children, who exclaim, 
Brother, brother!) 
Have I done aught to cause a mother's 
sadness? 
Mrs. Bland. No, my brave boy! I oft 
have fear'd, but never 
Sorrow'd for thee. 
Bland. High praise! Then bless me, 
Madam ; 



ANDRE 



For I have pass'd through many a bus- 
tling scene 

Since I have seen a father or a mother. 
Mrs, Blanu. Bless thee, my boy! 0, 
bless him, bless him, Heaven! 

Render him worthy to support these 
babes, 

So soon, perhaps, all fatherless — de- 
pendant. 
Bland. What mean'st thou, Madam? 

Why these tears? 
Mrs. Bland. Thy father — 

Bland. A prisoner of war — I long have 
known it — 

But made so without blemish to his 
honor, 

And soon exchang'd, returns unto his 
friends, 

To guard these little ones, and point and 
lead 

To virtue and to glory. 
Mrs. Bland. Never, never! 

His life, a sacrifice to Andre's manes,^ 

Must soon be offer'd. Even now, en- 
dungeon'd, 

Like a vile felon on the earth he lies, 

His death expecting. Andre's execution 

Gives signal for the murder of thy fa- 
ther — 

Andre now dies! 
Bland. {Despairingly.) My father and 

my friend! 
Mrs. Bland. There is but one on earth 
can save my husband — 

But one can pardon Andre. 
Bland. Haste, my mother! 

Tliou wilt prevail. Take with thee in 
each hand 

An unoffending child of him thou 
weep'st. 

Save — save them both! This way — 
haste — lean on me. {Exeunt.) 

Scene, the General's Quarters. 

{Enter the General and M'Donald.) 

General. Here have I intimation from 
the foe, 
That still they deem the spy we have 

condemn'd, 
Merely a captive; by the laws of arms 
From death protected; and retahation, 
As tliey term it, threaten, if we our pur- 
pose hold. 
Bland is the victim they have singled out, 
Hoping his threaten'd death will Andre 

save. 

1 Shade. 



M'Donald. If I were Bland I boldly 

might advise 
My General how to act. Free, and in 

safety, 
I will now suppose my counsel needless. 

{Enter an American Officer.) 

Officer. Another flag hath from the foe 
arrived. 
And craves admittance. 
General. Conduct it hither. 

{Exit Officer.) 
Let us, unwearied hear, unbias'd judge, 
Whate'er against our martial court's de- 
cision, 
Our enemies can bring. 

{Enter British Officer^ conducted by the 
American Officer.) 

General. You are welcome, sir. 

What further says Sir Henry? 
British Officer. This from him. 

He calls on you to think what weighty 
woes 

You now are busy bringing on your 
country. 

He bids me say, that if your sentence 
reach 

The prisoner's life (prisoner of arms he 
deems him, 

And no spjO on him alone it falls not. 

He bids me loud proclaim it: and declare, 

If this brave officer, Ijy cruel mockery 

Of war's stem law, and justice' feign'd 
pretence. 

Be murder'd; the sequel of our strife, 
bloody. 

Unsparing and remorseless, you will 
make. 

Think of the many captives in our 
power. 

Already one is mark'd; for Andre 
mark'd ; — 

And when his death, unparallel'd in war, 

The signal gives, then Colonel Bland 
must die. 
General. 'T is well, sir; bear this mes- 
sage in return. 

Sir Henry Clinton knows the laws of 
arms: 

He is a soldier, and, I think, a brave one. 

The prisoners he retains he must account 
for. 

Perhaps the reckoning 's near. I, like- 
wise, am 

A soldier; entrusted by my country. 

What I shall judge most for that coun- 
try's good, 



WILLIAM DUNLAP 



99 



When doubtful, I con- 
never her ene- 



That shall I do. 
suit 

My country's friends 
mies. 

In Andre's case there are no doubts ; 't is 
clear : 

Sir Henry Clinton knows it. 
British Officer. Weigh consequences. 
General. In strict regard to consequence 
I act; 

And much should doubt to call that ac- 
tion right, 

Howe'er specious, whose apparent end 

Was misery to man. That brave officer 

Whose death you threaten, for himself 
drew not 

His sword — his country's wrongs arous'd 
his mind; 

Her good alone his aim; and if his fall 

Can further fire that country to resist- 
ance, 

He will, with smiles, yield up his glorious 
life. 

And count his death a gain; and tho' 
Columbians 

Will lament his fall, they will lament in 
blood. 

(General walks up the stage.) 
M'DoNALD. Hear this, hear this, man- 
kind! 
British Officer. Thus am I answered? 

{Enter a Sergeant with a letter.) 

Sergeant. Express from Colonel Bland. 
(Delivers it and exit.) 
General. With your permission. 

(Opens it.) 
British Officer. Your pleasure, sir. It 

may my mission further. 
M'Donald. Bland, my countryman, 

surely I know thee! 
General. 'T is short; I will put form 

aside, and read it. 
(Reads.) ''Excuse me, my Commander, 
for having a moment doubted your vir- 
tue; but you love me. If you waver, let 
this confirm you. My wife and children, 
to you and my country. Do your duty.'' 
Report this to your General. 
British Officer. I shall, sir. 

(Bows, and exit with American Of- 
ficer. ) 
General. Bland, my countryman! 

(Exit, with emotion.) 
M'Donald. Triumph of virtue! 

Like him and thee, still be Americans. 
Then, tho' all-powerful Europe league 
against us, 



And pour in arms her legions on our 
shores ; - 

Who is so dull would doubt their shame- 
ful flight? 

Who doubt our safety, and our glorious 
triumph ? 



Scene, the Prison. 

(Enter Bland.) 

Bland. Lingering, I come to crush the 
bud of hope 
My breath has, flattering, to existence 

warmed. 
Hard is the task to friendship! hard to 

say 
To the lov'd object, there remains no 

hope, 
No consolation for thee ; thou must die 
The worst of deaths, no circumstance 
abated. 
(Enter Andre, in his uniform and 
dress' d. ) 
Andre. Is there that state on earth which 

friendship cannot cheer? 
Bland. Little I bring to cheer thee, 

Andre. 
Andre. I understand. 'T is well. 'T will 
soon be past. 
Yet, 'twas not much I asked. A sol- 
dier's death, 
A trifling change of form. 
Bland. Of that I spoke not. 

By vehemence of passion hurried on, 
I pleaded for thy precious life alone; 
The which denied, my indignation barr'd 
All further parley. But strong solicita- 
tion 
Now is urg'd to gain the wish'd-for favor. 
Andre. What is 't o'clock? 
Bland. 'T is past the stroke of nine. 

Andre. Why, then, 't is almost o'er. But 
to be hung — 
Is there no way to escape that infamy ? 
What then is infamy? — no matter — no 
matter. 
Bland. Our General hath received an- 
other flag. 
Andre. Soliciting for me? 
Bland. On thy behalf. 

Andre. I have been ever favor'd. 
Bland. Threat'nings, now; 

No more solicitations. Harsh, indeed. 
The import of the message; harsh, in- 
deed. 
Andre. I am sorry for it. Would that I 
were dead. 



100 



andkS 



And all was well with those I leave be- 
hind. 
Bland. Such a threat! Is it not enough, 
just Heaven, 
That I must lose this man? Yet there 

was left 
One for my soul to rest on. But, to 

know 
That tlie same blow deprives them both 
of life— 
Andre. What mean'st thou, Bland? 

Surely my General 
Threats not retaliation. In vengeance 
Dooms not some better man to die for 

me? 
Bland. The best of men. 
Andre. Thou hast a father, captive — 

I dare not ask — 
Bland. That father dies for thee. 

Andre. Gracious Heaven, how woes are 
heap'd upon me! 
What! cannot one, so trifling in life's 

scene, 
Fall, without drawing such a ponderous 

ruin? 
Leave me, my friend, awhile — I yet have 

life— 
A little space of life — let me exert it 
To prevent injustice. — From death to 

save 
Thy father, thee to save from utter deso- 
lation. 
Bland. What mean'st thou, Andre? 
Andre. Seek thou the messenger 

Who brought this threat. I will my last 

entreaty 

Send by him. My General, sure, will 

grant it. 

Bland. To the last thyself! (Exit.) 

Andre. If, at this moment, 

Wiien the pangs of death already touch 

me. 
Firmly my mind against injustice strives, 
And the last impulse to my vital powers 
Is given by anxious wishes to redeem 
My fellow-men from pain; surely my 

end, 
Ilowe'er accomplish'd, is not infamous. 

(Exit.) 

END OP THE THIRD ACT. 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene, the Encampment. 

{Enter M'Donald and Bland.) 

Bland. It doth in truth appear, that as 
a— spy — 



Detested w^ord! — brave Andre must bv 
view'd. 

His sentence he confesses strictly just. 

Yet sure, a deed of mercy from thy 
hand, 

Could never lead to ill. By such an 
act, 

The stern and blood-stain'd brow of War 

Would be disarm'd of half its gorgon 
hoiTors ; 

More humanized customs be induced; 

And all the race of civilized man 

Yet sure, a deed of mercy, from thy 
suit; 

'T will well become thy character and 
station. 
M'Donald. Trust me, young friend, I am 
alone the judge 

Of wiiat becomes my character and sta- 
tion ; 

And having judg'd that this young Brit- 
on's death. 

Even 'though attended by thy father's 
murder, 

Is necessary, in these times accurs'd. 

When every thought of man is ting'd 
with blood, 

I will not stir my finger to redeem them. 

Nav, much I wonder. Bland, having so 
■' oft 

The reasons for this neeedsary rigor 

Enforced upon thee, thou wilt still per- 
sist 

In vain solicitations. Imitate 

Thy father! 
Bland. My father knew not Andre. 

I know his value ; owe to him my life ; 

And gratitude, that first, that best of 
virtues, — 

Without the which man sinks beneath the 
brute, — 

Binds me in ties indissoluble to him. 
M'Donald. That man-created virtue 
blinds thy reason. 

Man owes to man all love; when exer- 
cised. 

He does no more than duty. Gratitude, 

That selfish rule of action, which com- 
mands 

That we our preference make of men, 

Not for their worth, but that they did us 
service. 

Misleading reason, casting in the way 

Of justice stumbling-blocks, cannot be 
virtue. 
Bland. Detested sophistry! 'T was An- 
dre sav'd me. 
M'Donald. He sav'd thy life, and thou 
art grateful for it. 



WILLIAM DUNLAP 



10] 



How self intrudes, delusive, on man's 
thoughts. 

He sav'd thy life, yet strove to damn thy 
country ; 

Doom'd millions to the haughty Briton's 
yoke; 

The best and foremost in the cause of 
virtue 

To death, by sword, by prison, or the 
halter ; 

His sacrifice now stands the only bar . 

Between the wanton cruelties of war 

And our much-suffering soldiers; yet 
when weigh'd 

With gratitude, for that he sav'd thy 
life, 

These things prove gossamer, and bal- 
ance air; — 

Perversion monstrous of man's moral 
sense ! 
Bland. Rather perversion monstrous of 
all good 

Is thy accurs'd, detestable opinion. 

Cold-blooded reasoners, such as thee, 
would blast 

All warm affection ; asunder sever 

Every social tie of humanized man. 

Curst be thy sophisms, cunningly con- 
triv'd 

The callous coldness of thy heart to cover, 

And screen thee from the brave man's 
detestation ! 
M'DoNALD. Boy, boy! 
Bland. Thou knowest that Andre 's not 

a spy. 
M'DoNALD. I know him one. Thou hast 

acknowledg'd it. 
Bland. Thou liest! 

M'DoNALD. Shame on thy ruffian tongue! 
How passion 

Mars thee! I pity thee. Thou canst 
not harm, 

By words intemperate, a virtuous man. 

I pity thee ; for passion sometimes sways 

My older frame, through former un- 
check'd habit; 

But when I see the havoc which it makes 

In others, I can shun the snare ac- 
curst, 

And nothing feel but pity. 
Bland. (Indignantly.) Pity me! {Ap- 
proaches him, and speaks in an un- 
der voice.) 

Thou canst be cool, yet, trust me, passion 
sways thee. 

Fear does not warm the blood, yet 't is 
a passion. 

Hast thou no feeling? I have call'd thee 
liarl 



M'Donald. If thou could'st make me one, 

I then might grieve. 
Bland. Thy coolness goes to freezing; 

thou 'rt a coward ! 
M'Donald. Thou knowest thou tell'st a 

falsehood. 
Bland. Thou shalt know 

None with impunity speaks thus of me. 
That to rouse thy courage! {Touches 
him gently with his open hand, in 
crossing him. M'Donald looks at 
him unmoved.) Dost thou not 

yet feel? 
M'Donald. For thee I feel. And, tho' 
another's acts 
Cast no dishonor on the worthy man, 
I still feel for thy father. Yet, remem- 
ber, 
I may not, haply, ever be thus guarded; 
I may not always the distinction make, 
However just, between the blow intended 
To provoke, and one that 's meant to 
injure. 
Bland. Hast thou no sense of honor? 
M'Donald. Truly, yes: 

For I am honor's votary. Honor, with 

me, 
Is worth; 'tis truth; 'tis virtue; 'tis a 

thing 
So high preeminent, that a boy's breath, 
Or brute's, or madman's blow can never 

reach it. 
My honor is so much, so truly mine. 
That none hath power to wound it, save 
myself. 
Bland. I will proclaim thee through the 

camp a coward. 
M'Donald. Think better of it. Proclaim 

not thine own shame. 
Bland. I '11 brand thee, — damnation ! 

{Exit.) 

M'Donald. passion, passion! 

A man who values fame far more than 

life; 
A brave young man; in many things a 

good; 
Utters vile falsehoods; adds injury to 

insult ; 
Striving with blood to seal such foul 

injustice; 
And all from impulse of unbridled feel- 
ing. {Pause.) 
Here comes the mother of this head- 
strong boy. 
Severely rack'd. What shall allay her 

torture ? 
For common consolation, 7? erf, is insult. 

(Enter Mrs. Bland and Children.) 



102 



ANDRE 



Mrs. Bland. my good friend! 
M'DoNALD. (Taking her hand.) 

I know thy cause of sorrow. 
Art thou now from our Commander? 
Mrs. Bland. {Drying her tears and as- 
suming dignity.) I am. 
But vain is my entreaty. All unmov'd 
He hears my words, he sees my desperate 

sorrow. 
Fain would I blame his conduct, — but I 

cannot. 
Strictly examin'd, with intent to mark 
The error which so fatal proves to me^ 
My scrutiny but ends in admiration. 
Thus when the prophet from the hills of 

Moab, 
Look'd down upon the chosen race of 

Heaven, 
With fell intent to curse, ere yet he 

spake. 
Truth all resistless, emanation bright 
From great Adonai, fill'd his froward 

mind. 
And chang'd the curses of his heart to 
blessings. 
M'DoNALD. Thou payest high praise to 

virtue. Whither now? 
Mrs. Bland. I still must hover round this 
spot until 
My doom is known. 
M'DoNALD. Then to my quarters, lady; 

There shall my mate give comfort and 

refreshment : 
One of your sex can best your sorrows 



soothe. 



(Exeunt.) 



Scene, the prison. 



(Enter Bland.) 

Bland. Where'er I look, cold desolation 
meets me. 

My father — Andre — and self-condemna- 
tion. 

Why seek I Andre now? Am I a man 

To soothe the sorrows of a suffering 
friend? 

The weather-cock of passion! fool ine- 
briate ! 

Who could with ruffian hand strive to 
provoke 

Hoar wisdom to intemperance ! who could 
lie! 

Aye, swagger, lie, and brag! — Liar! 
Damnation ! 

0, let me steal away and hide my head, 

Nor view a man, condemned to harshest 
death, 



Whose words and actions, wiien by mine 

compar'd. 
Show white as innocence and bright as 

truth. 
I now would shun him, but that his 

shorten'd 
Thread of life gives me no line to play 

with. 
He comes with smiles, and all the air of 

triumph. 
While I am sinking with remorse and 

shame ; 
Yet he is doom'd to death, and I am 

free. 

(Enter Andre.) 

Andre. Welcome, my Bland! Cheerly, a 
welcome hither! 

I feel assurance that my last request 

Will not be slighted. Safely thy father 

Shall leturn to thee. (Holding out a 
paper.) See what employment 

For a dying man. Take thou these 
verses ; 

And, after my decease, send them to her 

Whose name is woven in them; whose 
image 

Hath controul'd my destiny. Such to- 
kens 

Are rather out of date. Fashions 

There are in love as in all else; they 
change 

As variously. A gallant knight, ere- 
while. 

Of Coeur de Lion's day, would, dying, 
send 

His heart home to its mistress; degen- 
erate 

Soldier, I send but some blotted paper. 
Bland. If 't would not damp thy present 
cheerfulness, 

I would require the meaning of thy 
words. 

I ne'er till now did hear of Andre's mis- 
tress. 
Andre. Mine is a story of that common 
kind, 

So often told, with scanty variation, 

That the pall'd ear loaths the repeated 
tale. 

Each young romancer chuses for his 
theme 

The Avoes of youthful hearts, by the cold 
hand 

Of frosty age, armVl with parental 
power. 

Asunder torn. But I long since have 
ceas'd 

To mourn; well satisfied that she I love, 



WILLIAM DUNLAP 



103 



Happy in holy union with another, 
Shares not my wayward fortunes. Nor 

would I 
Now these tokens send, remembrance to 

awaken, 
But that I know her happy; and the 

happy 
Can think on misery and share it not. 
Bland. (Agitated. ) 

Some one approaches. 
Andre. Why, 't is near the time ! 

But tell me, Bland, say, — is the manner 
chang'd? 
Bland. I hope it, but I yet have no as- 
surance. 
Andre, Well, well! 
HoNORA. (Without.) I must see him. 
Andre. Whose voice was that? 

My senses! — Do I dream? (Leans on 
Bland.) 

(Enter Honora.) 

HoNORA. Where is he? 

Andre. 'T is she! 

(Starts from Bland and advances to- 
wards Honora; she rushes into his 
arms.) 
Honora. It is enough! He lives, and I 
shall save him. 
(She faints in the arms of Andre.) 
Andre. She sinks — assist me, Bland! 0, 
save her, save her! 
(Places her in a chair and looks ten- 
derly on her.) 
Yet, why should she awake from that 

sweet sleep? 
Why should she ope her eyes — (wildly) 

— to see me hung ! 
What does she here? Stand o&— (ten- 
derly) — and let her die. 
How pale she looks! How worn that 

tender frame! — 
She has known sorrow! Who could in- 
jure her? 
Bland. She revives — Andre — soft, bend 
her forward. 
(Andre kneels and supports her.) 
Honora. Andre ! — 
Andre. Lov'd excellence! 

Honora. Yes, it is Andre! 

(Rises and looks at him.) 
No more deceived by visionary forms, 
By him supported — (Leans on him.) 
Andre. Why is this? 

Thou dost look pale, Honora — sick and 

wan — 
Languid thy fainting limbs — 
Honora. All will be well. 



But was it kind to leave me as thou 

did'st? ' 
So rashly to desert thy vow-link'd wife? 
Andre. When made another's both by 

vows and laws — 
Honora. (Quitting his support.) What 

meanest thou? 
Andre. Did'st thou not marry him? 

Honora. Marry ! 

Andre. Did'st thou not give thy hand 
aAvay 
From me? 
HoxoRA. 0, never, never. 
Andre. Not married? 

Honora. To none but thee, and but in will 

to thee. 
Andre. blind, blind wretch! — Thy 

father told me — 
Honora. Thou wast deceived. They hur- 
ried me away. 
Spreading false rumors to remove thy 

love — 
(Tenderly.) Thou did'st too soon be- 
lieve them. 
Andre. Thy father — 

How could I but believe Honora's 

father? 
And he did tell me so. I reverenc'd 

age, 
Yet knew age was not virtue. I be- 
lieved 
His snowy locks, and yet they did de- 
ceive me ! 
I have destroy'd myself and thee ! — Alas, 
Ill-fated maid, why did'st thou not for- 
get me? 
Hast thou rude seas and hostile shores 

explor'd 
For this? To see my A^ath? Witness 
my shame? 
Honora. I come to bless thee, Andre, and 
shall do it. 
I bear such offers from thy kind Com- 
mander 
As must prevail to save thee. Thus the 

daughter 
May repair the ills her cruel sire in- 
flicted. 
My father, dying, gave me cause to think 
That arts were us'd to drive thee from 

thy home; 
But what those arts I knew not. An 

heiress left. 
Of years mature, with power and lib- 
erty, 
I straight resolv'd to seek thee o'er the 

seas. 
A long-known friend, who came to join 
her lord, 



104 



ANDKE 



Yielded protection and lov'd fellow- 
ship. — 

Indeed, when I did hear of thy estate, 

It almost kill'd me; — I w^as weak be- 
fore — 
Andre. 'T is I have murder'd thee ! 
HoNORA. All shall be well. 

Thy General heard of me, and instant 
form'd 

The plan of this my visit. I am strong, 

Compar'd with what I was. Hope 
strengthens me; 

Nay, even solicitude supports me now; 

And when thou shalt be safe, thou wilt 
support me. 
Andre. Support thee! — Heaven! 
What!— and must I die? 

Die! — and leave lier thus — suffering — 
unprotected ! 

{Enter Melville and Guard.) 

Melville. I am sorry that my duty 
should require 
Ser\'ice, at which my heart revolts; but, 

sir. 
Our soldiers wait in arms. All is pre- 
par'd — 
HoxORA. To death! Impossible! Has 
my delay. 
Then, murder'd him? A momentary res- 
pite — 
Melville. Lady, I have -no power. 
Bland. Melville, my friend, 

This lady bears dispatches of high im- 
port, 
Touching this business; — should they ar- 
rive too late — 
HoNORA. For pity's sake, and heaven's, 
conduct me to him; 
And wait the issue of our conference. 
0, 't would be murder of the blackest 

dye. 
Sin execrable, not to break thy orders — 
Inhuman, thou art not. 
Melville. Lady, thou say'st true; 

For rather would I lose my rank in arms. 
And stand cashier'd for lack of disci- 
pline, 
Than gain 'mongst military men all 

praise. 
Wanting the touch of sweet humanity. 
HoNORA. Thou grantest my request? 
Melville. Lady, I do. 

Retire! {Soldiers go out.) 

Bland. I know not what excuse, to mar- 
tial men. 
Thou canst advance for this; but to tliy 

heart 
Thou wilt need wne, good Melville. 



Andre. Honora! 

HoNORA. Cheer up, I feel assur'd. Hope 
wings my flight, 
To bring thee tidings of much joy to 
come. 
{Exit Honora, with Bland and Mel- 
ville. ) 
Andre. Eternal blessings on thee, match- 
less woman! — 
If Death now comes, he finds the veriest 

coward 
That e'er he dealt withal. I cannot think 
Of dying. Void of fortitude, each 

thought 
Clings to the world — the world that holds 
Honora! {Exit.) 

end of the fourth act. 



ACT FIFTH. 
Scene, the Encampment. 

{Enter Bland.) 

Bland. Suspence — uncertainty — man's 

bane and solace! 
How racking now to me! My mother 

comes. 
Forgive me, my father, if in this war, 
This wasting conflict of my 'wildering 

passions, 
Memory of thee holds here a second 

place ! 
M'Donald comes with her. I would not 

meet him; 
Yet I will do it. Summon up some cour- 
age- 
Confess my fault, and gain, if not his 

love. 
At least the approbation of my judg- 
ment. 
{Enter Mrs. Bland and Children, 
with M'Donald.) 
Bland. Say, Madam, is there no change 
of counsel, 
Or new determination? 
Mrs, Bland. Nought new, my son. 

The tale of misery is told unheard. 
The widow's and the orphans' sighs 
Fly up, unnoted by the e3-e of man, 
And mingle, undistinguish'd, with the 

w4nds. 
My friend {to M'Donald), attend thy 
duties. I must away. 
Second Child. You need not cry. 
Mama, the General will do it, I am 
sure, for I saw him cry. He tum'd away 
his head from you, but I saw it. 



WILLIAM DUNLAF 



105 



Mrs. Bland. Poor thing! Come, let us 
home and weep. Alas ! 

I can no more, for war liatli made men 
rocks. 

{Exeunt Mrs. Bland ayid. Children.) 
Bland. Colonel, I used thee ill this morn- 
ing. 
M'Donald. No ! 

Thyself thou used'st most vilely, I re- 
member. 
Bland. Myself sustained the injury, most 
true; 

But the intent of what I said and did 

Was ill to thee alone ; I 'm sorry for it. 

See'st thou these blushes'? They proceed 
from warmth 

As honest as the heart of man e'er felt; 

But not with shame unmingled, while I 
force 

This tongue, debased, to own it slander'd 
thee. 

And utter'd — I could curse it — utter'd 
falsehood. 

Howe'er misled by passion, still my mind 

Retains that sense of honest rectitude 

Which makes the memory of an evil deed 

A troublesome companion. I was 
wrong. 
M'Donald. Why, now, this glads me; for 
thou now art right. 

0, may thy tongue, henceforward, utter 
naught 

1 The lines marked < > were omitted after the 
first night and the following were inserted. (See 
Introduction.) 

Bland. Noble M'Donald, truth and hon- 
or's champion! 

Yet think not strange that my intemper- 
ance wrong'd thee: 

Good as thou art! for, would'st thou, 
can'st thou, think it? 

My tongue unbridled, hath the same of- 
fence. 

With action violent, and boisterous tone, 

Hurl'd on that glorious man, whose pious 
labors 

Shield from every ill his grateful coun- 
try. 

That man, whom friends to adoration 
love, 

And enemies revere. Yes, M'Donald, 

Even in the presence of the first of men 

Did I abjure the service of my country. 

And reft my helmet of that glorious 
badge 

Which graces even the brow of Washing- 
ton. 

How shall I see him more? 



But Truth's sweet precepts, in fair Vir- 
tue's cause! 

Give me thy hand. {Takes his hand.) 
Ne'er may it grasp a sword 

But in defence of justice. 
Bland. Yet, erewhile, 

A few short hours scarce past, when this 
vile hand 

Attempted on thee insult; and was 
raised 

Against thy honor; ready to be raised 

Against thy life. If this my deep re- 
morse — 
M'Donald. No more, no more! 'Tis 
past. Remember it 

But as thou would'st the action of an- 
other, 

By thy enlighten'd judgment much con- 
demn'd ; 

And serving as a beacon in the storms 

Thy passions yet may raise. Remorse is 
vice; 

Guard thee against its influence debas- 
ing. 

Say to thyself: "I am not what I ivas; 

I am not now the instrument (?f vice; 

I 'm changed ; I am a man ; Virtue's firm 
friend ; 

Sever'd forever from my former self; 

No link, but in remembrance salutary." 
<Bland.^ How all men tower above me! 
M'Donald. Nay, not so. 

M'Donald. Alive himself to every gener- 
ous impulse. 

He hath excused the impetuous warmth 
of youth. 

In expectation that thy fiery soul, 

Chasten'd by time and reason, will receive 

The stamp indelible of godlike virtue. 

To me, in trust, he gave this badge dis- 
claim'd, 

With power, when thou should'st see thy 
wrongful error. 

From him, to reinstate it in thy helm. 

And thee in his high favor. 

{Gives the cockade.) 
Bland. {Takes the cockade and replaces 
it.) Shall I speak my thoughts of 
thee and him ? 

No ! let my actions henceforth show what 
thou 

And he have made me. Ne'er shall my 
helmet 

Lack again its proudest, noblest orna- 
ment. 

Until my country knows the rest of 
peace. 

Or Bland the Deace of death. {Exit.) 



106 



ANDRE 



Above what once thou wast, some few do 

rise; 
None above what thou art. 
Bland. It shall be so. 
M'DoNALD. It is so. 

Bland. Then to prove it. 

For I must yet a trial undergo, 
That will require a consciousness of vir- 
tue. (Exit.) 
M'DoNALD. 0, what a temper doth in man 
reside ! 
How capable of yet unthought perfec- 
tion! {Exit.)> 



Scene, the General's quarters. 
{Enter General and Sewahd.) 

General. Ask her, my friend, to send by 

thee her pacquets. {Exit Seward.) 
0, what keen struggles must I undergo ! 
Unbless'd estate! to have the power to 

pardon ; 
The court's stern sentence to remit; — 

give life; — 
Feel the strong wish to use such blessed 

power ; 
Yet know that circumstances strong as 

fate 
Forbid to obey the impulse. 0, I feel 
That man should never shed the blood of 

man! 

{Enter Seward.) 

Seward. Naught can the lovely suitor 
satisfy, 
But conference with thee, and much I 

fear 
Refusal would cause madness. 
General. Yet to admit, 

To hear, be tortur'd, and refuse at last — 
Seward. Sure never man such spectacle 
of sorrow. 
Saw before. Motionless the rough-hewn 

soldiers 
Silent view her, or walk aside and weep. 
General. {After a pause.) Admit her. 
(Seward goes out.) 0, for the art, 
the precious art, 
To reconcile the sufferer to his sorrows! 
(HoNORA rushes in, and throws herself 
wildly on her knees before him; he 
endeavors to raise her.) 
HONORA. Nay, nay, here is my place, or 
here, or lower, 
Unless thou grant'st his life. All forms 

away! 
Thus will I clasp thy knees, thus cling to 
thee — 



I am his wife — 't is I have ruin'd him — 
0, save him! Give him to me! Let us 

cross 
The mighty seas, far, far — ne'er to of- 
fend again — 
{The General turns away, and hides 
his eyes with his hand.) 

{Enter Seward and an Officer.) 

General. Seward, support her; my heart 
is torn in twain. 
(Honora, as if exhausted, suffers her- 
self to be raised, and leans on Sew- 
ard.) 
Officer. This moment, sir, a messenger 
arrived 
With well confirm'd and mournful in- 
formation. 
That gallant Hastings, by the lawless 

scouts 
Of Britain taken, after cruel mockery 
With show of trial and of condemna- 
tion, 
On the next tree was hung. 
Honora. {Wildly.) 0, it is false. 

General. Why, why, my country, did I 
hesitate? {Exit.) 

(Honora sinks, faints, and is borne off 
by Seward and Officer.) 



Scene, the Prison. 

(Andre meeting Bland.) 

Andre. How speeds Honora? {Pause.) 
Art thou silent, Bland? 

Why, then, I know my task. The mind 
of man, 

If not by vice debas'd, debilitated, 

Or by disease of body quite unton'd, 

Hath o'er its thoughts a power — energy^ 
divine. 

Of fortitude the source and every vir- 
tue— 

A godlike power, which e'en o'er circum- 
stance 

Its sov'reignty exerts. Now from my 
thoughts, 

Honora! Yet she is left alone — ex- 
pos'd — 
Bland. 0, Andre, spurn me, strike me to 
the earth; 

For what a wretch am I in Andre's 
mind. 

That he can think he leaves his love 
alone, 

And I retaining life ! 
Andre. Forgive me. Bland. 



WILLIAM DUNLAP 



107 



My thoughts glanc'd not on thee. Imag- 
ination 
Pictur'd only, then, her orphan state, 

helpless ; 
Her weak and grief-exhausted frame. 

Alas! 
This blow will kill her. 
Bland. {Kneeling.) Here, do I myself 
Devote, my fortune consecrate, to thee, 
To thy remembrance, and Honora's serv- 
ice. 
Andre. Enough! Let me not see Jier 
more — nor think of her — 
Farewell, farewell, sweet image! Now 
for death. 
Bland. Yet that thou should'st the fe- 
lon's fate fulfil — 
Damnation! My blood boils. Indigna- 
tion 
Makes the current of my life course 

wildly 
Through its round and maddens each 
emotion. 
Andre. Come, come, it matters not. 
Bland. I do remember, 

When a boy at school, in our allotted 

tasks, 
We, by our puny acts, strove to pourtray 
The giant thoughts of Otway. I was 

Pierre. 
0, thou art Pierre's reality — a soldier. 
On whose manly brow sits fortitude en- 

amor'd ; 
A Mars, abhorring vice, yet doom'd to 

die 
A death of infamy; thy corse expos'd 
To vulgar gaze — halter' d — distorted — 
oh— 
{Pauses, and then adds in a low hol- 
low voice:) 
Pierre had a friend to save him from 

such shame — 
And so hast thou. 
Andre. No more, as thou dost love me. 

Bland. I have a sword, and arm, that 

never fail'd me. 
Andre. Bland, such an act would justly 
thee involve, 
And leave that helpless one thou sworest 

to guard 
Expos'd to every ill. 0, think not of 
it! 
Bland. If thou wilt not my aid — take it 
thyself. 

{Draws and offers his sivord.) 
Andre. No, men will say that cowardice 
did urge me. 
In my mind's weakness, I did wish to 
shun 



That mode of death which error rep- 
resented 

Infamous: now let me rise superior; 

And with a fortitude too true to start 

From mere appearances, show your coun- 
try 

That she, in me, destroys a man who 
might 

Have liv'd to virtue. 
Bland. {Sheathing his sword.) I will 
not think more of it; 

I was again the sport of erring passion. 
Andre. Go thou and guide Honora from 

this spot. 
Honora. {Entering.) Who shall oppose 
his wife ? I will have way ! 

They, cruel, would have kept me from 
thee, Andre. 

Say, am I not thy wife? Wilt thou 
deny me? 

Indeed I am not dress'd in bridal trim. 

But I have travelled far: — rough was 
the road — 

Rugged and rough — that must excuse my 
dress. 

{Seeing Andre's distress.) Thou art 
not glad to see me. 
Andre. Break my heart ! 

Honora. Indeed, I feel not much in 
spirits. I wept but now. 

{Enter Melville and Guard.) 

Bland. {To Melville.) Say nothing. 
Andre. I am ready. 

Honora. {Seeing the Guard.) Are 

they here? 
Here again — the same — but they shall 

not harm me. 
I am with thee, my Andre — I am safe — 
And tJiou art safe with me. Is it not 
so? {Clinging to him.) 

{Enter Mrs. Bland.) 

Mrs. Bland. Where is this lovely victim? 

Bland. Thanks, my mother. 

Mrs. Bland. M'Donald sent me hither. 

My woes are past. 

Thy father, by the foe released, already 

Is in safety. This be forgotten now; 

And every thought be turn'd to this sad 

scene. 
Come, lady, home with me. 
Honora. Go home with thee? 

Art thou my Andre's mother? We will 

home 

And rest, for thou art weary — ^very 

weary. {Leans on Mrs. Bland.) 

(Andre retires to the Guard, and goes 

off with them, looking on her to the 



108 



ANDRE 



last, and with an action of extreme 
tenderness takes leave of her. Mel- 
ville and Bland accompany him.) 
HONORA. Now we will go. Come, love! 
Where is he? 
7VII gone ! — I do remember — I awake — 
They have him. Murder! Help! 0, 
save him ! save him ! 
(HoNORA attempts to follow, hut falls. 
Mrs. Bland kneels to assist her. 
Scene closes.) 

Scene, the Encampment. 

(Procession to the execution of Andre. 
First enter Pioneers — Detachment of 
Infantry — Military Band of Music — 
Infantry. The Music having passed 
off, enter Andre between Melville 
and American Officer; they sor- 
rowful, he cheerfully conversing as 
he passes over the stage.) 

Andre. It may in me be merely preju- 
dice. 

The effect of young opinion deep en- 
graved 

Upon the tender mind by care parental; 

But I must think your country has mis- 
took 

Her interests. Believe me, but for this 
I should 

Not willingly have drawn a sword 
against her. 

(They how their heads in silence.) 

Opinion must, nay, ought to sway our 
actions ; 

Therefore — 

(Having crossed the stage, he goes out 
as still conversing with them. An- 
other detachment of Infantry, with 
muffled and craped drums, closes the 
procession; as soon as they are off — 

Scene. 

draws and discovers the distant view 

of the encampment.) 
(Procession enters in same order as 
before, proceeds up the stage, and 
goes off the opposite side.) 

(Enter M'Donald, leading Bland, who 
looks wildly hack.) 

Bland. T dare not thee resist. Yet why, 
why 



Thus hurry me awayf — 
M'Donald. Would'st thou behold— 

Bland. 0, name it not ! 
M'Donald. Or ^vould'st thou, by thy 

looks 

And gestures wild, o'erthrow that manly 
calmness 

Which, or assumed or felt, so well be- 
comes thy friend? 
Bland. What means that cannon's sound? 
M'Donald. (After a pause.) Signal 

of death 

Appointed. Andre, thy friend, is now 
no more. 
Bland. Farewell, farewell, brave spirit! 
! let my countrymen, 

Henceforward when the cruelties of war 

Arise in their remembrance; when their 
ready 

Speech would pour forth torrents in 
their foe's dispraise, 

Think on this act accurst, and lock com- 
plaint in silence. 

(Bland throws himself on the earth.) 
M'Donald. Such are the dictates of the 
heart, not head. 

0, may the children of Columbia still 

Be taught by every teacher of mankind, 

Each circumstance of calculative gain. 

Or wounded pride, which prompted our 
oppressors ; 

May every child be taught to lisp the 
tale; 

And may, in times to come, no foreign 
force, 

No European influence, tempt to mis- 
state. 

Or awe the tongue of eloquence to si- 
lence. 

Still may our children's children deep 
abhor 

The motives, doubly deep detest the ac-^ 
tors ; 

Ever remembering that the race who 
plann'd. 

Who acquiesced, or did the deeds ab- 
hor'd, 

Has pass'd from off the earth; and, in 
its stead, 

Stand men who challenge love or detes^ 
tation 

But from their proper, individual deeds 

Never let memory of tlie sire's offence 

Descend upon the son. 

curtain drops. 



SUPERSTITION 

BY 

James Nelson Barker 



SUPERSTITION 

Superstition is one of the earliest plays based upon Colonial history. Five 
y€;ars before Cooper used the theme of the regicides in The Wept of Wishton 
Wish and eleven years before Hawthorne published The Gray Champion, Barker 
had placed on the stage the dramatic story of the old Puritan issuing from his 
solitude to lead the villagers to victory against the Indians. This theme is inter- 
woven with that of the intolerance of the Puritans and their persecution for 
witchcraft. 

James Nelson Barker was born in Philadelphia, June 17, 1784. He had 
a public career of some distinction, as he became captain of an artillery regi- 
ment during the "War of 1812, was elected Mayor of Philadelphia in 1820, was 
Collector of the Port from 1829 to 1838, and from 1838 to his death was Comp- 
troller of the United States Treasury. He died in Washington, D. C, March 
9, 1858. 

Barker represents the play based upon a native theme. After a tentative 
effort, based on Cervantes, called The Spanish Rover, and a masque, A7nerica, 
neither printed nor performed, he wrote a comedy of American life, Tears and 
Smiles, acted March 4, 1807, at the Chestnut Street Theatre, and printed in 
Philadelphia in 1808. At the first Joseph Jefferson's suggestion, he put in the 
character of ''Nathan Yank," thus forming a link between the character of 
''Jonathan" in The Contrast and the later "Jonathan Ploughboy" in The Forest 
Rose of Woodworth. The Embargo or What News? was ^cted on March 16, 1808, 
at the Chestnut Street Theatre. It supported the policy of the Embargo Act. 

The Indian Princess or La Belle Sauvage, the earliest play on the Poca- 
hontas story, was performed at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, April 
6, 1808. Durang gives an interesting account of the commotion caused by the 
persecution of Webster the singer which prevented the piece from being heard. 
It was an opera for which the music was written by Bray, and it was acted after- 
wards in other places and printed in 1808. Marmion, or The Battle of Flodden 
Field, a dramatization of Scott's poem, was acted first in New York, at the 
Park Theatre, April 13, 1812. William Wood, the Manager of the Chestnut 
Street Theatre, says that it was announced in Philadelphia as by Thomas Morton, 
the English playwright, in order to avoid the neglect usually accorded to native 
playwrights, and that after running several nights with success, the author's 
name was announced, when the audiences fell off. Durang, however, in his 
History of the Philadelphia Stage, says "it lost none of its attraction after the 

111 



112 INTRODUCTION 



mask was removed'* and the statement of receipts in Wood's Diary siiows no 
falling off of importance. It was printed in 1816. Barker's play, The Armour- 
er's Escape or Three Years at Nootka Sound, which was acted at the Chestnut 
Street Theatre, March 21, 1817, had a peculiar interest since John Jewitt, 
armorer of the ship Boston, on whose adventures the play was based, acted the 
leading part himself. How to Try a Lover, a comedy, printed in 1817, was 
never acted, though it was cast and put in rehearsal. It is easily one of the 
best of Barker's plays. 

Superstition was first acted at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, 
JMarch 12, 1824. Wood tells us it was acted ''with deserved applause." F. C. 
Wemyss, who acted "George Egerton," speaks in his Twenty-six Years of the 
Life of an Actor Manager of the success of the play, and states that Wood did 
not put the play on oftener because Mrs. Duff in the character of ''Mary" out- 
shone Mrs. Wood in "Isabella." "I have been surprised," he adds, "that no 
manager ever rescued so good a play from oblivion." 

Barker 's plays are now hard to obtain. Marmion was reprinted, with Super- 
stition, in 1826, in the "Acting American Theatre" of Lopez and Wemyss. An 
account of Barker's plays, written by himself, is to be found in Dunlap's History 
of the American Theatre, Vol. 2, pp. 308-316. 



LOPEZ AKB WiaMYSS^ 

EDITION. 



THE 

ACTING AMITRICAJJ THEATRE. 



THE TRAGEDY OF 

SUPERSTITION, 

BY 

JAMES N. BABKER, ESQ, 

AUXiFOR Of MARMION A TRAGEDY, &C. 
.^ITB i PORTRAIT OF 

laZlS. DUFF, 

MARY. 



ThQ Play* carefhllj corrected from the Prorfipt books ot' tk& 
THILADELPHIA THEATRE. 



'%l SI. Lopez, Prompter. 



iXJJJLISHED BY A. R. POOLE, CHESNUT STREET, 

FOR THE PROPRIETORS. 

And to be had of all th^^rinclpal booksellers in ^0 

VmTED BlMTES. 



fritf© 1« uon-TObscnbcfs, Fifty cefi*« 



DRAMATIS PERSONAE 

Philadelphia. 

Performed (First time) March 12, 1824. 

Sir Reginald Egerton Mr. Warren 

George Egerton Mr. Wemyss 

Eavensworth Mr. Darley 

Walford Mr. Wheatly 

Charles Mr. Wood 

The Unknown Mr. Duff 

Judge Mr. Greene 

First Villager Mr. Hathwell 

Second Villager .Mr. Jones 

Messenger Mr. Bignall 

First Officer Mr. Johnston 

Second Officer Mr. Murray 

Edward Mr. Parker 

Boy Master H. Mestayer 

Second Judge Mr. Mestayer 

Officer Mr. J. Mestayer 

Villagers, Indians, Sups. 

Isabella Mrs. Wood 

Mary Mrs. Duff 

Alice Mrs. Durang 

Lucy Mrs. Greene 

Female Villagers Mrs. Mestayer, Bignall, Murray, Misses Parker, 

Hathwells, Mestayers. 

Scene in New England, about the year 1675. 
Time, a little more than Twenty-four hours. 



SUPERSTITION 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1. A Village at a little distance. 
In front, on the left of the Stage, the cot- 
tage of Ravensworth; a handsome rus- 
tic building. A large mansion, on an 
eminence nearer the Village, on the 
right. 

{Enter from the Cottage, Mary and 
Alice.) 

Mary. Nay, come away, dear Alice, every 
moment 

Of your brief visit must be wholly mine; 

Let 's leave our fathers to their grave 
discourse 

Of witch and wizard, ere we laugh out- 
right. 
Alice. It is a subject that the country 
round 

Deems a most solemn one. 
Mary. True : but to me, 

'T is not the less absurd on that account. 
Alice. This levity 's misplac'd : your fa- 
ther claims 

Your love and reverence — 
Mary. And I do revere him, 

And love him dearly, Alice; do I not? 

How often have I striven to melt bis 
sternness; 

And, when my heart was sick of its own 
cares, 

Lock'd up my selfish sorrows from his 
view. 

And tried, by every filial endearment. 

To win his smiles. E'en when his brow 
was darkest; 

I 've brav'd its terrors ; hung upon his 
neck. 

And spoken of my mother : how sweet 

It were methought, even to weep with 
him. 
Alice. You're an enthusiast, Mary. Ah, 
beware. 

Lest this impetuous current of your feel- 
ing 

Urge you, one day, against the perilous 
rock. 
Mary. I 'm young, and youth is ardent, 
and should be 



115 



Cheerful, and full of bright and sunny 

thoughts; 
I w^ould be if I dared. You, too, are 

young. 
Yet may be happy ; for you have a parent 
Who, tho' he guide you safely down the 

stream. 
Does not, like angry pilots, chide, e'en 

louder 
Than the loud storm. 
Alice. His high and holy office 

May, haply give to your good father's 

manner, 
A grave solemnity, perhaps, a harsh- 
ness — 
Mary. And why a harshness "? Sure, ah 
sure. Religion 
Descends not like the vulture in its 

wrath ; 
But rather like the mild and gentle dove, 
Emblem of peace and harbinger of joy, 
Love in its eye and healing on its wing; 
With pure and snowy plumage, downy 

soft, 
To nestle in the bosom of its votaries. 
Alice. I cannot argue; I'm content to 
follow 
Where e'er our fathers lead. For you, I 

fear 
You 've learn'd too much from this mys- 
terious stranger. 
]\Iary. Alice, join not you with the slan- 
derous crowd. 
Against a noble lady, whom you know 

not. 
For me, be satisfied I never more 
Perhaps, shall see her : I 've obeyed my 

father; 
And must, tho' it should break my heart : 
tho' Charles — 

(Pauses and crosses.) 
Alice. And what of Charles? 
Mary. Her son — 

Alice. I know : her son, 

And what of him? 
Mary. This very day, 'tis said, 

He will be here — 
Alice. Expell'd, they say, from college. 
Mary. Disgrae'd— 'T is false: Charles 
cannot be disgrae'd; 
If envy, persecution, drive him thence, 



116 



SUPERSTITION 



They but disgrace themselves, and not 

poor Charles. 
Alice. Mary"? 
Mary. Yes; take my secret; take it 

quickly, 
Or it will burst my heart. 
Alice. Nay, but be calm. 

Mary. You shall know all — surely you'll 

pity, Alice, 
And perhaps, pardon me. Three years 

ago 
When Charles's mother first came here to 

live ; 
From England, w^as it not — tlie village 

then 
Had scarce begun to hate her, for as 

yet 
She had not lavish'd charities abroad, 
To purchase up ingratitude and envy. 
Being her nearest neighbour, (my dear 

mother 
Was then alive,) there rose at once be- 
tween us 
That intercourse which neighbourhood 

compels 
At times, e'en with the most reserved. 

The lady, 
I know not why, unless out of her good- 
ness. 
Graced me with her regard, and when my 

mother 
Died, she took the desolate child to her 

l30som. 
Alice. 'T was kindly done. 
Mary. she was goodness all, 

Her words, so sweet and soothing; as she 

spoke, 
Alice, methought I saw my sainted 

mother 
Lean o'er the bright edge of a silvery 

cloud 
And smile upon her happy orphan 

girl,— 
And there was Charles, so busy still 

around me, 
Exhausting all his boyish gallantries. 
With brotherly affection. — 
Alice. Charles, still Charles'? 

Mary. Can I forget it! — 
Alice. Nay, go on. 

Mary. The winter 

Soon pass'd away, and then the spring 

came on 
With all its flowers, and still the earliest 

blossom 
Was cull'd for me. 0, we were then so 

happy — 
I alwnys lov'd the spring. Young nature 

then 



Came to me like a play-mate. Ere the 

snows 
Had left the hills, I've often wander'd 

forth, 
And, all impatient for the verdure, 

clear'd 
A patch of infant green; or even turn'd 
With mighty effort, some recumbent 

stone. 
To find the fresh grass under it. 
Alice. This is childish. 

Mary. I was a child, then, — would I were 
e'en now, 
As then I was — my life, I fear, will 

prove 
A wintry waste with no green spot to 
cheer it; 
Alice. More visionary still. 
Mary. Well, to my story :— 

My father took me home, I think it 

was 
About the time you came into the village, 
Fell superstition now had spread around. 
Reports — I scarce know what they meant 

— arose 
Concerning Isabella; and my father 
Made gloomier by my mother's death, 

and yielding 
His strong mind to the doctrine of the 

times, 
Grew daily still more stern, until at 

length, 
At peril of his curse, he bade me never 
To hold communion with that family. 
Alice. And you obeyed? 
Mary. All that I could, I did. 

But the tales they tell — the horrid 

stories — 
Her very virtues they distort to crimes. 
And for poor Charles, his manliness and 

spirit. 
The gayety of youth and innocence, 
In him are vices. Could I help defend- 
ing, 
Knowing them as I did: — all others 

hating. 
Could I help loving! — 
Alice. Loving, Mary? 

Mary. Ay; most deeply, strongly loving 

Charles and his mother. 
Alice. But sure you have not seen this 

Charles? 
Mary. Not often. — 

Nay, frown not, friend, for how could I 

avoid it. 
When chance insisted on an interview? 
Alice. Have ye met lately? 
Mary. Yes. 

Alice. Wliat pass'd between von? 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



117 



Mary. A pliglit of faith: A vow to live 
or die, 

Each for the other. 
Alice. Lost, lost girl. 

Mary. Why, ay, 

It may be so ; if so, 't is Heaven's will. 

You have my secret, Alice. 

{Enter from the House, Ravensworth 
and Walford.) 

Alice. Peace; our fathers. 

{They retire into house.) 
Rav. No, Walford, no : I have no charity 
For what you term the weakness of our 

nature. 
The soul should rise above it. It was this 
That made the fathers of this land pre- 
vail, 
When man and the elements opposed, 

and win 
Their heritage from the heathen. 
Walf. True ; the times 

Impos'd a virtue, almost superhuman. 
But surely, the necessity is pass'd 
For trampling on our nature. 
Rav. We have grown 

Luke-warm in zeal, degenerate in 

spirit ; — 
I would root out with an unsparing hand. 
The weeds that choke the soil; — pride 

and rank luxury 
Spring up around us; — alien sectaries. 
Spite of the whip and axe, infest our 

limits ; 
Bold infidelity, dark sorcery — 
Walf. Nay, 

Nay, Ravensworth — 
Rav. I tell thee, Walford, yea : 

The powers of darkness are at work 

among us. 
Not distant we have seen the fagot blaze, 
And soon the stake may ask its victim 
here. 
Walf. What victim point you at ? 
Rav. Turn your eye — thither 

Upon yon haughty mansion — you have 
heard?— 
Walf. Much idle rumour. 
Rav. Do you deem it so. 

Whence then, and who is this imperious 

dame, 
That holds herself above her fellow crea- 
tures, 
And scorns our church's discipline: her 

means — 
Her business here? 
Walf. The ignorant and envious 

May find. ir» her superior intellect — 



E'en in her ample wealth and proud re- 
serve ' 
Food for their hate, and therefore their 

suspicion ; 
But for us, Ravensworth — 
Rav. No more, ere long, 

These questions must be answer'd. 
Walf. Be it so ; 

I shall be ready in all lawful ways 
To seek the truth. 
Rav. 'T is well, we soon may need you. 

What public tidings hear you? 
Walf. That King Philip 

Our savage foe, after his late defeat. 
Has gained his rocky hold, where he now 

lies. 
With scarce a fragment of his former 
force. 
Rav. Where are our troops? 
Walf. They watch the enemy. 

Rav. They should have followed up their 
victory^, 
To the extermination of the heathen. — 
Has there aught chanc'd in the village? 
Walf. There have aiTived 

Two persons from the court of Charles. 
Rav. More vanity! 

What do they here? 
Walf. The elder, it is said. 

Brings letters to the government. 

{Crosses.) 

Rav. Charles Stuart, 

Is gTOwing much concern'd about the 

people 
His family have scourg'd, hunted and 

driven 
From shed and shelter in their native 

land. 
We needs must thank that most paternal 

care, 
That, when the expos'd infant climbs to 

manhood 
Comes for the first time, then, to claim 
his service. 
Walf. You broach a startling topic^ 
But the day wears — 
Fare thee well, Ravensworth, 
Rav. Farewell, farewell, 

{Exit Walford.) 
Timid, weak-minded man. 

{Enter Mary, from House.) 

Come hither, daughter. 
Mary. Father! {Bunning to him.) 

Rav, What mean these tears? 

Mary, I cannot check them. 

Rav, They do displease me, tears can only 
flow 



118 



SUPERSTITION 



From frailty or from folly, dry them 
straight, 

And listen to me. I have heard, the son 

Of this strange woman is returning- 
home, 

And will again pollute our neighbour- 
hood ; 

fiomeniber my command, and shun his 
presence 

As you would shun the adder. If re- 
port 

Err not, his course of boyhood has been 
run 

"Without one gleam of virtue to redeem 

The darkness of his vices. 
]\Iary. I '11 obey — 

To the utmost of my power. — But, my 
dear father, 

May not report err sometimes'? You 
were wont 

To instruct me never to withhold the 
truth ; 

And fearlessly to speak in their defence, 

Whom I could vindicate from calumny; 

That to protect the innocent, the ab- 
sent — 
Rav. How 's this ! the innocent — and 
calumny 1 

And whence do you presume to throw 
discredit 

On general report. — Wbat can you 
know? 
Mary. Not much perhaps, of late: wliile 
I remain'd 

At his mother's — he was in his boyhood 
then ; 

I knew him well; and there's one inci- 
dent 

Much dwelt on to his prejudice, that I 

Was witness to — if you would bid me tell 
it. 
"Ray. 0, by all means, come, your romance. 
Mary. 'T is truth. 

It was a wintry day, the snow was deep, 

And the chill rain had fallen and was 
frozen, 

That all the surface was a glittering 
crust. — 

We were all gather'd in the lady's hall, 

That overlook'd the lawn; a poor stray 
fawn 

Came limping toward us. It had lost, 
perhaps, 

Its dam, and chas'd by cruel hunters, 
came 

To seek a refuge with us. Every bound 

The forlorn creature made, its little feet 

Broke through the crust, and we could 
mark that one 



Of its delicate limbs was broken. A rude 

boy 
Follow'd it fast, as it would seem, to 

kill it; 
I could not choose but wish its life were 

sav'd, 
And at the word Charles ran and took 

it up. 
And gave it to me, and I cherish'd it 
And bound its broken limb up; and it 

liv'd. 
And seem'd to thank me for my care of it. 
Rav. But was this alH Was not the vil- 
lage lad assailed and beaten'? 
Mary. He was rude and churlish, 

And would have forc'd the animal from 

Charles. 
And tho' 't was on his mother's grounds, 

Charles proffer'd him 
The price of the fawn. But nothing 

would content him, 
x\nd he struck Charles; he was a larger 

boy, 
But did not prove the stronger — so he 

went 
And made the village all believe his story. 
That Charles had robb'd and beaten him, 

for Charles 
Had none to speak for him. 
Rav. No more of this — 

And never let me hear the name you've 

utter'd 
Pass from your lips again. It is enough 
I know this youth for a lewd libertine; 
The woman, for a scoffer at things sacred, 
At me, and at my functions — and per- 
haps, 
Given to practices, that yet may need 
A dreadful expiation. Get you gone, 
And on your knees petition that you may 

not 
Deserve my malediction. 
Mary. I obey. 

{Exit Mary, into cottage, followed hjj 
Ravensworth.) 

{Enter George Egertox, followed hy 
Sir Reginald, both in shooting 
dresses. ) 

George. By Heaven a lovely creature ! 
Sir R. Softly, George, 

Is this the game you point at"? Have a 

care. 
You 're not in London now, where our 

gay monarch 
Sets such a fine example, in these matters. 
They '11 have no poaching here, that I can 
tell you, 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



119 



Among' their wives and (laughters. These 

same roundheads, 
That crop their hair so short — a plague 

upon 'em — 
Will cut your ears as close, if you 're 
caught meddling'. 
George. Why whai a heathen region have 
we come to. 
What a deuce, uncle, did you bring me 

here for*? 
To shoot at bears and panthers ; pleasant 

sport ; 
No women : zounds ; I '11 back to court 

again — 
No women! 
Sir R. None : the old they burn for 

witches, 
The young they keep clos'd up, (like flies 

in amber) 
In adamantine ice. — 
George. They should be hang'd 

For treason against nature. Let the old 

ones 
Freeze, 'tis their charter; but youth 
should have fire. 
Sib R. They 've good laws here for gal- 
lants — t' other day 
They put a man i' the stocks because he 

kiss'd 
His wife o' Sunday. 
George. They were in the right. 

Kiss his own wife ! it is a work- day busi- 
ness; 
Play-days and holy-days are made for 
lovers. 
Sir R. To lay hands on a maid here's 

present death. 
George. It might be so in London, and no 
lives lost : 
The law were a dead letter there — 
Sir R. And widows 

May not be spoken to, under the pain 
Of fine and pillory. 
George. Uncle, let 's embark, 

The' for the north pole ; this clime is too 

cold — • 
Or to some catholic country, where a man 
May have flesh sometimes: here 'tis al- 
ways lent. 
Sir R. No: you must stay, your stomach 

must endure it. 
George. I' faith, dear uncle, being a cava- 
lier, 
A gentleman of honour and of breeding, 
I marvel much you could come hither ; but 
The greater wonder is, you'd have me 

with you. 
Knowing my humour. 
Sir R. Troth, my gentle nephew, 



Knowing your humour, I could do no 

better ^ 
Than take you from the sphere of 

Charles's court; 
From Rochester, and his dissolute com- 
panions. 
To cool your blood here in the wilderness. 
George. Well ! there may come a time. 
Sir R. As for my voyage, 

Perhaps it was a royal jest ; or haply 
My clothes had grown too rusty for the 

court. 
Or Charles was tired of the old cavalier, 
Who had fought some battles for him, 

and consum'd 
Some certain paltry acres — all he had — 
And having left no vacant place at court, 
He sent me here Ambassador. 
George. But uncle. 

Is that your character'? 
Sir R. Much the same thing, 

In Christian countries, nephew; I 'm a 
spy. 
George. The devil! 

Sir R. Yes ; we read in ancient history. 

Of Kings and Emperors, who have kept 

the men 
Who help'd them to the Throne, (by 

simply putting 
Their fathers out o' the way) — about 

their, persons, 
As their prime friends. But Charles, be- 
ing advis'd 
That this was in bad taste, and took place 

only 
In semi-barbarous courts, finds it decor- 
ous 
To grow a little angry with the persons 
That kill'd his father. And being told, 

besides, 
That his most loving and beloved sub- 
jects 
This side the water — who, by the way, he 

never 
Thought of before — had given food and 

shelter 
To certain of the regicides, he sends me 
To— 
George. Well, Sir? 

Sir R. Nothing. Come, 'tis growing 

late. 
We must regain our cottage. In the 

morning, 
We leave the village. 
George. 'Gad, with all my soul — 

And so to England? 
Sir R. Not so fast, good Springal, 

We must have patience yet. Come, let 's 
begone. 



120 



SUPERSTITION 



George. I '11 see her in the morning, tho' 
they hang me. 

{Exeunt, George looking back.) 



END OP ACT ONE. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. A Forest. In the background 
an insulated caverned rock. Night. 
The Unknown enters bg a bridge formed 
of the trunk of a tree, icliicli is let down 
from the rock. {His dress is of Skins: 
his general appearance, wild — but his 
air and manner dignified. He is armed.) 

Unk. Yes : it is near the dawn — the dawn ! 
when man 

Again shall greet his fellow man, and na- 
ture, 

Through all her living kingdom shall re- 
joice. 

I only of the human race, condemn'd 

To shun my species, and in caves of night 

Shut out the common day. Ye glorious 
stars, 

I gaze on you — I look on you, ye Heav- 
ens, 

"With an unblenehing eye. You read the 
heai-t. 

And you can judge the act. If I was 
wrong; 

If innocent blood rest on me — here I 
stand 

To pay the dreadful forfeiture, — let fall 

In drops of fire your red-hot vengeance 
on me. 

Am I a murderer? Is the mark of Cain 

Imprinted on my front! — I would not 
murmur — 

But as I am but man, forgive it Heaven. 

Torn from the beings that I fondly 
lov'd. — 

For nineteen years an outlaw and a wan- 
derer — 

Proscribed and hunted like the ravening 
wolf ; — 

A price set on my felon head — A felon ! 

Am I so, Heaven! Did these wounds, 
received 

In thy holy cause, stream with a felon's 
blood. 

Was it a felon's courage nerved my arm, 

A felon's zeal that burn'd within my 
heart? 

Yet this I could endure — but when I 
think 



Of thee, my child— my daughter— Ha ! a 

step! 
Perhaps a beast of prey! I fear nol 

that, 
The panther is my co-mate and my 

brother ; 
Man only is mine enemy — He comes. 

{Retires into cave.) 

{Enter Charles, in a neat hunting 
dress of green, cap, etc., a short 
sword, or couteau-de-chasse slung, 
and a gun in his hand.) 

Charles. Each step I take but plunges 
me the deeper 
In this wild labyrinth. — Here 's a 

pretty scene 
For those whose love o' the picturesque, 

could make them 
Forget their bed and supper. My poor 

mother 
Will be so disappointed — and, dear Mary, 
Will not your hopes, too, rise with the 

lark : I '11 on. 
But whither? May I not be straying 

further : 
I must needs make my couch e'en here. — 

What's this? 
A bridge; and further on, methinks, a 

cavern, 
'Twill serve — But hold — perhaps I 

shall disturb 
Some wild beast in his lair. Tut! 'tis 

some hunter 
Has made his cabin here — I '11 try. 

{Going to cavern.) 
Unk. Pass not. 

{Enters from cave.) 
Charles. You speak commaiulingly. 
UxK. And may, when strangers 

Intrude upon my privacy. That cave 
Is mine, my castle. 
Charles. It must be confess'd 

You play the Castellain right courte- 
ously. 
UxK. No trifling, boy. Are you a spy? — 

What are you? 
Charles. My answer 's here. 

{Levelling his gun.) 
Unk. Tut, overweening child, 

Level thy weapon at the timid deer 
That fears thy puny skill. The withered 

leaf 
Stirr'd by the falling nut, or passing 

breeze. 
Startles as much as does thy idle menace. 
Charles. To prove it is not idle — 
Unk. Hold, rash boy; 

If but this tube is rais'd, thou perish'st. 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



121 



For years, as many as thou telFst of life, 

i 've wielded it. 
Charles. I 've had some practice, too. 

Unk. Do you provoke your fate! — But 
hold; no, no — 

Though 't were my sole security, no blood. 

He spoke of his mother too; I '11 not de- 
prive 

The mother of her child — Hear me, 
bold youth. 

'Tis meet that I should know so much 
of thee, 

As to be well assur'd thou com'st not 
hither. 

At this dark hour, for evil purpose — 
tell me — 

I do not now command, but I request 
thee — 

AVherefore this visit? 
Charles. Now, sir, that your question 

Is one a gentleman may give reply to, 

I '11 frankly tell you. I 've a mother 
lives, 

I trust, in the next town. A short time 
since 

I left her, for the second time, for col- 
lege. 

To make a second trial for the honours, 

I think, with due humility, I 'd merited. 

Their worships as before play'd with my 
patience, 

Till I grew tired of it, and told them so. 

In good round terms. Glad of the fit 
excuse. 

They just discover'd then, I was too wild 

For their strait limits, and so they ex- 
pell'd me. 
Unk. You speak but lightly of a circum- 
stance 

That an ingenuous and aspiring youth, 

And, such you seem, might wtII think 
serious. 
Charles. I cannot be a hypocrite, and 
deem 

The acts of solemn folly serious. 

When I shall cease to scorn malevolence 

And learn to reverence cant and super- 
stition, 

Then, not till then, I'll weep at my ex- 
pulsion. 
Unk. But to your tale. 
Charles. 'T is told: I turn'd my back 

On my grave censors; seized my hunter's 
arms. 

And struck in to the wilderness for home ; 

Which by the forest route I hoped to 
reach 

Ere the light closed to-day. I was de- 
ceived. 



Night came upon me; yet, I travell'd 

on. 
For by a civil horseman that pass'd by 
I had sent letters bidding them exj^ect me. 
Briefly, when I had fairly lost myself 
I met a hunter, whose bark cabin stands 
A few miles hence. He put me in the 

track. 
And pointed out a certain star to steer 

by; 

But passing clouds, and intervening 

boughs. 
And perhaps thoughts of home, and 

those at home, 
Marr'd my astronomy. I lost my star, 
And then I lost my path, and then my- 
self. 
And so, through swamp and thicket, 

brake and bramble, 
I 've scrambled on thus far — and, there 's 
my story. 
Unk. Your way was perilous — Did you 

meet nothing*? 
Charles. Not much. Sometimes a snake 
I trod on coil'd 
Around my leg, but I soon shook him 

off; 
A howl at times approach'd — and as I 

pass'd, 
The brake stirr'd near me with some 

living thing 
Beside myself — but this was all. 
Unk. 'T was wrong, 

Rashly to tempt these dangers. If your 

air 
Deceive me not, you are of foreign birth. 
Charles. Not four years since, we left 

our native England. 
Unk. England ! 

Charles. But why 's a mysteiy. We 're 
not known 
Nor understood here; we're of another 
world. 
Unk. Your name ? 
Charles. 'T is Charles Fitzroy. 

Unk. Fitzroy! Your mother's? 

Charles. You 're somewhat curious ; Isa- 
bella. 
Unk. Ha! 

Charles. What is it moves you? 

Unk. Isabella, say you? 

Charles. This strong emotion — 
Unk. It is nothing, nothing. — 

Or — is it strange that I should feel emo- 
tion 
At the sad tale you tell ? 
Charles. Sad tale! 

Unk. I wander. — 

I 've been a solitary man so long" 



122 



SUPERSTITION 



That— 'T is no matter.— What dost 
think me, youth"? 
Charles. A hunter who loves freedom and 
the forest ; 
Who 'd rather kill his venison in the 

Avood 
Than toil for it in the town. Am I not 
right 1 
Unk. 'T is true — I am — a hunter — 
Charles. But a strange one. — 

But come, sir, will you put me on my 
way? 
Unk. Will you not rather enter my poor 
cave 
And take its shelter till the morning 

breaks f 
'T will not be long. 
Charles. I cannot lose a moment 

In selfish rest, while those who love me 
suffer. 
Unk. Give me your hand then. I 'm your 

friend. 
Charles. I thank you. 

'T is the first cordial grasp I 've had 
from man. 
UxK. Poor youth! But hold — Give me 
your solemn promise 
To keep this meeting secret. 
Charles. I hate secrets; 

Lovers alone should have them. 
UxK. There are reasons : — 

I cannot now disclose them — solemn rea- 
sons — 
I do implore you — 
Charles. Sir, be satisfied; 

I '11 not reveal it. 
Unk. Nor allude to it, 

However press' d — Nor give the darkest 

hint 
That such a man as I exist ! 
Charles. I promise. 

Unk. I 'm satisfied. Your words are 
from the heart. 
Fidelity and truth sit on your brow. 
The blush of morn begins to tinge the 

east; 
You are not far from home ; you '11 soon 

embrace 
Your mother, Charles. Come, this way 
lies the path. {Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. An open Wood near the cottage 
of Raven SW'ORTH. Earhj dawn. 

{Enter George Egerton.) 

George. Poor uncle! little does your vi- 
sion dream, 



(Being abed) what ramble I'm upon. 

A hopeful enterprize, this of my un- 
cle's — 

To tame me in a wild wood. Ay, and 
then 

His bug-bear stories of the laws — con- 
found 'em. 

Last night the}'- spoil'd the sweetest vi- 
sion for me; 

Methought I saw this beauteous puritan. 

The parson's daughter; well, I woo'd 
and won — 

A thing of course — But going to em- 
brace her, 

I hugg'd — my pillow, think youf no; a 
pillory ! 

Well : I 'm resolved in spite of dream 
and omen, 

To see her, if I can, before we go. 

I 've three hours, good ; and three hours 
may do much. — 

By Vulcan, the intruding and lame God, 

My uncle limping this way! Gout con- 
found him. 

A royal oak! Bend your umbrageous 
branches, 

And saving me, be twice immortalized. 
{Conceals himself in a tree.) 

{Enter Sir Reginald.) 

Sir R. S 'blood ! the young rebel, what a 

march he 's led me ! 
Tortur'd too, all the route, like a poor 

prisoner 
By my own natural enemy the gout. 
The worst oft is I cannot find the 

rascal, 
I've been around the house. And I'd 

ha' sworn 
That was his mark. If I but catch him — 

Hey! 

{Enter Mary.) 

A pretty girl — I 'faith, a pretty girl! 
I '11 speak to her, I will ; there 's no one 

near — 
Hem! Save you lady — 
Mary. {Who is anxioush/ looking another 
way.) Would you aught with me, 
sir! 
Sir R. Aught*? Yes, egad: a very pretty 
girl — 
My dear, I — that is — 
George. So, so, my grave uncle. — 

Sir R. I meant to say — 't is somewhat 
early, child. 
For youth like yours — She 's beautiful by- 
gad;— 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



123 



To leave your downy slumbers — 
George. Poetry ! 

Maey. It is my custom, sir — But age like 
yours 
May suffer from the chill air of the 
morning. 
George. A brave girl, faith : 
Mary. (Aside.) 'T is one of those 

strange persons, 
My father spoke of — would that he 
would go. 
Sir R. Why, as you say, my dear, — that 

is — in fact — 
George. Nay, charge again, brave cavalier. 
Sir R. In truth then, 

My errand here so early, was to seek 
A runagate nephew. 
George. Meaning me. — 

Sir R. a rascal ! 

Pray, lady, have you met him*? 
Mary. Sir, I know not 

The person you enquire for. 
Sir R. I '11 describe him. 

George. Now for a flattering portrait. 
Sir R. {Aside.) I'll disgust her 

Lest he, perchance, should meet her — 

He 's a fellow 
Of an indifferent person, which his tailor 
Cannot make handsome; yet he thinks 

himself 
The only true Adonis. He has language 
If you can understand it. When he 

speaks, 
'T is in a lisp or oath. His gait 's be- 
tween 
A swagger and a dance. His grin 's from 

France, 
His leer from Cyprus. He 's a Turk in 

morals, 
And is of that religion no man knows 

of: 
In fine, he 's as ridiculous as dangerous — 
A mongrel thing; a slip of the coxcomb, 

madam. 
Grafted upon the rake. 
Mary. Sir, you describe 

A monster. 
Sir R. You have hit it : that is he, 

Should he approach you shun him. 
Mary. "" Sir, I shall. 

George. Here 's a kind uncle : but I '11 be 
reveng-'d. 

(Sir Reginald hows and exit.) 
Mary. He should have come last night : yet 
here 's the morning. 
And yet he comes not. He cannot have 

pass'd me. 
Is it because this is his homcAvard path 
That I am loitering here ? I fear it is — 



0, I am most imprudent — most forget- 
ful— ^ 

I fear most sinful. 
George. {Descending, and comes down the 
stage on the left.) 

Now he 's out of sight. 

And now for the encounter — Madam, 
your slave. 

Nay start not; I am not the monster, 
lady. 

That gouty person pictur'd. Did you 
know him 

But half so well as I, you 'd not believe 
him. 

Or did you but know me, but half so 
well 

As I would have you, and you would be- 
lieve him 

To be the most transcendant of ro- 
mancers. 

Bunyan's book, madam, is true history, 

To that he speaks. He was a soldier 
once. 

But was cashier'd for lying. Mande- 
ville. 

The greatest liar of antiquity. 

May be hereafter quoted as authentic. 

When he 's believ'd — And I 'm his 
nephew, too ! 

A pleasant jest: he kept the wild beasts, 
madam. 

In London, till they turn'd him off for 
stealing 

The lion's supper — Yet a single moment. 
Mary. What would you, sir? 
George. You see, before you, lady. 

The most unfortunate young fellow 
breathing, 

Banish'd to this strange country for the 
crime 

Of being too susceptible — and sentenc'd 

To die a lingering death upon the rack. 

Unless your smile reprieve him. 
Mary. This is strange: 

I do not understand you. 
George. If my words 

Lack meaning, lady, look into my eyes, 

And thro' them to my heart, and see en- 
shrin'd 

Your worshipp'd image there — 
Mary. Most wonderful, 

What language is 't you speak, sir"? 
George. Ma'am: what language*? 

English, I think. The pretty simpleton! 

Bred in the woods, to her a metaphor 

Is Heathen Greek. Madam, those fool- 
ish figures 

Are nil the mode at court; and mean, my 
dear. 



124 



SUPERSTITION 



In simple phrase — 
;Mary. I pray, sir, let me pass — 

George. Not yet, my child — 
Mary. Sure 't is a madman. 

George, True, 

And therefore treat me soothing-ly and 

kindly, 
For of all madmen, your mad lover's 

maddest. 
Do you not fear me ? 
Mary. No. 

George. Why, then you love me. 

Come; I have seen such clouds before; 

they tell 
Of coming sunshine — nay, you must not 

go.— 
I will be monstrous kind to thee, and love 

thee 
Most constantly — 
Mary. Release me. 

George. Ay, and take thee 

To England, child, and make thee there, 

my dear, 
The envy of thy sex. 
Mary. If you 're a gentleman — 

George. The conscious grove would blush 
its green leaves red, 
Should i give back. 
Mary. Do vou not fear the 

laws? 
George. Nor law, nor gospel now — Come, 

come, 't is folly — 
Mary. Heav'n: help, help! 

{Enter Charles, and comes down to 
centre.) 

Charles. Ruffian, unhand the lady ! 

George. So j)eremptory, boy*? 
Charles. Do you delay *? 

{ Throws him of.) 
George. Curse on my haste : I have forgot 

my sword. 
Mary. Charles! 

Charles. My dearest Mary ; my belov'd ! 
(Mary retires up.) 
George. Hum; is it so? But s 'death ! I 
must n't bear it. 
Hark ye, Sir. 
Charles. Well, Sir. 

G?:ORGE. I shall find a time. — 

Charles. Best make it. 
George. When ? 

Charles. Two hours lience, in the giovc 

East of the village. 
George. I shall meet you there. 

But look ye, sir, be punctual : I 've en- 
gagements. 
Charles. I shall not fail you. 



George. 'Gad, a pretty fellow. 

I '11 pink him first, and then I 'li patron- 
ize him. {Exit.) 
Mary. O Charles! what pass'd between 
you? surely, surely 
You will not honour him with further 
notice. 
Charles. Speak not of him — he is not 
worth a thought — 
We can employ our time to better pur- 
pose. 
Tell me, have yet the calumnies against 

me, 
Found shelter here? 
Mary. You know they have not, Charles. 
But I have much to tell you — We must j 

part! 
Heav'n ! is not that my father? Oh, it is ! 
He comes this way; but has not yet 

descried ns — 
Ah ! fly, fly quickly ! 
Charles. Fly? 

Mary. Yes, if you wish 

That we should ever meet — 
Charles. But shall we meet ! 

Mary. That way — behind the trees — 
quickly, quickly ! 

(Charles goes up.) J 
Charles. {From the Grove.) But tell \ 
me, Mary, will you walk this way 
In the evening? 
Mary. It is impossible; my father 

Forbids my walks — 
Charles. Why then, one place remains — 
One only — I will visit you to-night — 
You do not answer — Shall I? 
Mary. begone ! 

{Exit Charles, behind the trees.) 
Did I consent? I fear he'll think I 

did. 
My father comes — should he have seen- 

us part ! 
Am I the guilty creature that I feel? 
He 's here — I cannot look him in the face. 

{Enter Ravensworth, looks at Mary 
sternly for some time.) 

Rav. 'T is well; that air of shame becomes 
you well. 
Is this your duty? Did I not forbid 
These lonely walks? But get you home; 

anon, 
I'll talk Willi you. 
Mary. {As she goes out.) 

He did not see him ! 
Rav, Home. 

{Exeunt.) 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



125 



ScEXE 3. An xipartment at Isabella's. 

{Enter Isabella, meeting Lucy.) 

IsA. Speak ; is he yet in sight *? 
Lucy. No, madam. 

IsA. Go, 

! go again, good Lucy, and be swift 
When he appears. {Exit Lucy.) My 

poor, poor boy ! my Charles — 
To be thus treated, and thy gentle heart 
So full of kindness to all living crea- 
tures : 
To have thy asjDirations after fame, 
Thus rudely scorn'd, thy youthful hopes 

thus blighted ! 
But he deserves it not ; there 's comfort 

yet, 

And he may rise above it. — Not yet 

come. 
He promis'd, and he would not break 

his word. 
And to his mother, without serious 

cause — 
The way is full of peril, and I Iviiow 
His temper shuns not danger. Gracious 

Heav'n ! 
If I should lose him — him, the only 

being — 

{Enter Lucy, hastily.) 

Now, Lucy, quick ! 
Lucy. Madam, he is in sight ; 

And flj' ing up the avenue. 
ISA. Thank Heaven ! 

{Enter Charles.) 

Charles. Mother ! 

IsA. My sou. {Falls into his arms.) 

Charles. My. ever dearest mother ! 

ISA. O Charles, how could you thus delay 
your coming'? 

The night was pass'd in watch. 
Charles. I gi-ieve to know it 

I was benighted in the forest, mother. 

And lost my way. 
ISA. Alas ! thou art spent with toil. 

Charles. Not much. 

IsA. Poor Charles: And so they 

have expelled thee — 

Expeird ! 
Charles. Nay, piy'thee let ns forget it. 
ISA. " Wretches ! 

I could have borne all else — but to dis- 
grace thee — 

To spurn thee from them — thee ! I could 
endure 

The daily persecutions that assail me 



With patience and with firmness — But I 

have the'e. 
Come, let us in: you need rest and re- 
freshment. 
You shall not leave me soon again, my 

son — 
I am a child without you. 
Charles. {Aside.) My poor mother. 

IsA. But let us in — 
Charles. I '11 follow you, my mother. 

I will but give an order. {Exit Isabella.) 
Edward. 

{Enter Edward.) 

Edw. Sir. 

Charles. Go, get my rapier ready, wrap 
it close, 
And some hour hence, not later, choose 

a time. 
And speed with it to the wood, east of the 

village. 
There wait my coming. 
Edw. Yes, sir. 

Charles. But be sure 

That no one see it. 
Edw. I '11 be careful, sir. 

{Exit Edward.) 

{Enter Isabella.) 

ISA. Fve, sir; is this your breeding*? must 

I wait? 
Charles. Forgive me, madam, I am ready 

now. {Exeunt.) 

END OP ACT TWO. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene 1. An open Wood. 
{Enter Charles, followed hy Edward.) 

Charles. Give me the sword; remain at 

the edge of the wood; 
If any one approach, haste to inform me. 
{Exit Edward.) 
I am here first, 'tis well. My mother 

thinks 
It is a softer interview I seek ; 
And while she cautioned me, her sad smile 

seem'd 
To sanction what she fear'd. My dear, 

kind mother. 
And should I fall — well : it would be my 

fate. 
We are but barques npon the sea of life. 
And when the storm is up, we greet the 

port, 



126 



SUPERSTITION 



Or meet the rock, as destiny determines, 
Spile of our feeble efforts. Mary, too! 
These thouuhts are not in season. 
Here 's my man. 

{Enter George Egerton, hastily.) 

Well met, sir. 
George. Sir, I kiss your hands. I' faith, 
I 've had a race to get here. My wise 

uncle 
Hung- round me like a bride in the first 

month — 
Or rather like a wife in the second year, 
When jealousy commences. — Come on, 
sir. 
Charles. Best breathe awhile; I have the 

advantage of you. 
George. You will not keep it long. My 
greater skill 
Will give me still the odds. 
Charles. It may be so. 

Yet you may be deceived. My masters 

flattei^d 
Or I, too, have some science. 
George. I 'm glad of it ; 

For you 're a pretty fellow, and deserve 
To fall with credit. Come, sir, to your 

guard. 
We shall be interrupted. 
Charles. Better so, 

Than that we fight unfairly. You pant 
still, sir. 
George. You are a soul of honour, and, 
were 't possible — 
But no ; the person of an Egerton 
Must never be profan'd. Come, Sir, 
en garde. 
Charles. If you will have it so. 
George. I will. 

Charles. Come on then. 

[They fight. George is wounded.) 
George. I 'm pink'd egad ; who would 
have thought it? ^S' death! 
I 'm out of practice. 
Charles. Here, Sir, on this bank. 

Your head against this tree — Your 

wound 's not deep 
I hope. How feel you now? 
George. I' faith, but faintly. 

{Enter Edward.) 

Edw. There is a gentleman approaching. 

Sir. 
George. It is my uncle, like a keen old 
sportsman. 
In at the death. Pry'thee begone, my 

friend, 
'T were well you were not known. 
Charles. This handkerchief — 



So, press it close — I '11 haste to send you 

aid.— 
But for the lady's fame, and your own 

honour. 
The cause of this our meeting is a secret. 
George. It shall be so : I thank you. But 

away! 

{Exeunt Charles and Edward.) 
That's a fine lad. But where i' the 

devil's name, 
Leam'd he to fence? I wonder, now I 

think on 't, 
Who '11 write my epitaph. My uncle 

can't, 
He has no genius. I would do 't myself. 
Had I an amanuensis: let me see — 
Hie jacet — {Faints.) 

{Enter Sir Reginald.) 

Sir R. Gracious Heav'n, what is this ! 

My nephew bleeding, dead! no, he but 
faints. 

With loss of blood. Soft, he revives; 
why, nephew — 

My poor mad George, how fares it? 
George. How d' ye, uncle ? 

Is 't day or night ? Faith my eyes twin- 
kle strangely. 
Sir R. Cheerly, George, cheerly, we '11 do 
well enough, — 

What shall I do? — But how came this 
about? 

Was't fairly done? 
George. According to the rules. 

Should I die, uncle, and my adversary 

E'er be discover'd, testify for him — 

He kill'd me like a gentleman and Chris- 
tian. 
Sir R. a duel! ah, George, George. But 
zounds! do the roundheads 

Fight duels too ! a pretty school I 've 
chosen 

To teach you prudence in! will no one 
come! 

{Enter Two Men, with a Bier.) 

Ah, you are welcome, set it down, so, so. 
George. A pretty ominous conveyance, 

this. 
Sir R. I pry'thee hold thy peace, and get 

thee in. 
George. A gTain of opium now, were 
worth a jewel, 
Uncle, I '11 never fight again without it. 
Sir R. Be quiet, George — you waste your 
strength. So, so. 
{The men take him up and are about 
moving.) 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



127 



George. Head foremost if you please, my 
worthy friends; 
'Tis but fair play — heels first perhaps, 
to-morrow. 
{The men carry him a few paces.) 
Halt, if it please ye, gentlemen, one mo- 
ment. 
Two hobbles more and I 'm defunct. — 

Pray, general. 
Drill those recruits to the step. In camp, 

now, uncle, 
It were a pleasure to be carried out. 
Sir R. Wilt hold thy peace then ? 
George. Yes. — The left foot, uncle — 

Sir R. Now, gentlemen, at the word 
"march" lift up 
The left foot each of you, and so move 
on. 
George. Right, uncle. 
Sir R. Hold your tongue. March ! 

George. Ay; so, so. 

{Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. The Village. 

{Enter Charles and Edward.) 

Charles. Can it be true! the savages so 

near? 
Edw. It is so said. 

Charles. Edward, do you return, 

And see the unfortunate gentleman I 

wounded 
Placed in security. I '11 hasten home. 

{Exit Edward.) 

My first care is my mother — then for 

Mary! {Exit Charles.) 

{Enter Walford, meeting Alice.) 

Walf. A\nienee this alarm f 
Alice. father, we are lost. 

A hunter has come in nigh dead with 

speed, 
With tidings that the savages are coming. 
Walf. How near? 

Alice. Alas ! a few miles from the village. 
Walf. Is 't possible ! can they have thus 
eluded 
Our watchful troops! we must prepare — 
welcome! 

{Enter Ravensworth.) 

Heard you the fearful tidings. Ravens- 
worth? 
Ray. I have, and will you now believe., our 
sins 



Bring these afflictions on us? We have 

murderei-s 
Lurking among us. 
Walf. How ! 

Rav. This moment pass'd me. 

The relative of the Knight, Sir Reginald ; 
Dying, or dead. 
Walf. Whose was the act? 

Rav. Whose was 't? 

The act of him, whose every act is crime. 
The son of this dark woman. 
Walf. How is it known ? 

Rav. His sword and handkerchief stain'd 
both with blood. 
And mark'd with his vile name, were 

found in the wood. 
He has not Jbeen one day yet in the vil- 
lage, 
And lo! these visitations. On the in- 
stant 
He must be dealt with. 
Walf. First for our defence — 

What do you counsel? 
Rav. Prayer and sacrifice. 

Walf. 'T is too late now, we must take 
other means. 

{The Villagers enter, exhibiting signs 
of wild affright.) 

Walf. Hark ye, my friend, have messen- 
gers been sent 
To warn the seatter'd settlers round? 
1st Villa. They have. 

Walf. Why rings not the alarum bell ! 
1st Villa. I know not, 

Unless the exposed position of the 
church — 
Walf. Go, some of you and do it. — 
Hasten, friends, 
Seize every man his arms. 

{Exeunt Villagers.) 

Rav. Behold where comes 

In all her pride, one of the moving causes 

Of all this horror — mark with what an 

air. 
How tranquil and compos'd she looks 

around 
Upon the growing evil — safe, 'midst the 

fury 
Of her own tempest. 

{As he speaks; Enter Isabella; the 
women shrink from her in fear. 
Alice gazes upon her with interest; 
Ravensworth fixes his eyes sternly 
upon her. She remains unmoved.) 
Walf. Ravensworth, forbear. 

Is this a time. — 

[Enter 2d Villager.) 



128 



SUPERSTITION 



Now, friend, what news have you"? 
2d Villa. They have begun to issue from 
the wood. — 

{Enter Sir Reginald.) 

Sir R. What is this I hear? the savages 
approaching- ! 
Now plague upon this gout ! — But I 've 

an arm left 
That yet can wield a sword. 
Walf. Your nephew, Sir, 

May need your care. You 're strange to 
our wild warfare. 
Sir R. True ; I 'd forgot poor George. 
They '11 cut thro' me 
Before they get a hair of him. {Retires.) 

{Re-enter 1st Vill*ager.) 

Walf. How now? 

1st Villa. We 've rallied at the church ; 
but want a leader. 

Walf. You shall not want one longer. 

Alice. 0, my father! 

Walf. Heav'n bless you, my dear daugh- 
ter. Follow me. 
{Exit Walford, followed hij Vil- 
lagers. Distant yell. The alarm 
hell rings, a feiv distant and strag- 
gling shots heard. Houses at a dis- 
tance beginning to blaze; — a pause 
of the hell.) 

Ray. Now, where 's your son ? 

Isa. Gone, Sir, to save your daughter. 

Ray. My daughter ! I 'd forgot. — Is she 
not here. 
{Runs wildly around. Bell rings. 
The shots are nearer and more fre- 
quent. The blaze increases.) 

Ray. My daughter! where, where 's my 
daughter ! 

{Enter Charles, hearing Mary.) 

Charles. There, Sir. 

(Rayensworth receives her, and for a 
moment yields to his paternal feel- 
ing. But instantly withdraws from 
Charles with a scowl. Charles, 
after affectionately recognizing his 
mother, rushes out. Alice joins 
Mary; who is prevented from ad- 
dressing Isabella, by her father's 
frown. Isabella maintains her dig- 
nity and composure. Alarm con- 
tinues, shouts, yells, etc.) 

{The Villagers enter in disorder, followed 
by Charles and Walford.) 

Charles. One effort more. 

Walf. It is impossible, 



Panic has seiz'd them all and we must 
perish. 
{The bell has ceased. A dreadful yell. 
The Villagers turn and are about 
to fly in despair, when 

Enter the Unknown.) 

Unk. Turn back for shame — as ye are 
men, turn back! 

As ye are husbands, fathers, turn, and 
save 

From death and violation those ye love. — 

If this not move you, as ye are Chris- 
tian men 

And do believe in God, tempt not his 
wrath 

By doubting thus his providence. Be- 
hold 

I am sent to save you. 
Omnes. Save us, save us. 

Walf. Say, 

What shall we do ; we 're ready to obey 
thee. 
Unk. Front then and bear yourselves like 
men — 'T is well. 

The savage sees us rally; and the pause 

His caution grants, secures us the advan- 
tage. 
{He passes rapidly along the line, di- 
viding them into three bodies. Then 
addresses Walford and Charles.) 

This band be yours — this yours — Quick, 
lead them forth. 

And each by a rapid circuit, turn the 
foe 

By either flank. This will I lead myself 

Against his front — holding him thus in 
check 

Until I hear the horn sound your ar- 
rival — 

Then while perplex'd he hesitates be- 
tween us. 

Rush to the onset all — close on the 
heathen. 

And shower destruction on him — haste 
away. 
{Exeunt Unkxov^n, Walford and 
Charles, leading their bands.) 
Isa. How awful is this pause, that but 
precedes 

The shock that may o'erwhelm us. God, 
to thee. 

The mother turns. Not for myself, 

Not for my sinful self — ^but for my son — 

My innocent son I plead. Cut him not 
off 

In the blossom of his days. , 
Ray. Mark, if the hag 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



129 



Mutter not, even now, her incantations. 

{A few scattering shot heard.) 
The fronts have met, and from the forest 

coverts, 
Exchange their cautious fire. 

{A bugle sounds, answered hy another 
from a different quarter. Shouts, 
Yells, a general and continued dis- 
charge of musketry. Shouts and 
bugles.) 
Ray. The crisis has arrived — the fire has 
ceased, 
And now the closer work of death com- 
mences. 
Ascend yon tree, and say what thou ob- 
servest. 

{To a boy, icho ascends the tree.) 
Boy. I see them now. The Indians stand 
dismay'd. 
We 're pouring now upon them from the 

forest. 
From every side. — Now, now the Indians 

turn — 
They meet — they close — they're strug- 
gling man to man. 
Sword, knife and tomahawk are glanc- 
ing. 
ISA. Heaven ! 

Protect, protect my Charles! 
Alice. Save my dear father. {Shout.) 

Rav. What shout is that? Hear ye the 

savage yellt 
Boy. No, no, 't was ours, — we 've con- 
quer'd — and they come, 
Dragging their prisoners with them. 
Here 's my father. 

{Enter 1st Villager shouting "Victory," 
meets and caresses the boy.) 

{General Shout, Bugles. Enter Wal- 
FORD, Charles, Villagers, with In- 
DiA^q- Prisoxers. They arrange 
themselves on each side; the Indians 
in the background. Charles flies to 
his mother, luho sinks on her knees 
in his embrace. Alice joins her fa- 
ther, various groups formed. Mary 
manifests much interest for 
Charles, who regards her tenderly. 
Ravexsworth preserves his suspi- 
cious and reserved demeanour.) 

{Enter the UxKXOWx. He passes down 
the centre. All gaze on him luith awe, 
and stretch forth their hands towards 
him, bending their bodies.) 

UxK. No; not to me this homage — net to 
man 



Is your this day's deliverance owing. 

There— ^ 
To heaven address your gratitude. To 

God 
Stretch forth your hands and raise your 

swimming eyes. 
Before Jehovah bend your bodies down, 
And from your humble hearts pour out 

the flood 
Of Thankfulness. It was his care that 

watch'd 
His eye that saw; his arm that smote the 

heathen — 
His be the praise and glory. 

{All bend in adoration. The Ux- 

KXOWN casts a glance at Isabella, 

and exclaims as he goes out,) 

Yes; 'tis she. {Exit Uxkxowx.) 
{After a short pause, they raise their 

heads and look around anxiously for 

the UxKXOWX".) 

{Enter Sir Reginald.) 

Walf. Has this thing been'? Where is 

he? did he pass you? 
Sir R. Who? 

Walf. Our mysterious leader — 

Sir R. I saw him not. 

Walf. Was 't an earthly being ? 
Alice. my father! 

It was not mortal. 
Charles. In the fight his arm, 

Like the fierce lightning wither'd where 
it fell. 
Sir R. You speak of wonders ! 
Rav. Woman, what think you — 

Was it an angel — or a fiend? 
Walf. What mean you? 

(Isabella turns from him proudly. 
Charles represses his anger on ex- 
changing glances with Mary.) 
Rav. You '11 know anon. Walf ord, you 
bleed. {Crosses to Walford.) 

Walf. A trifle. 

Rav. He does not bleed — 
Walf. I think not ; yet he dar'd 

The thickest of the fight. 
Rav. Can you not see? 

Do you but mark? 
Walf. Your meaning is most dark. 

Rav. The murkiest night must fly before 
the day; 
Illusion, strong as Hell must yield to 

Truth. 
You understand me not — No matter — 

come — 
Let these vile heathens be securely plac'd 
To await their certain death — then to the 
temple — 



130 



SUPERSTITION 



There, to the Throne of Mercy to pre- 
sent 

Our sacrifice of prayer and of thanks- 
giving. 
{Exeunt Charles, Isabella, and 
others.) 

END OF ACT THREE. 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene 1.^ Before tlie house of Ravens- 
worth. 

{Enter Ravensayorth from the house, 
meeting Walford.) 

Ray. You come in happy time; I would 
have sought you 
Walford, my soul is sick, even to death. 
To look upon the miseries, our sins 
Bring down upon us. But I am re- 

solv'd ; — 
This day's events at length have steel'd 

my heart 
Against the accursed cause; who must 

not longer 
Pollute, unquestion'd thus, our whole- 
some air. 
Walf. You know the cause then? 
Ray. Who can know this woman, 

This Isabella, and be ignorant ! 
But she must answer it — the time is 

come; 
She and her son must answer for their 

deeds. 
And since my letters to the government 
Have f ail'd to bring their aid — ourselves, 

my friend, 
Must call them to the judgment seat. 
Walf. Not so ; 

Your efforts have been crown'd with sad 

success. 
Commissioners have even now arriv'd, — 
I came to let you know it. 
Ray. Thanks, my friend, 

You make me happ5\ 
Walf. Happy, Ravensworth ! 

Ray. And should I not rejoice that guilt 
like theirs 
Should cease to spread its poison thro' 
the land? 
Walf. Where shall we find the evidence 

of guilt ? 
Ray. The trial shall produce it, doubt it 
not; 
Meantime, methinks the general belief 

1 This scene was omitted in the representation. 



In their dark crimes; the universal hor- 
ror 

Inspir'd e'en by their presence — as if 
nature 

Shudder'd instinctively at what was mon- 
strous. 

And hostile to its laws, were, of them- 
selves, 

A ground to rest the charge on. 
Walf. Ah, my friend, 

If reason in a mind like yours, so form'd, 

So fortified by knowledge, can bow down 

Before the popular breath, what shall 
protect 

From the all-with'ring blasts of super- 
stition 

The unthinking crowd, in whom cre- 
dulity, 

Is ever the first bom of ignorance? 
Ray. Walford, what meanest thou by su- 
perstition ! 

Is there in our religion aught forbidding 

Belief in sorcery! Look Ihro' this land, 

Or turn thine eyes abroad — are not the 
men 

Most eminent for piety and knowledge — 

The shining lights of a benighted age. 

Are they not, too, believers? 
Walf. There have been, 

In every age, among the learn'd, divines, 

Statesmen, philosophers, astronomers. 

Who have upheld with much ability, 

The errors they believ'd in. Abstract 
points 

In science, may be safely tolerated, 

Altho' erroneous — But there may be doc- 
trines. 

So fatal in their influence, that, until 

Their truth is manifest, 'twere well not 
cast them. 

With lavish hand, among the multitude..^ 
Ray. And is not sorcerj^ manifest as day? 

Have not our senses testified unto it? 
Walf. We have heard infant witnesses 
aver it, 

And seen them while they seem'd to suf- 
fer it; 

We have heard wretches in despair con- 
fess it. 

And have seen helpless creatures perish 
for it ; 

And yet — 
Ray. What yet? 

Walf. Ravensworth! these things 

Have happened : on a day of gloom and 
terror. 

When but to doubt was danger, to deny, 
death ; 

When childish petulance, e'en idiocy, 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



131 



Were gravely listened to, when mere sus- 
picion, 
Could, with a hint destroy, and coward 

malice, 
With whispers, reach'd at life; when 

frenzy's flame. 
Like fire in tow, ran thro' the minds of 

men, 
Fann'd by the breath of those in highest 

places, 
E'en from the bench, yea, from the sacred 

desk. 
Rav. Hold, Walford, I have held thee as 

my friend. 
For many years, beware — 
Walf. I know thy power 

Over the multitude, but fear it not. 
I have discharged my duty, fare thee 

well. 
Rav. Stay, Walford, thou art honest, but 

mistaken. 
We will dispute no more. But tell me, 

friend. 
Have the commissioners enquired for me"? 
Walf. They have. Before they enter on 

their duties. 
They 'd have thy counsel. 
Rav. Tliey shall have it straight, 

I '11 go to them at once. 'T is almost 

night — 
There is no hour to lose, I pray thee, 

Walford, 
As I may haply, be detain'd abroad. 
Let thy good Alice stay here with my 

daughter 
Till my return. 
Walf. Most willingly. I '11 haste. 

And bring her hither. 
Rav. Nay, we '11 go together. 

(Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. An Apartment at Isabella's. 

{Enter Isabella and Chaeles.) 

IsA. Ungrateful people ! 
Charles. Had they not presum'd 

To cloud your clear name with their 

viperous breath, 
I could forgive them. 'T was not for the 

herd 
I drew my sword. 
ISA. Unthankful wretches; what! 

Upon the very act that saved their lives, 
To found a charge that might endanger 
thine ! 
Charles. 'T is even so : I am in league, it 
seemS; 



With fiends, so say their worships; and 

the sti'anger. 
Is no less, than the prince of fiends him- 
self. 
Nothing is too ridiculous for those 
Whom bigotry has brutaliz'd, I laugh 
At their most monstrous folly. 
ISA. But such folly, 

When it infects the crowd, is dangerous. 
Already we 've had proof what dreadful 

acts 
Their madness may commit, and each 

new day 
The frenzy spreads. We are suspected 

too — 
Then your imprudent duel — my son. 
We must remove from hence. 
Charles. Remove, from hence'? 

ISA. Yes ; ere the monsters catch us in the 

toils 
They are preparing. 
Charles. Mother, you w^ere wont 

To bear a mind whose firmness could 

resist 
Your sex's common weaknesses! 
ISA. I know not 

How it is, Charles, but dark and sad 

forebodings 
Hang o'er my subdued spirit; and I 

tremble 
E'en for thy life. 
Charles. Banish those thoughts, my 

mother. 
ISA. I try, but cannot. — Yes; we will 

hence; my son. 
Tho' on the verge, perhaps, of that dis- 
covery 
The hope of which has held me here so 

long. 
We will begone to-morrow. 
Charles. So soon, mother? 

IsA. You do not wish it. Charles, a 

mother's eye 
Can penetrate the heart. The gentle 

Mary — 
She will be left behind — is it not so? 
But this is boyish, you are yet too young 
To entertain such fantasies — and then 
You know her father — sadder still my 

son; 
Well, we '11 not cross the ocean — we '11 

but seek 
The nearest spot that is inhabited 
By rational beings. And besides, your 

youth 
Will wear a j^ear or two. How say you. 

Charles, 
Are you contented? 
Charles. You 're the best of mothers. 



132 



SUPERSTITION 



And were my heart strings fasten'd to 
the spot, 

I 'd with you, tho' they sunder'd. But 
you spoke 

A moment since, of some discovery 

You were near making: what discovery *? 
ISA. It was an inadvertence — 
Charles. Must I never 

Hope to enjoy your confidence'? 
ISA. Not now — 

Another time, my son. 
Charles. Another time — 

'T is ever thus you put my questions by. 

Rather forbid me e'er again to ask 

Of what so much concerns me, and I 
promise 

However hard the task, I will obey you. 

I trust you have ne'er found me disobedi- 
ent! 
ISA. You have been all a mother's heart 
could wish. 

You ask but what you have a right to 
ask, 

And I have always purposed a fit time — 

When that your age were ripe enough — 
Charles. Well, mother, 

Has not that time arrived? 
ISA. Your age, dear Charles, 

Has scarce reach'd manhood yet. 'T is 
true, your courage, 

Your conduct amidst danger — manly vir- 
tues, — 

Are well approv'd. Your judgment too 
— so much, 

A mother may believe and say — is far 

Beyond the years you count. But there 's 
a quality; 

A virtue it may be, which is the growth 

Only of minds well disciplin'd; which 
looks 

On human actions with a liberal eye. 

That knows the weakness of the human 
heart. 

Because it feels it; and will not con- 
demn 

In others, what itself is conscious of — 

That will not with the tyrant prejudice. 

Without allowance or extenuation, 

Yea, without hearing pass its dreadful 
sentence. 
Charles. And am I such a one'?^ thanks 
to my nature. 

Which I feel is not quite so vile. My 
breeding, 

1 This passage is confused. It should probably 
read: Thanks to my nature, 

Which I feel is not so vile, and to my breeding 
Whicli has been liberal, nay, tlianks to those 
Who daily here exhibit its deformity, 
I scorn this monster prejudice. 



Which has been liberal. Nay thanks to 

those 
Who daily here exhibit its deformity, 
I scorn this monster prejudice. 
ISA. And yet— 

Should you — I could not live if you 

should hate me. 
Charles. Hate you, my mother'? Had 

not all your actions 
Been, as I 've seen them, noble ; all your 

precepts 
As I have ever found them, full of good- 
ness. 
Could I recall the tenderness you 've 

shewn 
Towards me, and cease to love you. — 

Never, never! 
All crimes however great, dwindle to 

atoms 
Near filial ingratitude; the heart 
That is that monster's throne, ne'er knew 

a virtue. 
IsA. Ah! how shall I commence! — What 

would you know. 
Charles. Why you left England? Why 

in this wilderness. 
Amidst a race that scorn, that shun and 

loathe us, 



You linger 
mother ; 

Who is my father"? 
ISA. Ah ! 

Charles. 



out existence "? Chiefly, 



{Taking her hand.) 

{Turning awag.) 

In our own England, 

At school, among my frank and laugh- 
ing mates. 

When they have put this question, it was 
done 

In merry mood, and I could bear it — 
well — 

Although I could not answer it ; but here, 

mother — to these cold and selfish be- 
ings, 

Their smooth tongues dipp'd in bitter- 
ness, their eyes 

Scowling suspicion — what can I reply? 
IsA. Poor boy, poor boy! Well, Charles, 
the time is come 

And if my spirits fail not — you shall 
know all. 

Your father — but I cannot, no, I cannot 

Commence my story there. — I was left, 
Charles, 

W^ithout a parent's care, just at that age 

That needs it most. I had ne'er known 
my mother. 

And was scarce fifteen when my father's 
fate 

Forc'd him to abandon child and home 
and country; 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



133 



For lie had been a patriot, as be deemed 

it, 
Or, as bis destiny decreed, a traitor. — 
He tied to this new world. 
Charles. Does be yet livef 

ISA. Alas! I know not, rumours came to 
England 
That be survived. It was to find my 

fatber. 
And on my knees implore bis benedic- 
tion ; — 
Haply, sbould be forgive, to minister 
Unto bis age's comfort — I came bitber. 
Charles. 'T is strange, if living, be sbould 
seek concealment, 
After tbe general amnesty. 
ISA. 0! Charles; 

He was excepted in that act of mercy ; 
He bad done that, tbe king might never 
pardon. 
Charles. Unhappy man ! 
ISA. Most true, — But let me haste 

To close my dark recital. I was plac'd 
In charge of a kinsman — a perfidious 

villain 
Whose avarice sold, betray'd me. — my 

son. 
It is not fit thy ears sbould bear tbe tale, 
And from my lips. I wept, implor'd, re- 
sisted — 
Riches and pleasure tempted me in vain 
Coupled with shame. But hellish craft 

at length 
Triumph'd over credulous vanity — The 

altar 
Was made tbe scene of sacrilegious mock- 
ery, 
Tbe holy vestments of the priest, became 
A profane masking habit — 
Charles. Power of Justice ! 

Could you behold this and forbear to 
strike ! 
ISA. The illusion vanisb'd, and I fled, I fled 

In horror and in madness. 
Charles. Dreadful, dreadful! 

ISA. It was thy birth that sav'd me from 
destruction — 
I had thee to live for, and I liv'd; deep 

bid 
In solitude, under an assum'd name, 
Thou wer't rear'd, Charles, amidst thy 
mother's tears. 
Charles. An assum'd name — in solitude 
— Shame, shame! 
Why not unmask the villain to the world, 
And boldly challenge what was yours"? 
ISA. His rank — 

Charles. No rank sbould shield injustice. 
Quick, inform me 



Who was tbe wretch? Give me tbe vil- 
lain's name. 
ISA. He was thy fatber, Charles. 
Charles. In the sight of Heaven 

I here disclaim and curse — 
IsA. Forbear, forbear — 

Or curse me too — 
Charles. His name, his name — 

ISA. You will destroy me! 

{She falls into his arms.) 
Charles. What have I done? I will be 
calm — forgive me. 

{Enter Lucy.) 

Lucy. A person from the village, madam, 
asks 

To be admitted to your presence. 
IsA. How ! 

Does be declare bis business? 
Lucy. He declines it, 

Until he see yourself. 
ISA. Admit him, Lucy. 

{Exit Lucy.) 

Charles. Madam, you tremble still, let 

me support you. 
IsA. No; I must learn to overcome this 

weakness. 

{Enter Messenger.) 

Now, Sir, I 'm she you ask for — to your 
business. 
]\Iess. My business is with both. ' You, 
Isabella 
And Charles, surnam'd Fitzroy, are cited 

both. 
By a commission of the government. 
To attend them at their session on the 

morrow 
At nine in the morning. 
Charles. And to what purpose? 

Mess. That 

You'll learn from them, farewell. 

{Exit Messenger.) 

Charles. Why farewell, gravity. 

IsA. What can this mean? 
Charles. They do not know themselves. 
IsA. I fear I 've been too tardy. 
Charles. Nay, 'tis nothing. 

To question us, perhaps, upon our means. 

And pack us from the parish, nothing 
more. 

But, madam, you were interrupted, ere 

I learn'd the name — 
ISA. Not at this moment, Charles. 

Charles. Well then, enough of sorrow for 
to-day — 

I v/ill return anon, and laugh with you 



134 



SUPERSTITION 



At the absurdities of these strange peo- 
ple. 
At supper we '11 discuss our plans for the 

future. 
We may be happy yet. — 
ISA. But whither go you? 

Charles. I ought to visit him I wounded, 
madam, 
And perhaps I may gather in the village, 
Something that may concern us — and per- 
haps — 
ISA. Well do not be long absent; it is 

night. 
Charles. I will not, madam: I shall soon 
return. 

{Exit Charles.) 

ISA. He does not feel the danger, his frank 
spirit, 
His careless youth, disdains it. We must 

fly.- 

{Enter Lucy.) 

Bid Edward, with all speed, prepare the 

horses. 
Then follow to my chamber. We must 

prepare 
In all haste, for a journey — 
Lucy. Madam, a journey — 

To-night"? 
IsA. To-night: it is most necessary. So, 
bid Edward 
Be secret. 
Lucy. He is here. 

Edw. {Within.) You cannot pass. 

{Enter Edward.) 

IsA. What noise is this*? 

Edw. Madam, in spite of me 

They press into your presence. 
ISA. We are lost ! 

{Enter several Officers.) 

1st. Officer. For that we do we have 

sufficient warrant. 
ISA. What means this rudeness? 
1st Officer. Answer; where 's your 

son? 
ISA. He is not in the house. 
1st Officer. {To attendants who go out.) 

Go you, make search. 
ISA. Again I ask, what is your business 

here? 
1st Officer. Read {hands her a paper). 
ISA. Gracious Heav'n ! Is this the charge 

against us! 
But why this second visit ! we are cited 
To answer in the morning. 



1st Officer. But the judges 

Have chang'd their mind. Your chamber 

is your prison 
'Til you are sent for. We '11 attend you 
thither. 
IsA. But one word with my servant — 
1st Officer. Not one word; 

It is forbidden, come — 
IsA. My son, my son! {She exchanges 
significant looks with Lucy, and Exit 
guarded. ) 
Lucy. I understand {going.) 
2nd Officer. And so do we — our duty. 

You are not to stir hence, nor hold dis- 
course 
One with another. Lead them in — away. 
{Officers lead off Lucy, and Edward.) 

Scene 3. Before the house of Ravens- 
worth 

{Enter Mary from house.) 

He does not come. I do not wish it, 
sure — 

At least I ought not. But has he for- 
gotten ?— 

That is impossible. — Perhaps he fears — 

no! Charles never fears — should he 

not come — 

1 ought to hope he could not — ah! a 

figure. 
Stealing between the trees — should it be 

he: 
But may it not be a stranger! ah, let me 

fly: 

{Exit, into the house.) 
{Enter Charles cautiously.) 

'T was she, her white robe, emblem of her 
innocence. 

Dispels the darkness of the libertine 
night. 

And all around her 's purity and bright- 
ness. 

She is alone. As I pass'd thro' the vil- 
lage 

I learn'd her father was in council 
there. — 

She is alone and unprotected quite — 

She loves me and confides in me — be that, 

Tho' passion mount to madness, her pro- 
tection. 

The door is f asten'd, right ; a common 
guest 

Comes by a common passage — there are 
posterns 

And wicUets for the lover. Let me try, 

{Exit behind the house.) 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



135 



Scene 4. A chamber; a window in the flat; 
a light burning near the window. 

Mary discovered, a book in her hand. 

I cannot read, — my thoughts are all con- 
fusion, 
If it be he, will he not think the light 
Was plae'd designedly. I will remove it. 
{Goes towards the window, starts on 
Charles appearing at it.) 
Charles. Be not alarm'd, my Mary: it 

is I. 
Mary. Charles, how could you"? — 
Charles. How could I refrain 

When that the beacon light so fairly 

blaz'd 
From steering to this haven? 
Mary. There ! I f ear'd 

You would presume to think — 
Charles. But I think nothing — 

Presume, know nothing, but that thou, 

my Mary, 
Art the divinest creature on the earth 
And I the happiest — my best, my dear- 
est, 
That thou might'st live forever near this 

heart ; 
And why not there forever! What pre- 
vents it, 
What can — what shall"? My beauteous, 
my beloved. 
Mary. No more; 

This warmth alarms me — hear me, 

Charles — 
I've given to thee my heart and maiden 

vow, 
0, be content — and — leave me — 
Charles. Leave thee, Love'? 

Mary. Before you teach me to despise my- 
self; 
Ere you yourself despise me. 
Charles. Have I, Mary, 

Have I deserv'd that from thee? Lo, 

I 'm calm — 
And gaze upon thee as the pilgrim looks 
Upon the shrine he kneels at; the pure 

stars 
Look not on angels with a holier light. 
Mary. I do believe you, Charles — but 
this meeting. 
So rash, so — 
Charles. 'T was presumptuous in me, 
Mary, 
I do confess it. 
Mary. Still you mistake me, Charles, 

I do not say, I did not wish you here — 
Yet I must wish you gone. It is so 
wrong — 



I am so much to blame — 
Charles. ' I will not stay. 

To give you pain. 
Mary. But do not go in anger — 

Charles. Anger ! at you ! 
Mary. A happier time will come — 

Each moment now is full of peril, 

Charles ; 
My father may return, and should he find 
you!— 
Charles. One word and I will leave you. 
You will hear. 
To-morrow, that we 've left this place for 
ever. 
Mary. How, Charles? 
Charles. My mother has resolv'd to fly 
The persecutions that surround her here 
And we depart to-morrow — if we may — 
For we 're already cited — 
Mary. Heav'ns ! for what ? 

Charles. It can be nothing surely. But, 
dear Maiy, 
Tho' absent, ah remember there is one 
Who lives for you alone. 
Mary. Charles, can you doubt it? 

Charles. And should there, Mary, should 
there come an hour 
Propitious to our loves; secure and 

safe — 
Suspicion dead, her eye, nor ear to mark 

us — 
And should the lover that adores .you, 

Mary, 
Appear at that blest hour, with certain 

means 
To bear you far from cruelty and slav'ry. 
To love and happiness? — 
Mary. No more, no more — 

Charles. Would you consent? 
Mary. tempt me not to sin — 

'T would break my father's heart — 
Charles. Give me your promise. 

{Enter Ravensworth, Walford, 
Alice.) 

Mary. {Observing her father.) Unhand 
me, oh unhand me — Father, father! 
{Faints in Charles' arms.) 
Rav. Thy father's here to save thee, hap- 
less girl. 
And hurl confusion on thy base betrayer. 
Charles. {Attending only to Mary.) 

She 's dead, she 's dead ! 
Ray. Haste, tear her from his arms 

Ere the pollution of his touch destroy 
her. 

(Alice and Walford convey Mary 
out.) 



136 



SUPERSTITION 



Charles. And have I killed her! {gazing 

after her.) 
Rav. Wretch, and do you mourn 

Over the clay, that would have kill'd the 

soul? 

{Re-enter Walford.) 

Walf. She has revived, and calls for thee, 

my friend, 
Charles. She lives, she lives! Then I 

defy my fate. 
Rav. Outcast from Heav'n, thy doom is 
near at hand. 
Walford, we '11 strait convey him to the 

church, 
Where by this time the judges have as- 
sembled. 
To try his sinful mother. 
Charles. How ? my mother ! 

And have ye laid your sacrilegious hands 
Upon my mother? 
Rav. Silence wretched youth. 

I will but see my daughter — meantime 

Walford, 
Guard well your prisoner. 
Charles. Guard me! heartless father, 

That feelest not the ties of blood and 

nature — 
Think you, at such an hour, I 'd quit my 
mother ? 

{Exeunt Ravensworth, Charles and 
Walford. ) 

end of act four. 



ACT FIVE. 

Scene 1. A Wood. {Stage dark.) 

{Enter the UNKNO^VN.) 

At length, unseen by human eye, I 've 

gain'd 
Her neighbourhood. The village lies be- 
fore me ; 
And on the right rises the eminence 
On which she dwells — She dwells! who 

dwells? heart 
Hold till thou art assur'd. Such were 

the features. 
The stately form of her, whose cherish'd 

image. 
Time spares my widow'd heart, fresh and 

unchang'd. — 
I must be satisfied. — The night has 

fallen 
Murky and thick; and in the western 

Heavens, 



The last of day was shrouded in the folds 
Of gathering clouds, from whose dark 

confines come, 
At intervals, faint flashes, and the voice 
Of muttering thunder: there will be a 

storm. 
How is it that I feel, as never yet 
I felt before, the threatening elements; 
My courage is bow'd down and cowers, as 

though 
The lowering canopy would fall in 

streams 
Of death and desolation. Dark portents, 
Hence ! There 's a Heaven beyond the 

tempest's scope. 
Above the clouds of death. Wing your 

flight thither. 
Thoughts — hopes, desires; there is your 

resting place. {Exit.) 

Scene 2. The interior of the Church. 
{Arranged as a Hall of Justice.) Pas- 
sages lead to doors on each side of the 
desk. The Judges seated at the desk. 
Charles stands on the left, near thi? 
Judges. Isabella nearer the front; on 
the same side Ravensworth, Walford, 
Mary, and Alice; on the opposite side, 
Villagers, Officers, etc. 

Judge. Ye have heard the charge — but ere 
ye answer to it 
Bethink ye well. Confession may do 

much 
To save you from the penalty; or miti- 
gate 
Your punishment. Denial must. deprive 

you 
Of every hope of mercy. — Answer then — 
And first, j^ou, madam. 
ISA. Sorcery! Gracious Heaven! 

Is it necessary, in this age of light, 
And before men and Christians, I should 

deny 
A charge so monstrous! 
Judge. Answer to the question. 

ISA. We are not guilty then; so aid us 

Heaven ! 
Judge. S[)eak for yourself alone. Will 
you disclose 
Who — what 3'e are? 
IsA. I am a gentlewoman- 

JNlore I cannot disclose. 
Jl'dge. Say, wherefore, madam, 

You came among us? 
IsA. Sir, I came to seek 

A father. 
Judge. Who is he ? 

ISA. I dare not name him* 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



13< 



Rav. Mark yon, how she prevaricates? 
Judge. What evidence 

Have you against this woman*? 
Ray. Ye all remember 

The terror and despair that fill'd each 

bosom 
When the red comet, signal of Heaven's 

wrath, 
Shook its portentous fires above our 

heads. 
Ye all have seen, and most of ye have 

felt 
The afflictions which this groaning land 

is vex'd with — 
Our smiling fields withered by blight and 

blast. 
The fruitful earth parch'd into eddying 

dust, — 
On our fair coast the strewings of wreck'd 

commerce ; 
In town and city, fire and pestilence, 
And famine, walking their destroying 

rounds — 
Our peaceful villages, the scene of slaugh- 
ter. 
Echoing the savage yell, and frenzied 

shriek 
Of maid and matron, or the piercing wail 
Of widows and of orphans — 
Judge. We deplore 

The evils you recite; but what avails 
Their repetition here; and how do they 
Affect the cause in question? 
Rav. Shall we forget 

That worldly pride and irreligious light- 
ness, 
Are the provoking sins, which our grave 

synod 
Have urg'd us to root out ? Turn then to 

her, 
Swelling with earth-born vanitj^, to her 
Who scorns religion, and its meek pro- 
fessors ; 
And, to this hour — until compell'd, ne'er 

stood 
Within these holy walls. 
Judge. Yet this is nothing, 

Touching the charge against her — ^you 

must be 
Less vague and general. Produce your 

proofs. 
Rav. There are two witnesses at hand; her 

servants — 
Who have confess'd she had prepared to 

. fly 

This very night — a proof most clear and 

potent 
Of conscious guilt. But why refer to 

this ! 



Each one that hears me is a witness of it, 

It is the village horror. Call, at random, 

One from the crowd, and mark if he will 
dare 

To doubt the thing I speak of. 
Judge. 'T must not be. 

Nor can we listen further. 
IsA. I beseech you 

Let him proceed; let him endeavour still, 

To excite the passions of his auditors; 

It will but shew how weak he deems his 
proof 

Who lays such stress on prejudice. I 
fear not. 

But I can answer all his accusations. — 

If I intended flight — need I remind you 

Of what your fathers — what yourselves 
have done? 

It was not conscious guilt bade them or 
you 

Escape from that, was felt was persecu- 
tion — 

If I have thought the manner of my wor- 
ship 

A matter between Heaven and my con- 
science. 

How can ye blame me, who in caves and 
rocks 

Shunning the church, offer'd your secret 
prayers ? 

Or does my state offend? Habit and 
taste 

May make some difference, and humble 
things 

Seem great to those more humble; yet I 
have used 

My little wealth in benefits. Your saints 

Climb'd to high places — Cromwell to the 
highest — 

As the sun seeks the eminence from w^hich 

He can diffuse his beams most bounte- 
ously. 
Rav. The subtle jDower she serves does not 
withhold 

The aid of sophistiy. 
Isa. I pray my judges 

To shield me from the malice of this 
man, 

And bring me to the trial. I will meet 
it, 

As it concerns myself with firm indiffer- 
ence ; 

But as it touches him w%om I exist in, 

With hope that my acquittal shall dis- 
solve 

The fetters of my son. 
Rav. (Aside.) That must not be. 

Judge. Bring forth your proofs, and let 
the cause proceed. 



138 



SUPERSTITION 



Rav. Perhaps it is the wealviiess of the 
father 
Prompts the suggestion — But I have be- 
thought me, 
It were most tit this youth should first be 

dealt with, 
'Gainst whom there are a host of wit- 
nesses 
Ready to testify — unless his actions, 
Obvious and known, are proof enough — 

his life 
Which is a course of crime and profli- 

g'aey, 
Ending, with contemplated rape and mur- 
der. 
ISA. What do I hear? 
Judge. How say you? rape and murder ! 
Rav. The victim of his bloody purpose 
lingers 
Upon the verge of death — Here are the 

proofs 
That point out the assassin! (Showing 
the sword and handkerchief, which 
are held hi/ a Villager who is stand- 
ing near him.) For the violence — 
Myself, my daughter here — 
Mary. father, father! 

Judge. These things are terrible. But you 
forget. 
They are not now the charge. 
Rav. What matters it, 

Whether by hellish arts of sorceiy 
He wrought upon the maiden, — or with 

force 
Attempted violation — Let him answer — 
Denying one, he but admits the other. 
Judge. Bid him stand forth. We wait 

your answer, youth. 
Charles. You wait in vain — I shall not 

plead. 
Judge. Not plead! 

Rav. [Aside.) This is beyond my hopes. 
ISA. Charles, my son ! 

Judge. What do you mean ? 
Charles. Simply, sir, that I will not 

Place myself on my trial here. 
Judge. Your reason? 

Do you question then the justice of the 
court? 
Rav. He does, no doubt he does. 
Charles. However strong 

Might be the ground for question — 't is 

not that 
Determines me to silence. 
Judge. If you hope 

To purchase safety by this contumacy; 
'T is fit you be aware that clinging there. 
You may pull ruin on your head. 
Charles. I know 



The danger I incur, but dare to meet it. 
ISA. Charles, reflect — 
Charles. Mother my soul is fixed; 

They shall not call yon maiden to the bar. 
Tremble not, weep not, pure and timid 

soul, 
They shall not question thee. 
Rav. Hence with thy spells — 

Take thine eyes off my child, ere her weak 

frame 
Yield to the charm she shakes with — 
hence I say ! 
(Mary attempts to speak, hut is pre- 
vented hy her Father.) 
Judge. Prisoner, attend: at once inform 
the court 
Of all you know concerning the strange 

being. 
Who, like a supernatural visitant, 
Appear'd this day among us. What con- 
nexion 
Subsists between you? 
Charles. None. I know him not. 

Rav. And yet this morning, ere the dawn 
had broken. 
They were both seen together in the for- 
est. 
Holding mysterious converse. Here's a 

witness 
Who will avouch the fact; and that the 

stranger 
With the first day-beam, vanished from 
his sight. 
Isa. {Aside.) He never told me this. 

Can he have met him? 
Judge. Look on these things. They are 
mark'd with your name. 
And stain'd with blood. They were 

found near the spot 

Where a poor wretch lay bleeding. Can 

you explain it? ^ 

Charles. They are mine — I do confess it. 

I encountered 

A person near that spot, and wounded 

him 
In honourable duel. Nothing more 
Can I explain. 
Mary. {Struggling.) father, let me 

speak. 
Rav. Silence! Now answer me, and let 
the powers 
Of darkness, that sustain you in your 

pride. 
Yield and abandon you unto your fate. 
Did you not robber like, this night break 

in 
My unguarded house, and there, with 

ruffian force 
Attempt the honour of this maiden? 



JAMES NELSON BARKER 



139 



IsA. Heaven ! 

Rav. D' ye hesitate ! you dare not answer 
nay. 

For here are witnesses to your confu- 
sion, 

Who saw you clasp her in your vile em- 
brace, 

And heard her shrieks for help. Nay, 
here 's the maiden, 

Who will herself aver it. 



Mary. 



Father, father ! 



Rav. Come forth, my child. 

[Attempting to lead her forward.) 

Charles. Forbear ! it shall not need. 

Rav. Do you confess *? 

Charles. What e'er you will. 

ISA. 'T is past. 

(Mary faints in the arms of Alice.) 

Rav. Hear ye tliis, Judges ! People, hear 

ye this? {Storm commences.) 

And why do we delay! His doom were 

death, 
Disdaining as he has to make his plea 
To the charge of sorcery. Now, his full 

confession. 
Which ye have heard, dooms him a second 
time. 
{Storm increases; Thunder and Light- 
ning. ) 
Then why do ye delay *? The angry 

Heavens — 
Hark, how they chide in thunder ! Mark 
their lightnings. 
{The storm rages; the Judges rise; all 
is confusion; the people and two offi- 
cers gather around Charles; officers 
seize him.) 
ISA. Save him! Heaven! As ye are 

men, have mercy! 
Rav. No; not beneath this roof: among 
the tombs. 
Under the fury of the madden'd sky; 
Fit time and place ! 
Charles. {As they are dragging him out.) 

Mary ; my mother ! Mary ! 
IsA. My son ! 

{Leans nearly fainting in Lucy's 
arms.) 
Mary. {Reviving.) Who calls me'? 

Ah! What would ye do'? 
He 's innocent — he 's mj'- betroth'd — my 

husband ! 
He came with m^y consent — he 's inno- 
cent ! 
Rav. Listen not to her ; 't is his hellish 
magic 
Speaks in her voice — away! 
Mary. Charles, my Charles! — 

{She faints.) 



{They bear Charles out. The storm 
continues.) 
Rav. It is accomplish'd. 

{Enter the Unknown.) 

Unk. What? what is accomplish'd'? 

Rav. Who 'rt thou that ask'st ? 
Unk. Nay, answer me. They tell 

Of dreadful deeds ye are performing 

here. — 
How 's this ! Has death been here among 
you"? 
Rav. Yes, 

Whatever thou may 'st be, death has been 

here 
Guided by Heaven's vengeance. 
Unk. Who is this*? 

'T is she, 't is she ! Dost know me, Isa- 
bella'? 
IsA. Is it not — •? 

Unk. 'Tis thy father. 

IsA. Father, father! 

Have I then found thee! But my son! 
my son ! 
Unk. Unhappy child, be calm — I know 
thy story. 
And do forgive and bless thee. 
ISA. Thanks, my father. — 

{Struggling to speak.) 
But— 
Unk. What means this'? 
IsA. 0, for a moment's strength — 

Haste — haste — they murder him^— my 
son — 
Unk. Thy son, 

0, where? 
IsA. There — there — Heaven ! it is too 
late! 
{They enter with a Bier, carrying 
Charles. The Unknown leads 
Isabella slowly towards it.) 

{Enter Sir Reginald.) 

Sir R. fatal tardiness! and yet I came 
The instant that I learned it. Bloody 

monsters ! 
How will ye answer this*? Behold these 

papers. 
They're from the king! They bid me 

seek a lady, 
Nam'd Isabella, whom he espoused in 

secret 
And her son Charles Fitzroy — And is it 

thus — 

{Enter George Egerton, pale and 
weak.) 

George, look there! 
George. 0, brave, unhappy youth ! 



140 



SUPER STTTTON 



My generous foe, my honourable con- 
queror ! 
Mary. (Reviving.) Nay, ye shall not de- 
tain me — I will go. 

And tell them all. Before I could not 
speak 

My father held me here fast by the 
throat. 

Why will you hold me*? they will murder 
hira — 

Unless I speak for him. He spoke for 
me — 

He sav'd my honour ! Ah ! what 's here *? 
Heaven! 

'T is he — is he asleep'? — No, it is not 
he.— 

I 'd think 't were he, but that his eyes 
are swolFn 

Out of their sockets — and his face is 
black 

With settled blood. — It is a murder'd man 

You 've brought me to — and not my 
Charles — my Charles! 

He was so young and lovely. — Soft, soft, 
soft! 

Now I remember. — They have made you 
look so. 

To fright me from your love. It will not 
do— 

I know you well enough — I know those 
lips 

Tho' I have never touch'd them. There, 
love, there, 

It is our nuptial kiss. They shall not 
cheat us — 

Hark in thine ear, how we will laugh at 
them. 
{Leans her head down on the body, as 
if ivhispering.) 
Sir R. Alas ! poor maniac. 

(Isabella wlio, supported by her 
father, had been bending over the 
body in mute despair, is now sink- 
ing.) 
UxK. Daughter — Isabella — 

IsA. Father — {Looking up in his face.) 
UxK. You will not leave me, Isabella ? 

ISA. I would remain to comfort you, my 
father. 

But there 's a tightness here. — For nine- 
teen years 



He was my only stay on earth — my good, 
My duteous son. Ere I found thee, my 

father. 
The cord was snapp'cl — Forgive me — 
(Isabella falls^ and is received in the 
arms of Lucy.) 
UxK. Bless thee, child — 

I will not linger long behind thee. 

{Storm subsides.) 

Sir R. Sir, 

If you 're that lady's father, I have here 

A pardon for you from the king. 

UxK. I thank him ; 

But it is now too late. — She 's gone. — 

The world 
Has nothing left for me — deep in the 

wilderness, 
I '11 seek a grave, unknown, unseen by 
man. — 
Walf. How fares your hapless friend? 
Alice. Her cold cheek rests 

Against his cheek — not colder — 
Walf. Place your hand 

Upon her heart : is there no beating 
there ? 
Alice. There is no beating there — She 's 

dead ! 
Rav. Dead, dead ! — 

(Ravensworth, ivho thro' this scene^ 
had shewn the signs of stern and set- 
tled despair, occasionally casting his 
eyes upon his daughter, or raising 
them to Heaven, but withdrawing 
them again in utter hopelessness, now 
sinks groaning into the arms of 
Walford. Isabella is on her knees, 
on the upper side of the bier, leaning 
on Lucy. The Uxkxown, with his 
hands clasp'd, bends over his daugh- 
ter. Alice is kneeling at the side 
of her friend. Sir Reginald and 
George Egertox stand near the head 
of the bier. Lucy and Edward be- 
hind their mistress. The back 
ground filled up by the Judges, Vil- 
lagers, etc. The Curtaix falls 
amidst a burst of the Storm, accom- 
panied by Thunder and Lights 
ning.) 



CHARLES THE SECOND 

BY 

John Howard Payne 



CHARLES THE SECOND 

Charles the Second illustrates the Comedy of Manners and represents the 
influence of the French stage upon ours. It is the brightest and the most finished 
of Payne's comedies. 

John Howard Payne was born in New York City, June 9, 1791. He was 
brought up in Boston, and was carefully educated under the direction of his 
father, the head of a school. By the age of thirteen he had decided to go upon 
the stage and was sent into a mercantile house in New York City by his parents 
to cure him of the desire. He found time, however, to publish the Thespian 
Mirror, from December 28, 1805, to May 31, 1806, which contained dramatic 
criticism of a fair character. He also wrote his first play, Julia or The Wanderer, 
performed at the Park Theatre on February 7, 1806, and printed in the same 
year. He seems to have been a charming as well as a precocious youth, and 
through the interest of friends, especially John E. Seaman, he was sent to Union 
College, where he remained from July, 1806, to November, 1808, as a private 
pupil preparing to enter the Sophomore Class, under President Nott's instruc- 
tion. Owing to a misunderstanding with his patron but also prompted by his 
continued desire to act, Payne made his debut on February 24, 1809, as ''Young 
Norval" in Home's play of Douglas, at the old Park Theatre in New York. He 
acted also in Baltimore, Philadelphia, Washington and other cities in 1809 and 
in 1811 and 1812. He had not been, however, as successful as he desired and 
in 1813 he welcomed an opportunity to go abroad for a year's study and travel. 
He did not return to this country till 1832, when his activities among the 
Indians and later his consulship at Tunis from 1842 to 1845 lie outside of our 
special interest. He died April 9, 1852, at Tunis. 

Payne Vv^rote or adapted over sixty plays. Much of his work consisted in 
translation from the French drama of his own time, or in the adaptation of 
English plays. His historical tragedy of Brutus, for example, played first at 
Drury Lane, London, December 3, 1818, is, according to his own statement, a 
compound of seven earlier plays on the same theme. 

In domestic tragedy, his play of Richelieu or the Broken Heart is of con- 
siderable merit, although it is not original, being based on La Jeunesse de 
Richelieu, of Alexandre Duval. It was played first at Drury Lane, February, 
1826, and was performed frequently in this country as The Bankrupt's Wife. 
In comedy, Charles II is representative. Payne wrote most frequently, however, 
a form of melodrama, such as Therese, or the Orphan of Geneva, produced first 

143 



144 INTRODUCTION 



at Drury Lane, February 2, 1821. Forrest frequently acted "Carwin" in 
this play. Clari, or the Maid of Milan, an opera, derives its interest chiefly from 
the fact that it contains the song of "Home, Sweet Home.'' It was first played 
at Covent Garden, May 8, 1823, and at the Park Theatre, New York, November 
12, 1823. 

Charles the Second or The Merry Monarch was first played at the Theatre 
Koyal, Covent Garden, London, May 27, 1824. It was acted at the Park Theatre, 
New York, October 25, 1824. 

The comedy is of especial interest on account of Washington Irving 's joint 
authorship in it. Irving collaborated more than once with Payne but insisted 
on his share being concealed. In The Life and Letters of Washington Irving 
by Pierre Irving (1883), an account is given of Irving 's sending the manuscript 
to Payne, in November, 1823, after having revised it and added to it some new 
ideas. The idea of ' ' Captain Copp ' ' constantly trying to sing a song, and never 
being able to complete it, was conceived by Irving to meet the English taste for 
broad fun. In the introduction by Payne in the edition of 1824 he refers to the 
literary friend to whom he is '^indebted for invaluable touches." 

The work of both authors had as a model, a French play. La Jeunesse de 
Henri V, by Alexandre Duval (1760-1838), one of the leading dramatists 
of France at the time. Duval's play, performed at the Theatre-Frangais, June 
9, 1806, which was one of his most successful efforts, was in its turn based on 
another, Charles II en certain lieu, by Mercier, and, according to Duval, even 
this was based on an earlier English play. Duval was forced by the censor 
to change his hero from Charles II to Henry V of England, with consequent 
anachronisms. Payne restored the rightful king to his own, but took the main 
plot from Duval and even the names of the principal characters are the same, 
with the exception of that of the heroine, who is "Betty'' in the original. The 
dialogue at times follows the original though never slavishly and at times it 
differs radically, especially in the first and last Acts. 

John Howard Payne, Dramatist, Poet, Actor and Author of ^^Honie Sweet 
Home!'' by Gabriel Harrison, revised ed. Philadelphia, 1885, is the standard 
life of Payne. The Early Life of John Howard Payne, by W. T. Hanson, Boston, 
1913, is valuable for the first period of Payne's life. His important plays have 
frequently been reprinted. Charles II, Brutus, Therese, Love in Humhle Life, 
Peter Smink, The Two Galley Slaves, Mrs. Smith, or the Wife and the Widoiv, 
'T was I, or the Truth a Lie, can still be obtained in the Samuel French 
series. For a complete Bibliography by the present editor, see the Cambridge 
History of American Literature. La Jeunesse de Henri V can be found in 
CEuvres Completes d' Alexandre Duval, Paris, 1822, Vol. 6. 

The present edition of Charles II is a reprint of the rare London edition of 
1824, which differs from the American reprints and is a better text. 



CHARLES THE SECONJ> ; 

OR, 

THE MERRY MONARCH. 

A COMEDY, 

IN THREE ACTS, 

(wiTtt SOME songs): 

IFIRST PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAi^ COVENT GARDEN, 
ON THURSDAY EVENING, MAY 27, 1824. 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, 

Author of Brutus, Clari, Therese, Accusation, Adeline, Alt Pacha, 

The Two Galley Slaves, Love in Humble Life, Mrs. Smith, 

and various other Pieces. 



LONDON 



PRINTED FOR 

tdNGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN, 

PATERNOSTER-ROW. 

1824. 



CHARACTERS 

King Charles II Mr. C. Kemble 

Rochester Mr. Jones 

Edward (a page) Mr. Duruset 

Captain Copp Mr. Fawcett 

Two pages. Servants. 

Lady Clara Mrs. Fancit 

Mary (adopted daughter of Copp) Miss M. Tree 



CHARLES THE SECOND 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1. The Royal Palace. 

{Enter Rochester and Lady Clara.) 

Lady C. Yes, my lord, her majesty will 
have it, that you are the chief cause of 
the king's irregularities. 

ROCH. Oh, I '11 warrant it : and of his not 
loving her, too — is it not so *? 

Lady C. I did not say that; but, in truth, 
my lord, your continual jests on the mar- 
ried state — 

RocH. Heaven bless it ! 

Lady C. Your contmual ridicule of mar- 
ried men — 

RocH. Heaven help them! 

Lady C. Your licentious example, and still 
more licentious poetry — 

RoCH. What 's coming next *? 

Lady C. All these, I say, make you the 
most dangerous of men. 

RocH. Dangerous ! My dear Lady Clara, 
you make me vain. 

Lady C. It is well known that you are the 
king's prime companion in all his ex- 
cesses. 

RocH. What, is my loyalty to be made my 
reproach? Must I not stand by my 
monarch in all his moods'? Would you 
have me weep, when my sovereign laughs *? 
Would you have me whine, when my 
sovereign calls for a jolly song'? No, 
no, my lady, that might have done in the 
days of Praise-God-Barebones and the 
Roundheads; but times are altered. — 
We have a merry monarch to reign over 
us — A merry monarch makes a merry 
court — so God save the jovial king, and 
send him boon companions ! 

Lady C. (Laughing.) 1 see it is in vain 
to reason with you. 

RocH. Then give over the attempt. — Let 
us talk of something of a nearer and a 
dearer interest — of your merits and my 
most ardent flame. 

Lady C. Ah, me ! I fear, like many other 
of your flames, it will but end in smoke. 
— You talk of being desperately in love, 
— what proof have you ever given? 

"RocH. What proof? Am I not ready to 



147 



give the greatest proof a man can offer — 
to lay down this sweet bachelor life, and 
commit matrimony for your sake *? 

Lady C. Well, this last, I must say, com- 
ing from a Rochester, is a most convinc- 
ing proof. I have heard you out, listen 
now to me. (Rochester hows.) I will 
propose a bargain. — If, by your ascend- 
ancy over the king, you can disgust him 
with these nocturnal rambles, and bring 
him back to reason — 

RocH. Your ladyship forgets one of my 
talents. 

Lady. C. Which is if? 

RocH. That of getting myself banished 
two or three times a year. 

Lady C. And if the woman you profess to 
love should offer to partake your exile? — 

RocH. I am a lost man — I surrender. — 
That last shot reached my heart. 

Lady C. {Sighing.) Ah, my lord — if 
that heart were only worth your head ! — 
Well, is it agreed? 

RocH. It is your will — I undertake the 
sacrifice — but, madam, bear in mind my 
recompense. 

Lady C. You may hope for everything. 
Adieu, my lord. — I now begin to believe 
in your passion, since you are willing to 
make a sacrifice to it, even of your follies. 

{Exit.) 

RocH. (Alone.) A pretty task I have un- 
dertaken, truly! I — Rochester — become 
reformer ! And, then, the convert I have 
to work upon ! Charles, who glories in 
all kinds of rambling frolics! — True, he 
has had none but pleasant adventures as 
yet. — If I should trick him into some 
ridiculous dilemma? — My whole life has 
been a tissue of follies, and I am called a 
man of wit. I am now to attempt a ra- 
tional act, and I shall be called a mad- 
man ! — Well, be it so — matrimony will be 
sure to bring me to my senses. 

{Enter Edward, languidly,) 

RocH. Ah! here comes my young protege 
— How downcast he seems! How now, 
Edward, what 's the matter with you, 
boy? 

Edw. (Sighing.) Nothing, my lord. 



148 



CHARLES THE SECOND 



Koch. Good heaven, what a sigh to heave 
up notliing with ! Tell me the truth this 
instant. Hast thou dared to fall in 
love "/ 

Edw. I hope, my lord, there is no harm in 
indulging- an honest attachment. 

RocH. An honest attachment ! A young 
halt'-fledged page about court, who has 
hardly tried his wings in the sunshine of 
beauty, to talk of an honest attachment. 
Why, thou silly boy, is this the fruit of 
all the lessons I have given thee? 

Edw. Did not your lordship tell me, that 
one of the first duties of a page was to 
be zealous in his devotion to the fair? 

Rocii. Yes; but I told thee to skim over 
the surface of beauty, just dipping your 
wings, like a swallow, not plumping in 
like a goose — I told you to hover from 
flower to flower like a butterfly, not to 
bury yourself in one like a bee. An 
honest attachment ! — What a plebeian 
phrase ! — There 's a wife and seven chil- 
dren in the veiy sound of it. 

Edw. My lord, I know your talent for 
putting things in a whimsical light, but, 
could you see the object of my passion — 

RoCH. Nay, a truce with all description. — 
But who, pray, is the object of this hon- 
est attachment? 

Edw. {Embarrassed.) My lord! 

RoCH. One of the maids of honour, I '11 be 
bound, who has privately been petting 
you with sweetmeats, and lending you 
love-tales. 

Edw. No, my lord. 

RocH. Some veteran belle about court, too 
well known to the veteran beaux, and 
anxious to take in a new comer. 

Edw. No such thing, my lord. 

RoCH. Pray, then, give me some clue. 
What is the name of your beauty? 

Edw. Her name, my lord, is Mary. 

RocH. Mary! a very pretty, posy-like 
name — And what sequestered spot may 
the gentle Mary embellish with her pres- 
ence? 

Edw. She lives at the Tav — Nay, my 
lord, promise not to laugh. 

RocH. Far be it from me to laugh in so 
serious a matter, 
this fair one? 

Edw. Why, then, my lord, she inhabits the 
tavern of the Grand Admiral, in Wap- 
ping. 

RocH. Usquebaugh and tobacco! the tav- 
ern of the Grand Admiral ! — Ha ! ha! ha! 
— An honest attachment for some pretty 
bar-maid ! 



Come, the residence of 



Edw. No, my lord, no bar-maid, I assure 
you. Her uncle keeps the tavern. 

RocH. {With mock gravitij.) Oh, I ask 
pardon, then she is heiress apparent to 
the tap-room, and you no doubt look for- 
ward to rise in the state through the dig- 
nities of drawer, tapster, and head- 
waiter, until you succeed to the fair hand 
of the niece, and the copper nose of the 
uncle, and rule with spigot in hand over 
the fair realms of Wapping. You, who 
I flattered myself would have made the 
torment and delight of all the pretty 
women at court ! — you to be so completely 
gulled at the very outset, — the dupe of a 
green girl, and some old rogue of a pub- 
lican ! 

Edw. Indeed, indeed, my lord, you do the 
uncle injustice. He is a perfectly hon- 
est, upright man — an old captain of a 
cruiser. 

RocH. Worse and worse! Some old buc- 
caneer, tired of plajdng the part of a 
monster at sea, has turned shark on shore. 
And do you dare to appear in such a 
house with the dress of a royal page? 

Edw. Oh! I have taken care to avoid 
that. I have introduced myself into the 
house as a music-master. 

RocH. And your musical name, gentle sir? 

Edw. Georgiui, at your service. 

RocH. Ha ! ha ! ha ! veiy soft and Italian- 
isli — I'll warrant this heroine bar-maid 
will turn out some unknown princess, car- 
ried off by the old buccaneer landlord, 
in one of his cruisings. 

Edw. Your lordship is joking; but, really, 
at times, I think she is not wliat she 
seems. 

RocH. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I could have sworn 
it. But silence — I hear his majesty dis- 
mount. Run to where your duty calls — 
we '11 take another opportunity to discuss 
the merits of this Wapping Princess. 

Edw. {Goes out, muttering.) There's 
many a true thing said in jest. I am 
certain her birth is above her condition. 

{Exit.) 

Rocir. I must see this paragon of bar- 
maids — She must be devilish pretty! 
The case admits of no delay — I '11 see her 
this very evening. Hold ! Why not ful- 
fil my promise to Lady Clara at the same 
time? It is decided: — I'll give his 
majesty my first lesson in morals this 
very night. But, he comes. 

{Enter Charles.) 



JOHN HOWAKD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 



149 



Chas. Good day, my lord! — What, mus- 
ing! I never see thee with that air of 
graxe cogitation, but I am sure there is 
some mischief devising. 

RocH. On the contrary, I am vehemently 
tempted to reform. 

CiiAS. Reform ! ha ! ha ! ha ! why, man, no 
one will credit thy conversion ! Is not 
thy name a by-word? Do not mothers 
frighten their daughters with it, as for- 
merly with that of Belzebub? Is not 
thy appearance in a neighborhood a sig- 
nal for all the worthy burghers to bar 
their windows and put their womankind 
under lock and key'? — Art thou not, in 
melancholy truth, the most notorious 
vscapegrace in the kingdom"? 

Rocii. Heaven forefend that in anything 
I should take precedence of your majesty. 

Chas. But what proof do you give of your 
conversion ? 

RocH. The most solemn — I am going to 
be married. 

Chas. Married! — And who, pray, is the 
lady you have an idea of rendering miser- 
able? 

RocH. The Lady Clara. 

Chas. The Lady Clara! The brilliant, 
> the discreet, the virtuous Lady Clara ! 
She niai-ry Rochester ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

RocH. Ah, my liege, heaven has given her 
a superabundance of virtues. — She will 
be able to make a very virtuous man of 
me with her superfluity. 

Chas. Well, when thou art married, I 
will undertake to write thy epithalami- 
um. 

RoCH. Then your majesty may at once in- 
voke the Muses. All is settled. {With 
great gravity.) As soon as the rites are 
solemnized, I shall quit the court, and its 
mundane ])leasures, and retire wdth my 
lovely bride to my castle at Rochester, 
under permission of my creditors, the 
faithful garrison of that fortress. 

Chas. What! is your castle again in 
pledge ■? 

RocH. No, my liege, not again. It has 
never, to my knowledge, been exactly out 
of keeping. A castle requires a custo- 
dian. 

Chas. Ah, Rochester! Rochester! Thou 
art an extravagant dog. I see I shall 
be called on to pay these usurers at 
last. 

RocH. Your majesty is ever bounteous. I 
should not have dared to solicit, and 
certainly shall not presume to de- 
clme. 



Chas. Ha! ha! Thou art an arrant jug- 
gler, and hast an admirable knack of ex- 
tracting a gift out of an empty hand. 
But, to business, — where shall we pass 
the night ? 

RocH. {Assuming a serious air.) I must 
beg your majesty to excuse me this even- 
ing — I have an engagement of a grave 
and important nature. 

Chas. Grave and important ! Thou liest, 
Rochester, or thine eyes speak false — and 
whither does this grave engagement take 
thee? 

RocH. To the tavern of the Grand Ad- 
miral in Wapping ! 

Chas. I thought it was some such haunt. 
And the object of this business? 

RocH. A young girl, beautiful as an angel, 
and virtuous as a dragon — about whom 
there hangs a mystery that I must in- 
vestigate. 

Chas. A mysterious beauty! It is a case 
for royal scrutiny — I will investigate it 
myself. 

RocH. But, my liege — 

Chas. No buts. Provide disguises. We 
will go together. {With mock gravity.) 
I like to study human nature in all its 
varieties, and there is no school equal to 
a tavern. There 's something of philoso- 
23hy in this — one often gets a useful les- 
son in the course of a frolic. 

RocH. {Aside.) It shall go hard but your 
majesty shall have one to-night. 
{Aloud.) Ah, how few, except myself, 
give your majesty credit for your philoso- 
phy! And yet, by many, I am con- 
sidered the partaker of your majesty's 
excesses. 

Chas. Partaker ! what a calumny ! you are 
the promoter of them. 

RocH. The world will judge me in this 
instance with even more severity than 
your majesty has done, should any dis- 
agreeable adventure be the result. 

Chas. Psha ! I take the consequences on 
myself. Provide two seamen's dresses, 
a purse well filled, and arrange every- 
thing for nine precisely. Till then, fare- 
well. {Exit.) 

Roch. I will attend your majesty. So! 
the plot is in train. I'll off to Lady 
Clara, and report progress. Let me see. 
This night the lesson. To-morrow my 
disgrace. Within eight days my mar- 
riage, and then, at my leisure, to repent 
and reform. {Exit.) 

END OF act the FIRST. 



150 



CHARLES THE SECOND 



ACT TWO. 

Scene 1. Outside of Copp's Tavern, the 
Grand Admiral. A view of the Thames 
and Wapping. 

{Enter Mary from the House.) 

(Voices, within.) Wine! wine! house! — 
waiter ! — more wine, ho ! Huzza ! huzza ! 
hnzza ! 

IMary. What a noise those sailors make in 
llie bar-room — nothing but singinii", and 
huighinii', and shouting — I should like to 
take a ])eep at them — but no — my uncle 
forbids me to show myself in the public 
rooms — he scarcely lets me be seen by 
the guests — he brings me up more like a 
young lady than the niece of a tavern 
keeper — ( walks about restless ) . Heigho ! 
what a tiresome long day! what shall I 
do with myself? Avhat can be the matter 
with me? I wonder what can keep Mr. 
Ceorgini away? For three days he has 
not been here to give me a lesson — no 
matter — (pettishly) — I don't care — I 
shall forget all my singing, that 's cer- 
tain — he was just teaching me such a 
pretty song, too — all about love — T '11 
try it — (attempts to sing) — no, I can't — 
it 's all out of my head — well, so much 
the better! I suppose he is teaching it 
to some fine lady scholar — let him, I don't 
care — I don't believe he '11 find her so apt 
a scholar. 

Song. 

Oh! not when other eyes may read 
My heart upon my clieek, 
Oh! not when other ears can hear 
Dare I of love to speak — 
But when the stars rise from the sea. 
Oh then I think of tliee, dear love! 
Oh then I think of thee. 

When o'er the olives of the dell 
The silent moonlight falls, 
And when upon the rose, the dew 
Hangs scented coronals, 
And buds close on the chestnut tree, 
Oh then I think of thee, dear love! 
Oh then 1 think of thee. 

(Enter Copp.) 

CoPP. What, Mary, my little blossom, 
what cheer? what cheer? Keep close, 
my little heart — why do you stir out of 
port? Here be cruisers abroad. 

Mary. Who are those people, uncle, that 
make such a noise? 



Copp. Two hearty blades — mad roysters — 
oons how they drink. I was obliged to 
l^art company, old cruiser as I am, or 
they would soon have had me on my 
beam ends. 

Mary. Are they sailors, uncle? 

Copp. To be sure they are: wdio else 
would fiing about money as they do, and 
treat a wdiole bar-room? The tallest in 
particular is a very devil. Hollo, Cap- 
tain Copp, cries he every minute, another 
bottle to treat my brother tars. 

Mary. By their swaggering about so, they 
must be very rich. 

Copp. Pho, child, 't is n't the deepest laden 
shijDS that make the most rolling. 

Mary. But they spend their money so 
freely. 

Copp. A sure sign that it 's running out. 
The longest cable must come to an end. 
He that pays out fastest, will soonest be 
brought up with a round turn. 

Mary. To what ship do they belong? 

Copp. That 's more than I can say. Sup- 
pose they 're a couple of man of war's 
men just paid off, who think they 've a 
Spanish mine in each pocket — (shout of 
laughter from within). Ah, the jolly 
tars! I was just the same at their 
age. 

Mary. I should like to have a look at 
them. 

Copp. Avast, there — what, trust thee in 
the way of two such rovers? No, no, I 
recollect too well what it was to get on 
shore after a long voyage. The first 
glimpse of a petticoat — whew ! up board- 
ing pikes and grappling irons! — (Recol- 
lecting himself.) Ahem — no, no, child, 
mustn't venture in these latitudes. 

Mary. Ah, my good uncle, you are al- 
ways so careful of me. 

Copp. And why not? What else have I 
in the whole world to care for, or to care 
for me? Thou art all that 's left to me 
out of the family fleet — a poor slight 
little pinnace. I 've seen the rest, one 
after another, go down ; it shall go hard 
but I '11 convoy thee safe into port. 

Mary. I fear I give you a great deal of 
trouble, my dear uncle. 

Copp. Thou 'rt the very best lass in the 
wdiole kingdom, and I love thee as I 
loved my poor brother ; that 's because 
you 're his very image. To be sure, you 
iiave n't his jolly nose, and your little 
mouth is but a fool to his. But then, 
there are his eyes, and his smile, and the 
good humoured cut of bis face — (sigh- 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 



151 



ing) — poor Philip! What! I'm going 
again, like the other night — {wiping his 
eyes). Psha! let's change the subject, 
because, d 'ye see, sensibility and all that, 
it does me no good — none — so let 's talk 
of something else. What makes thee so 
silent of late, my girl? I 've not heard a 
song from thee these three days ! 

Mary. It 's three days since I 've seen my 
music-master. 

Copp. Well, and can't you sing without 
him? 

Mary. Without him I can't sing well. 

Copp. And what 's become of him? 

Mary {pettishly). I can't tell, it's very 
tiresome. If he did not mean to come 
again, he might have said so. 

Copp. Oddsfish, neglect thee — neglect his 
duty I-^^I '11 break him on the spot. Thou 
shalt have another master, my girl. 

Mary {eagerly). Oh, no, on no account; 
I dare say he is not well, some accident 
has happened. Besides, there is no other 
teacher in town equal to him, he sings 
with such feeling. 

Copp. Ah ! girl, if I had my old messmate. 
Jack Rattlin, here, he 'd teach thee to 
sing. He had a voice — faith it would 
make all the bottles dance, and glasses 
jingle on the table! — Talk of feeling! 
Why, when Jack would sit of an evening 
on the capstan when on watch, and sing 
about sweethearts and wives, and jolly 
tars, and true lover's knots, and the 
roaring seas, and all that ; smite my tim- 
bers, but it was enough to melt the heart 
of a grampus. Poor Jack, he taught 
me the only song I ever knew, it's a 
main good one though — 

{Sings a Stave.) 

In the time of the Rump, 
As old Admiral Trump, 
With his broom swept the chops of the Chan- 
nel: 
And his crew of Tenbreeches, 
Those Dutch sons of 

Mary {putting her hand on his mouth). 
Oh, uncle, uncle, don't sing that horrible 
rough song. 

Copp. Rough? that's the beauty of it. 
It rouses one up, pipes all hands to quar- 
ters like a boatswain's call. Go in, 
Mary, but go in at the other door; don't 
go near the bar: go up to your own 
room, my dear, and your music-master 
will come to you presently, never fear. 

{Exit Mary.) 

Voice, within. Hollo — ^house! waiter! 



Captain Copp ! another bottle, my hearty 
fellow. 
Copp. There they go again! I can't 
stand it any longer. I am an old cruiser, 
and can't hear an engagement without 
longing to be in the midst of it. Avast, 
though {stopping short), these lads are 
spending too much money. Have a care, 
friend Copp, don't sink the sailor in the 
publican; don't let a free-hearted tar 
ruin himself in thy house — no, no, faith. 
If they want more wine they shall have 
it ; but they shall drink as messmates, not 
as guests. So have at you, boys; it's 
my turn to treat now. — 

{Exit Copp.) 



Scene 2. A Room in Copp's House. 

{Enter Mary.) 

Mary. How provoking this absence of 
Mr. Georgini ! It would be serving him 
right to let my uncle discharge him: but 
then I should like just to learn that song 
he is teaching me — hark! — How my 
heart beats ! Hark ! I '11 wager it 's 
Georgini — I have a gift of knowing peo- 
ple before I see them — my heart whis- 
pers me — 

{Enter Edward, as Georgini.) 

Mary. So, sir, you are come at last, are 
you? I had supposed you did not intend 
to come any more, and was about to look 
out for another teacher. 

Edv7. Pardon me for my absence — you 
have no idea what I have suffered. 

Mary {with anxiety). Suffered! — Have 
you been ill, then? 

Edw. Very ill — 

Mary. Indeed! and what was your com- 
plaint? 

Edv7. {smiling). The not seeing you. 

Mary {half piqued, half pleased). Mighty 
fine, sir; it is a complaint that you might 
have cured in a moment. — I have been 
angry, sir — very angry at your neglect — 
don't smile, sir— I won't be laughed at — 

Edw. Laugh at you! — Can you suspect 
me of such a thing? — I do but smile from 
the pleasure of seeing you again — noth- 
ing but circumstances that I could not 
control caused my absence. 

Mary {softening). Well, it's very pro- 
voking to be interrupted in one's lessons 
just in the middle of a new song — I'll 



152 



CHARLES THE SECOND 



warrant you 've been teaching it all over 

town. 
Edw. Indeed, I teach it to no one but 

yourself — for no one else can do it such 

justice. 
Mary [smiling), 'i^ay, now you are flat- 
tering — have you brought it with you? 
Edw. Here it is — if you please, we will 

sing it at once. 
Mary. Yes — but — but — don't look so 

steadily at me while I sing — it puts me 

out; and then — and then — I don't know 

what I 'm singing. 
Edw. AYhat! — have you fear of me, then? 
Mary. Oh! yes; I fear that I may not 

please you. 
Edw. (apart). Amiable innocence ! for the 

world would I not betray thee. 

Duetto. 
Love one day essayed to gain 

Entrance into Beauty's bower, 
Many a toil, and many a chain, 

Guarded round the precious flower. 
But Love laid aside his bow. 

Veiled his wing, hid his dart, 
Entered more than Beauty's bower, 

Entered also Beauty's heart. 
Hence was the sweet lesson learnt. 

Fond hearts never should despair, 
Kept with truth, and led by hope. 

What is there Love may not dare? 

{Enter Copp, a little gay, singing.) 

"In the time of the Rump," &c. 

Aha ! master crotchet and quaver, so 
you've come at last, have you? What 
the deuce did you stay away for, and let 
my little girl get out of tune? 

Edw. Oh! I have explained all, sir, and 
made my peace. 

Copp. Ah, she 's a forgiving little bag- 
gage, and amazing fond of music — why, 
she 's always on the lookout for you an 
hour before the time. 

Mary. Never mind, uncle. Are your 
strange companions here still? 

Copp. Here still? ay, and likely to stay 
here — ha ! ha ! ha ! — no getting rid of 
them — they 're a couple of devils, of 
right down merry devils, ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
They 've flustered me a little, i' faith. 

Edw. You seem to have a great deal of 
company in the house, sir; I'll take my 
leave. 

Copp. You shall take no such thing — you 
shall take tea with us, my little semi- 
breve, and we'll have a lesson of music 



too. Oddsfish! you shall give me a les- 
son — I am confoundedly out of practice, 
and can't turn my old song for the life 
of me. (Begins.) "In the time of the 
Rump" — 

Mary. Never mind the song now, uncle, 
we must have tea first, and Mr. Georgini 
will help me make it. 

Copp. Ay, faith, and we '11 add a bowl of 
punch and a flask of old Madeira to 
make a set out — my two messmates in 
the other room are to be of the party. 

Mary. What, those wild sailors who have 
been keeping the house in an uproar? 

Copp. To be sure — they're good lads, 
though they have a little of the devil in 
them. — They asked to clink the cup with 
me, and you know I can't well refuse, by 
trade, to clink the cup with any one. In 
troth, they had put me in such rare good 
humour — ha! ha! ha! — that I could not 
refuse them for the life of me. 

Mary. But they are such a couple of 
harebrains — 

Copp. Oh! don't be afraid — they are 
rough, but good-natured — sailor-like : 
besides, am not I always within hail? 
One of them, I see, is heaving in sight 
already. Come with me, my girl, and 
help to prepare the punch and get the 
tea — you, my king of crotchets, will stay 
and receive our guests — make yourself 
at home. — (Sings as he goes,) "In the 
time of the Rump" — 

(Exeunt Copp and Mary.) 

Edw. Here 's a transformation ! from a 
court page behold me master of cere- 
monies at a Wapping tavern! (starts). 
Good heaven ! whom have we here ? The 
Earl of Rochester in that rude garb ! 

(Enter Rochester.) 

RocH. The shouts of those jolly fellows 
began to turn my brain — his majesty is 
in fine humour to get into a scrape; and 
if he does, to make his difficulties more 
perplexing, I have secured his purse, so 
that he cannot bribe his way out of 
them— Hey ! Edward ? 

Edw. (confused). My lord Rochester — 

RoCH. Silence, you rogue! I am no lord 
here, no Rochester. I am a seaman — 
my name Tom Taffrel. The king, my 
messmate, is Jack Mizen. 

Edw. The king with you! — (aside). I 
see it all — he 's after Mary — ah ! I am 
lost. 

RocH. Don't be alarmed, friend Georgini; 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 



153 



none but the most innocent motives have 
brought us here — 

Edw. Innocent motives bring you and the 
king, at night, to a tavern in Wapping, 
where there is a beautiful girl'? Ah! my 
lord, my lord — 

RocH. Nay, to convince you that you have 
nothing to fear, I permit you to remam 
with us — (aside) He may assist my 
scheme — (aloud) You must play off 
your character of music-master upon the 
king. 

Edw. Impossible! His majesty will rec- 
ognise my features. 

RocH. Psha! you have not been a page 
a month; he probably has not seen your 
face three times. But take care how you 
act ; the least indiscretion on your part — 

Edw. Ah ! my lord, I am too much inter- 
ested in keeping the secret. 

RocH. That is not all. In whatever situ- 
ation the king may find himself, whatever 
chagrin he may suffer, I forbid you to 
assist him in the slightest manner. You 
are to see in him only the sailor. Jack 
Mizen. 

Edw. Should his majesty chance to incur 
any danger, my lord, I can never be 
passive. In such case, I have but one 
course. 

RocH. There can be no danger — I shall 
mj'Self watch over his safety. 

Edw. That decides me — I think I appre- 
hend the object, and will obey your 
lordship. 

RocH. The king approaches — Silence! let 
each resume his part. 

(Enter Charles.) 

Chas. Well, messmate, shall we soon see 
this marvellous beauty'? 

Edw. (apart). So — this is his majesty's 
innocent motive! 

RocH. Peace, friend Jack, here 's one of 
her admirers — her music-master — 

Chas. Ah! you teach the young lady 
music, do you'? (looking earnestly at 
him). Zounds! how like he is to the 
page you gave me lately. 

Edw. (apart). Ah! my face strikes him. 

RocH. Hum — I can't say I see much re- 
semblance. He is taller than Edward, 
and older, and the expression of his coun- 
tenance is not the same. 

Chas. No, no, not altogether, but there is 
a something — 

RocH. Why, to tell the truth, the page had 
a wild fellow for a father — and, your 
majesty knows, likenesses are stamped 



at random about the world sometimes. 
Chas. (laugliing). I understand — dupli- 
cate impressions — like enough. 

(Enter Mary and Servant with Tea.) 

Mary (to Servant). Set the table in this 
room. 

Chas. (to Rochester). By heaven, she's 
a divinity! 

Edw. (low to Rochester). What does he 
say? 

RocH. (to Edw.). That your divinity is a 
devilish fine girl. 

Chas. (to Rochester). Amuse this con- 
founded singing-master. I wish to have 
a duo with his mistress. — He '11 only mar 
music. 

RocH. (to Edward, with an air of great 
business). My good Mr. Georgini, I 
have something particular to say to you — 
(drawing him to a corner). His majesty 
(suppressing a laugh) fancies that you 
are uncomfortable, and requests me to 
amuse you. 

Edw. Yes, that he may have Mary all to 
himself — (Drawing near her.) 

RoCH. (drawing him hack). Come, don't 
be childish. What, you pretend to fol- 
low my lessons, and want complaisance! 
(Charles has been making advances to 
Mary, who appears at first a little shy.) 

Chas. Do let me assist you, my pretty 
lass. 

Mary. Don't trouble yourself, sir; Mr. 
Georgini is to help me make tea. 

Edw. (breaking from Rochester). I am 
here, madam — what can I do to help you'? 

Chas. (puts the kettle, as if accidentally, 
against his hand. Dryly). Take care, 
young man, you may scald your fingers. 

RocH. (drawing Edward back, and speak- 
ing low). Why, what a plague, boy, are 
you doing'? 

(Charles continues to assist Mary, 
mingling little gallantries, and blun- 
dering in attempts to assist.) 

Edw. (aside, and struggling with Roches- 
ter). I shall go mad! 

Mary. Oh, dear sir, you're so kind, you 
quite put me out — (laughing) — hey! — 
you have taken my hand instead of the 
teapot. I will not say you are awkward, 
sir, but really, you have the oddest man- 
ner of assisting — nay — let go my hand, I 
beg. 

Chas. By Heaven, it is a beautiful one! 

Mary. Nay, nay — pray, sir — (withdraw- 
ing her hand with smiling confusion). 



154 



CHAKLES THE SECOND 



(Apart.) Upon my word, I don't see 

any thing so very rude in these people. 
Edw. (endeavoring to get away from 

Kochester). Let me go, I entreat you; 

I can stand this no longer. 
ROCH. (holding him, and suppressing a 

laugh). Psha! man, if you think to 

marry, or rise at court, you must learn to 

be deaf and blind upon occasion. 
Chas. (in rather an under-tone to Mary). 

And how is it possible so pretty a lass 

should not be married"? 
Mary. Married — ^bless me! I never 

thought of such a thing. 
Chas. No? never? and yet surrounded by 

lovers. 
Mary. Lovers ! I have n't one, sir. 
Chas. Indeed! and what is that young 

man, fidgeting yonder? 
Mary. He? — he is my singing-master, 

sir. 
Chas. And he sings to some purpose, I '11 

warrant. 
Mary. Delightfully. 
Chas. And gives you a love-song now and 

then? 
Mary. Oh, often, often. 
Chas. I thought so — he has it in his coun- 
tenance. 
Edw. (to RocH.). You must let me go — 

you see I am wanted. 
RocH. Upon my word, they are getting on 

amazingly well without you. 
Chas. (to Mary). And so you are fond of 

music, my pretty lass? 
Mary, Oh, I love it of all things. 
Chas. A pretty hand to beat time with 

(taking her hand). 
Mary. Sir — (withdrawing it). 
Chas. And as pretty a little mouth to 

warble a love-song. I- warrant, there 

come none but sweet notes from these 

lips. (Offers to kiss her.) 
Mary (resisting). Sir, give over — let me 

go, sir. — Mr. Georgini — help, help! 
(Edward hursts from Rochester, who 
is laughing. At this moment 

Enter Copp.) 

CoPP. Avast there, messmate! what the 
devil, yard arm and yard arm with my 
niece ! 

(Charles desists, a little confused — 
Edward approaches Mary.) 
Mary (flurried). I am glad you are come, 

uncle — this rude stranger — 
Copp (taking her arm under his). Thun- 
der and lightning — what! insult Captain 



Copp's niece in his own house ! Fire and 
furies ! 

Chas. (pretending to he a little gay). I 
insult your niece, messmate ? Since when 
has an honest tar's kissing a pretty girl 
been considered an insult? As to the 
young woman, if she takes offence at a 
l^iece of sailor civility, why, I ask par- 
don, that 's all. 

Copp (softened). Oh, as to a piece of ci- 
vility, d 'ye see, that alters the case ; but, 
guns and blunderbusses! if any one 
should dare — 

RocH. Come, come, uncle Copp, what a 
plague! you were a youngster once, and 
a frolicsome one, I '11 warrant. I see it 
in your eye — what — didst ever think it a 
crime to kiss a pretty girl in a civil way. 

Copp. No, no, in a civil way, no, certainly ; 
I can make allowance when a lad and a 
lass, and a bottle, come pretty near each 
other — odds fish — you say right, at your 
age, I was a rattler myself. — Come, 
Mary, no harm done. Come, lads, take 
your seats — (They seat themselves. Ed- 
ward attempts to place himself by Mary. 
— Charles interferes, and takes the 
place.) Come, my girl, pour out the tea 
— I '11 fill out the punch, and we '11 have 
a time of it, i 'faith — Come, I'll give 
you a jolly song to begin with — (Sings.) 

In the time of the Rump, 
As old Admiral Trump — 

Mary (apart). That odious song! — come, 
uncle, never mind the song, take a cup 
of tea — (offering one). 

Copp. What, drown my song and myself 

in warm water? ha! ha! no, faith — not 

while there 's a drop in the punch bowl. 

(Mary helps Edward and Rochester, 

omitting Charles.) 

Chas. (low to Mary). Am I then ex- 
cluded ? 

Mary (looking down). I thought punch 
would be more to your liking, sir. 

Chas. Then punch be it — Come, clink 
with me, neighbour Copp — clink with me, 
my boy. 

Copp. Oh ! I 'm not proud, I '11 clink with 
anybody — that 's to say, mind ye, when 
the liquor is good, and there's a good 
fellow in the case. 

Chas. (rising). Well, here goes — To the 
health of Mary, the fair maid of Wap- 
ping. 

Copp. With all my heart, here 's to her 
health— the darling child— Oh ! messmate, 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 



155 



there you touch a soft corner of my 
heart — did you but know how I love this 
little girl. Psha ! I 'm a foolish old fel- 
low, and when I have got punch, and 
sensibility, and all that on board — Come, 
let 's talk of something else. 

Mary. My dear uncle — 

Chas. I don't wonder at your loving her, 
I can't help feeling a kind of admiration 
for her myself — {offering to take her 
hand). 

Copp. Softly, shipmate, no grappling — 
admire at a distance as much as you 
please, but hands off. Come, my lads, 
a merry song — I love to sing when I 
drink. (Sings.) 

In the time of the Rump, 
As old Admiral Trump — 

Mary. Not that song, my dear uncle — I 
entreat — 

Copp. Ah, I recollect — ha! ha! my poor 
song; ha ! ha ! — well, well, since you don't 
like me to sing, sing it for me yourself, 
Mary. 

Chas. Ay, a song from the charming 
Mary (significantly), I dare say your 
master has some pretty love-song for you. 

Edw. Oh, yes — I have brought one of the 
latest in vogue — one by the most fash- 
ionable poet of the day — the Earl of 
Rochester. 

Copp. Rochester? fire and fury — roast 
Rochester! a rascally rogue! — the devil 
take Rochester, and his song, too ! 

Chas. Bravo! Captain Copp — another 
broadside, old boy. 

RocH. Why, what the deuce, neighbor — 
has your powder magazine taken fire'? 
Why, what has Rochester done to you, to 
occasion such a terrible explosion? 

Copp. What's that to you? What have 
you to do with my family secrets'? 
Rochester! His very name makes my 
blood boil — 

Mary. My dear uncle, be calm. You 
promised never to speak on this subject. 

RocH. Why, what connexion can there be 
between you and Rochester? 

Copp. No matter, he has been put to the 
proof, that's enough. (To Mary.) 
Don't be uneasy — I '11 say no more about 
it, my girl. You know me — when I say 
mum, that 's enough. 

Chas. This affair seems curious — I must 
have an explanation. (With an air of 
authority.) It is my pleasure — 

Copp. Your pleasure, quotha — and who 



the devil are you? You're a pleasant 
blade. (Sturdily.) But it's not my 
pleasure, messmate, look ye. 

Chas. (Recollecting himself.) I mean to 
say, that I feel a deep interest in your 
welfare. 

Copp (gruffly). Thank ye, thank 'e, — but 
I am not used to such warm friends on 
such short acquaintance. (Apart.) 1 
wonder is it myself, or my niece, this 
chap has fallen in love with at first 
sight? 

Chas. (apart to Rochester). I am curi- 
ous to know what charge they have 
against you. 

RocH. (apart to Charles). And so am I, 
and I '11 make this old buccaneer speak 
plain, before we leave him. 

Chas. You have misunderstood me, friend 
Copp. I am no defender of Rochester. 
I know him to be a sad fellow. 

Copp. As destitute of feeling as a stock- 
fish. 

Edw. He is a great genius, however. 

Copp. He is an evil genius, I know. 

Edw. He has a very clear head — 

Copp. But a very black heart. 

RoCH. This Rochester is a sad light- 
headed fellow, that 's notorious ; but will 
you have the goodness, my blunt Captain 
Copp, to mention one heartless act of hi^? 

Copp (loudly). Ay, that I will. Is it not 
a burning shame — 

Mary. My dear uncle, you forget your 
promise. 

Copp. Let me alone, girl, let me alone — 
you 've nothing to fear ; I have you un- 
der convoy. 

RocH. Out with it, what is his crime? 

Copp. Crime ! Is it not a burning shame, 
I say, to disclaim his own niece — to keep 
from her every stiver of her little for- 
tune, and leave her to pass her days in a 
tavern, when she has a right to inhabit 
a palace? 

Edw. (eagerly). What do I hear? 

RocH. What, and is this young woman 
the niece? How can that be? 

Copp. Simply enough. Her father, Philip 
Copland, married a sister of Lord Roch- 
ester. 

RocH. (apart). Philip Copland is indeed 
the name. 

Chas. This is most singular. And this 
Philip Copland was your brother? 

Copp. Ay, but worth a dozen of me — a 
steady man, an able officer, an ornament 
of the regular na^^. I was always a 
wild dog, and never took to learning — 



156 



CHARLES THE SECOND 



ran away from school — shipped myself 
on board a privateer. In time I became 
captain, and returned from my last 
cruise just in time to receive poor Philip's 
last breath — his sand was almost run out. 
"Brother," said he, "I feel that my cruis- 
ing- is over; but there's my little g:irl. 
Take care of her for my sake, and never 
bother the Rochesters again." — "Brother," 
said I, "it 's a bargain ; tip us your fist 
on it, and die in peace, like a good Chris- 
tian." He grasped my hand, and gave it 
a gentle squeeze. I would have shook 
his, but it grew cold in mine, and poor 
Philip was no more! 

{With great feeling.) 

Mary. My dear uncle — {laying her hand 
on his shoulder). 

CoPP {rousing himself). But the girl was 
left, the girl was left {embracing her) ; 
and {taking her arm under his) — and 
I '11 keep my word to my poor brother, 
and take care of her as long as I have 
breath in my body. 

Chas. Well, brother Tom, what do you 
think of all tins'? 

RocH. It touches me to the soul. 

Chas. And so you took home the child"? 

Mary. Oh! yes: and my uncle's bounty 
and kindness have taken care of his poor 
girl ever since. 

Copp. Oh! you should have seen what a 
little thing it was, — a little chubby-faced 
thing of four years old, no higher 
than a handspike. Now she's a grown 
girl. 

Chas. And you have given her a good 
education, it appears"? 

Copp. And why not? What tho' Z^m a 
dunce, that 's no reason that Mary Cop- 
land should be a fool. Her father was 
a man of parts. 

Chas. And you have given up your voy- 
ages for her"? 

Copp. To be sure. Could I have a child 
running after me about deck? I sold 
my ship, and bought this tavern, where 
I receive none but good fellows, who 
drink, and smoke, and talk to me of 
voyages and battles all day long. 

Chas. But ambition might have induced 
you— 

Copp. Ambition! you don't know me; my 
only ambition is to marry my niece to 
some honest citizen, and give her a dower 
of one thousand pounds, with as much 
more when old Captain Copp takes his 
long nap. 

Roch. {apart). Generous fellow ! {Aloud.) 



Let me advise you to apply to the Earl 
of Rochester. 

Edw. Oh! yes, he will provide an honor- 
able match for your niece. 

Mary {piqued). Much obliged, Mr. 
Georgini, but nobody asked your advice. 

Copp. Apply to him ! — no — no — I '11 have 
nothing to do with the Rochesters. 

Chas. But why not apply to the king him- 
self? 

Copp. Oddsfish! they say he is not much 
better — he 's a wild devil — a gi'eat friend 
of Rochester — and birds of a feather, 
you know — 

Chas. {apart). Now comes my turn. 

Roch. True enough. Captain Copp; they 
say he is a rover — rambles about at night 
— frolics in taverns. 

Copp. Well, let him cruise, so he does not 
cruise into my waters. He 's a desperate 
rogue among the petticoats, they say — 
well, I like a merry heart, wh6rever it 
beats. — Charley has some good points, 
and if I could but give him a piece of 
my mmd — 

Chas. What would it be, friend Copp? 

Copp. To keep more in port, anchor him- 
self at home, and turn that fellow, Roch- 
ester, adrift — there might then be some 
hopes of him. — But, come, ^tis getting 
late — now, friends, it 's time to turn out, 
and turn in — these are late hours for the 
Grand Admiral — come, a parting cup. 
{To IMary.) See that the fires are out, 
my girl, and all hands ready for bed. 

Mary. I will, but no more drinking, uncle. 

Copp. Well, well — no more — only one 
parting cup. 

Mary. Only one — recollect, you have 
promised — no more. {Exit Mary.) 

Copp. Only this last drop. — Come, my 
lads, this farewell cup, and then you must 
push your boats. 

Roch. Now to execute my plan. {Mak- 
ing signs that the king will pay.) Hist, 
Captain Copp ! 
{Whispers while Charles is drinking.) 

Copp. Ay, ay, all right. 

Roch. {low to Edward). Follow me 
quietly — I 've something to say to you. 
{Apart, and chuckling as he goes out.) 
Now, brother Jack, I think you '11 soon 
find yourself among the breakers! 

{Exit, folloived by Edward.) 

Copp. Now, messmate, let 's square ac- 
counts, — {handing a paper) here's a 
note of your expenses — ^you see I charge 
nothing for the last two bottles — nor for 
the tea-table — that 's my treat. 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 



157 



Chas. {looking over the paper). Um ! 
wine — punch — wine — punch — total five 
pounds ten — a mere trifle! 

Copp. Do you call that a trifle? — Gad, 
messmate, you must have made good 
prizes in your last cruise — or you 've 
high wages, mayhap. 

Chas. {laughing). Ay, ay, I'm pretty 
well paid — Here, Tom Taffrel, pay 
Copp's bill, and let's be off. — {Looking 
round.) Hey — where is he*? 

Copp. Oh ! he went olf in a great hurry — 
he said he had to be aboard ship, but 
that you would pay the bill. 

-Chas. With all my heart. {Apart.) 
It 's odd that he should leave me alone — 
my raillery has galled him. — Poor Roch- 
ester, {laughing,) how ill some people 
take a joke! (feeling in his pockets). 
Five pounds ten, you say"? 

Copp. Just so — five pounds ten. 

Chas. {searching in all his pockets). 
Well! tliis is the oddest thing — I am cer- 
tain I had my purse. 

Copp. {apart). My neighbour seems rather 
in a quandary. 

Chas. {feeling more eagerly). Some one 
has picked my pocket. 

Copp. Avast there, friend — none but hon- 
est people frequent the Grand Admiral. 
— {Apart.) I begin to suspect this spark, 
who spends so freely, is without a stiver 
in his pocket. 

Chas. All I know, is, that one of these 
honest people must have taken my 
purse. 

Copp. Come, come, messmate — I am too 
old a cruiser to be taken in by so shallow 
a manoeuvre — I understand all this — 
your companion makes sail — you pretend 
to have been robbed — it 's all a cursed 
privateering trick — clear as day. 

Chas. Friend Copp — if you will wait till 
to-morrow, I '11 pay you double the sum. 

Copp. Double the sum ! ! — thunder and 
lightnmg! what do you take me for? — 
Look ye, neighbour, to an honest tar in 
distress, my house and purse are open — 
to a jolly tar who wants a caper, and 
has no coin at hand, drink to-day and 
pay to-morrow is the word — ^but to a 
sharking land lubber, that hoists the col- 
ours of a gallant cruiser, to play off the 
tricks of a pirate, old Copp will show him 
his match any day. 

Chas. A land lubber"? 

Copp. Ay, a land lubber. — D 'ye think I 
can't see through you, and your shallow 
sailor phrases. — Who the devil are you? 



— none of the captains know you — what 
ship do you belong to? 

Chas. What ship? why, to — to — {apart) 
what the deuce shall I say? 

Copp. A pretty sailor, truly — not know 
the name of his ship — a downright 
swindler — a barefaced impudent swindler 
— comes into my house, kicks up a bob- 
bery, puts every thing in an uproar — 
treats all the guests — touzles my nieee — 
and then wants to make off without pay- 
ing. 

Chas. {apart). How shall I get out of 
this cursed scrape? — Oh, happy thought, 
my watch — {aloud) hearkee. Captain 
Copp — if I have n't money, may be this 
will do as w^ell — what say you to my 
watch as pledge? 

Copp {taking the watch). Let me see it — 
um — large diamonds. {Shaking his head.) 

Chas. {gayly). Well — that's worth your 
five pounds ten — ^liey? 

Copp. Um — I don't know that: — if the 
diamonds are false, it is not worth so 
much — if real, none but a great lord 
could own it — {turning quick to him), — 
how did you come by this watch? 

Chas. It 's my own. 

Copp. Your own! A common sailor own 
a watch set with large diamonds! I'll 
tell you what, messmate,, it 's my opinion 
as how you stole this watch. 

Chas. Stole it? Give back my watch, 
fellow, or I'll— 

Copp. Softly, my lad, keep cool, or I '11 
have you laid by the heels in a twinkling. 

Chas. {apart). What a bull-dog! Well, 
sir, what do you intend to do? 

Copp. Lock you up here for the present, 
and have you lodged in limbo immedi- 
ately. 

Chas. Will you not listen to reason? 

Copp {going). Yes, through the key-hole! 
{From the door.) You shall have news 
of me presently, my fine fellow. {Exit.) 

Chas. Was ever monarch in such a pre- 
dicament? — a prisoner in a tavern — to be 
presently dragged through the streets as 
a culprit — and to-morrow sung in lam- 
poons, and stuck up in caricatures all 
through the city — What is to be done? 
This Copp seems a man of probity, sup- 
pose I avow myself to him? Um! will 
he credit me, and will he keep the mat- 
ter secret? This sturdy veteran may be 
an old cruiser under the Commonwealth : 
if so, what have I not to apprehend? 
Alone — unarmed, at midnight {shaking 
his head). Charles! Charles! wilt thou 



158 



CHARLES THE SECOND 



never learn wisdom'? Yes; let me but 
get out of tills scrape, and I renounce 
these rambling humours for ever. (A 
noise of unlocking the door.) Hark! 
some one comes. 

{Enter Edward and Mary. Several Serv- 
ants quaintly dressed, and armed, appear 
at the door.) 

Mary. Place yourselves outside and guard 
the passages. 

Chas. They are placing sentinels. 

Edw. (apart). The earl has given me my 
lesson : no flinching. 

Mary. I am afraid to go near him. I 
wish my uncle had not set us this task. — 
(Mary is armed with an old cutlass, 
Edward with a long rusty pistol or car- 
bine.) 

Edw. Be not afraid, I am here to defend 
you. 

Chas. (advancing). What! my pretty 
Mary in arms? 

Mary. Ah, don't come near me! Wliat a 
ferocious ruffian it is ! 

Chas. (gallantly). Was that delicate 
hand made to grasp so rude a weapon *? 

Edw. (low to Mary). Don't let him touch 
your hand, or you are lost. 

Mary (drawing hack). He does not look 
so very ferocious, neither. Fie, sir, fie ! 
what, steal the jewels of the crown"? 

Chas. Is it, then, known already? 

Mary. Yes, indeed, all is known. My un- 
cle took the watch to our neighbour, the 
jeweller, who knew it instantly. It be- 
longs to his royal majesty himself. 

Chas. Confusion ! 

Edw. (low to Mary). You hear he con- 
fesses. — (Aloud.) Well, Captain Copp 
will be here presently with the magis- 
trate. Here will be a fine piece of work. 
All Wapping is already in an uproar. 

Chas. (eagerly). My friends, it is of the 
highest importance that I should escape 
before they come. 

Mary. I have not a doubt of it. Oh ! you 
culprit ! 

Chas. (with insinuation). And would 
Mary, the pretty Marj^, see me dragged 
to prison? I won't» believe it. That 
sweet face bespeaks a gentle heart. 

Mary. Poor creature! I can't but pity 
him. 

Chas. (with gallantry). I never saw a 
pretty woman yet, that would not help 
a poor fellow in distress — (apart) She 
yields. But I need other bribes for 
my gentleman — I have it — my ring. 



(Aloud.) Assist me to escape, and take 
this ring as a pledge of what I will do. 
It is of great value. 

Mary. What a beautiful diamond ring! 
How it sparkles! Don't touch it, 
Georgini, it 's a stolen ring. 

Edw. And for that very reason I take it. 
We can return botli together to the right 
owner. 

Mary (apart to Edward); He certainly 
has something genteel in his air. This 
unfortunate man may, perhaps, belong 
to decent people. 

Chas. I do indeed; my family is consid- 
ered very respectable. Ah, bless that 
sweet face! I knew^ a hard heart could 
not belong to it. 

Edw. (apart). Egad, I must get him off, 
or he '11 win his pretty jailor, culprit as 
she thinks him. 

Mary (taking Edward apart). How peni- 
tent he seems, and his countenance is 
rather amiable too! What will they do 
with him? 

Edw. (carelessly). Hum — ^why, they'll 
hang him, of course. 

Mary. Heavens! will they touch his life? 
oh, horrible ! and so good looking a man ! 
I w^ould not have his death upon my 
mind for the whole world (earnestly). 

Chas. (Who has been traversing the 
apartment uneasily, and eyeing them oc- 
casionally.) Will this consultation never 
end ! I dread the arrival of the officers, 

Mary (aloud). Let us assist him to es- 



cape 



Chas. Thanks, my generous girl: there's 
nothing like a petticoat in time of trou- 
ble. 

Edw. How shall we get him off? The 
door is guarded. 

Chas. Ay, but the window. 

Edw. (eagerly). No, not the window, you 
may hurt yourself. 

Chas. (surprised). You are very consid- 
erate, my friend. 

Mary. Oh ! it is not very high, and opens 
into a lane that leads to the river. 

Chas. (opening the tvindow). Psha! it's 
nothing; with your assistance, I shall be 
on the ground in an instant. 

Mary. It is, perhaps, very wrong in me to 
let you escape; but I beg you to listen 
to a word of advice. 

Chas. Oh, yes, I hear you. 

Mary. It is on condition that you change 
your course of life. 

Chas. Yes, yes, I '11 change it, I warrant 
you. 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 



159 



Mary. And not drink, nor rove about this 

way at night. 
Chas. Not for the world. 
Mary. And steal no more, for it will 

bring you to a shameful end. 
Chas. {getting out of the window, assisted 

by Mary). An excellent sermon! But 

I must steal — one kiss to impress it on 

my memory! 
Edw. Did he steal a kiss, Mary? 
Mary. Oh, yes, he did indeed. 
Edw. Stop thief ! stop thief ! 
Chas. {descending outside). Tell uncle 

Copp to put it in the bill ! 
Edw. I hear them coming. {Looks out of 

the icindow.) He's safe down — he's off 

— {apart) — now I'm easy. 
Mary. But what shall we say to my uncle ? 
Edw. I '11 manage that ; only say as I say, 

and fear nothing. (Copp heard outside 

the door.) 
Copp. This way — this wav. 
Edw. Stop thief! stop thief! {To 

Mary.) Cry out as I do. 
Mary {feebly). Stop the thief! stop the 

thief! I can't. 

{Enter Copp, with a double-barrelled gun, 
followed by two Servants.) 

Copp. Hollo — ^what the devil's to pay 
here? 

Edw. The culprit has jumped out of the 
window. 

Mary. Oh, yes, out of the window ! 

Copp. Thunder and lightning ! why did n't 
you stop him? 

Edw. I was too far off. The young lady 
attemjited, but he kissed her, and leaped 
out like a greyhound. 

Copp. Fire and furies! — kissed her? 

Mary. Yes, uncle, but he didn't hurt me. 

Edw. And he said you might put it in the 
bill. 

Copp. Guns and blunderbusses! this is 
running up an account with a vengeance 
{looking out of the window). I see 
something in the offing; we may overhaul 
him yet. Come along, all hands to the 
chase ! Get to your room, Mary, there 's 
no knowing what might happen if this 
pirate should fall foul of you again. 
Come along — away with you all — divide 
at the street door — scour the three pas- 
sages — I '11 show him what it is to come 
in the way of an old cruiser! — {Bustle — 
Copp fires off his gun out of the window 
after Charles. Curtain falls.) 

END of act second. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene. The Royal Palace. 

(Enter Edward, in his habit, as a Page.) 

Edw. I've had a hard scramble of it, to 
get here, and dress in time. The king 
must arrive presently, though my light 
heels have given me a good start of him. 
Hark ! a noise in the king's private stair- 
case — Softly, then, softly, {seats him- 
self in an arm-chair at the door of the 
king's chamber, and pretends to sleep). 

[Enter Charles, his dress in disorder.) 

Chas. Confound tlie city! what a journey 
it is! 

Edw. (aside). Especially to foot passen- 
gers. 

Chas. I began to think I should never 
find the palace. (Sitting down.) Phew! 
I shall not forget this night in a hurry. 
Forced to escape like a thief, — to risk 
my neck from a window, — hunted about 
the streets by that old buccaneer and his 
crew ! Egad ! I fancy I can hear old 
Copp's voice, even now, like a huntsman 
giving the view-halloo, as I doubled 
about the mazes of Wapping. 

Edw. (Aside, and suppressing a laugh.) 
A royal hunt, truly! 

Chas. Well, thank fortune, I am safe 
home at last, and seen by nobody but my 
confidential valet. 

Edw. (Aside.) And the most discreet of 
pages. 

Chas. (Seeing Edward.) So, the page 
already in waiting. Deuce take him ! he 
is exactly in the door-way of my cham- 
ber. So, so! Lady Clara coming! Oh, 
then, all 's over ! 

(Enter Lady Clara, goes to Edward.) 

Lady C. What! asleep at this hour, Ed- 
ward? 

Edw. I beg your pardon, my lady — I am 
waiting bis majesty's rising. 

Lady C. You will come, and let the queen 
know when the king is visible (perceives 
Charles). Heavens! your majesty in 
this dress? 

Chas. (affecting an unembarrassed air). 
What ! it amuses you, ha ! ha ! My regu- 
lar morning dress, I assure you. I have 
taken a whim for gardening lately, and, 
every morning, by day-light, I am on the 
terrace, planting, transplanting, and 



160 



CHARLES THE SECOND 



training. Ob ! you should see how busy 
I am, particularly among the roses. 

Lady C. I have no doubt your majesty 
has an eye for every fresh one that 
blows. — But, how quiet you have been in 
these pursuits! 

Chas. One does not want all the world to 
know of one's caprices. But what has 
procured me the pleasure of seeing your 
ladyship so early? 

Lady C. The queen, sire, knowing how 
deeply you were immersed in affairs of 
state, last night, sent me to enquire how 
your majesty had slept. 

Chas. Very restless — very restless — I 
tumbled and tossed about sadly. 

Lady C. Ah ! why does not your majesty 
take more care of yourself? You devote 
yourself too much to your people. This 
night-work will be too much for you. 

Chas. Why, yes, if it were often as severe 
as last night. 

Lady C. Indeed, your majesty must give 
up these midnight labours to your min- 
isters. 

Chas. {apart). To my ministers, ha! ha! 
Egad! I should like to see old Claren- 
don and Ormond hob or nobbing with 
uncle Copp, struggling for kisses with 
Mary, and scouring the lanes of Wap- 
ping at full speed. — {aloud). Well, my 
Lady Clara, have you anything further 
to communicate? 

Lady C. Might I presume, I have a fa- 
vour to request of your majesty. An 
author, in whose cause I take a warm 
interest, has offended a person high in 
power, and is threatened with a prose- 
cution. 

Chas. The blockhead! let him write 
against me only, and they '11 never trou- 
ble him. 

Lady C. His pardon depends upon your 
majesty — would you but deign to sign it! 

Chas. {Apart.) Sinner that I am, it 
would but ill become me to be severe. — 
{Aloud.) Lady Clara, you look amaz- 
ingly well this morning — I can refuse 
you nothing. — {Signs the paper.) And 
now, to make my toilette — {aside) — Safe 
at last ! she suspects nothing. 

Lady C. {smiling). He thinks he has de- 
ceived me. — Oh, these men, these men ! 
how they will impose upon us easy, sim- 
ple, knowing women! 

{Exeunt Lady Clara and Edward.) 
{Enter Copp and Mary.) 
Copp. Oddsfish ! I never knew such a 
piece of work to get into a house before. 



If that good-looking gentlewoman had 
not seen us from the window, and taken 
our part, hang me, if I don't think they 
would have turn'd us adrift. 

Mary. What beautiful rooms! 

Copp. Gingerbread finery! I would not 
change the bar-room of the Grand Ad- 
miral for the best of them. But what a 
bother to give a watch back to the right 
owner ! Why, there 's no finding the 
king in his own house. — Now, for my 
part, I always stand on the threshold, 
and if any one comes, there 's my hand. — 
Tip us your bone, says I, and make your- 
self welcome. — That 's what I call acting 
like a king of good fellows. 

Mary. Oh, uncle, I have always heard say, 
that the king is very kind and affable; 
and, I dare say, when you hand him back 
his watch, he will behave with generosity. 

Copp. Generosity! Why, dost think, girl, 
I'd take a reward? No, no! — They say 
Charley 's not overstocked with the 
shiners. — I want none of them. To be 
sure, he may do the civil thing — ^he may 
ask us to stay, and take pot-luck, per- 
haps. 

Mary. Pot-luck, uncle! 

Copp. Ay, in a friendly way, d'ye see? 
And I don't care if I did, if it were only 
to see how royalty messed. But, where 
the deuce is the king to be found? Oh! 
yonder is a fine gimcrack young gentle- 
man, who, perhaps, can tell us — I '11 hail 
him. Yo-ho ! messmate ! 

{Exit, hallooing after Edward.) 

Mary. What a beautiful place this is! 
But, without content, grandeur is not to 
be envied. The humble and the good, 
may be as happy in a cottage as a palace. 

Becitative — Mary. 

Thrice beautiful! Alas! that here 
Should ever come a frown or tear; 
But not beneath the gilded dome 
Hath happiness its only home. 

Not in the pictured halls, 
Not amid marble walls 
Will young Love dwell. 

Love's home 's the heart alone, 
That heart, too, all his own. 
Else, Love, farewell! 

{Enter Copp, pulling in Edward, who 
tries to hide his face.) 

Copp. Come along, young man — don't be 

so bashful — ^you need n't mind us. 
Edw. {aside). Let me put on a steady 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 



161 



face — {aloud) — You come to speak to his 
majesty'? 

Mary. Yes, Sir, we come — {apart) — Dear 
uncle, those features — how my heart 
beats! — Did you ever see such a resem- 
blance, uncle? 

Copp {looking at Edward). Oddsfish! he 
is like, indeed ! — But it can't be him ! 

Mary. I like Mr. Georgini's face better — 
it is more animated. 

Copp. Don't talk to me of that Georgini. 
Didst not tell me, he took a ring of that 
land-pirate? — and, then, to disappear so 
suddenly. — Fire and fury! if I catch 
him — 

Edw. No swearing in the king's palace. 

Copp. Well, well, true ; no swearing. But, 
thunder and lightning! what keeps the 
king so long? 

Edw. I think I hear him. Step into that 
apartment — a lady will introduce you. 

Copp. Ah ! the same that I saw at the win- 
dow; — very well. But, I say. Mister, 
don't keep me waiting. Just hint to the 
king, that I 've no time to lose. Tell 
him, there 's a launch at Wapping to-day 
— busy times at the Grand Admiral. 

Mary. Let us retire, uncle. I dare say 
we shall be sent for in good time. 

Copp. Very well, veiy well. But, do 
think of the Grand Admiral — all aback 
for want of me. If the king loses his 
watch again, the devil take me — Oh ! I 
forgot — I must n't swear in the king's 
palace. {Exeunt Copp and Mary.) 

Edw. This will be a w^iimsical court pres- 
entation, truly! His majesty's perplexi- 
ties are not yet over. 

{Enter Charles in his riding dres3 ) 

Chas. Has Rochester appeared? 

Edw. Not yet. Sire. 

Chas. {apart). What could be his motive 
for the cruel trick he played me? 

Edw. Your majesty asked for Lord Roch- 
ester; here he comes with Lady Clara. 

Chas. Pish ! Lady Clara is one too many 
here. I shall not be able to explain my- 
self before her. No matter — he shall 
not escape me. 

(Enter Rochester and Lady Clara.) 

RoCH. May I venture to ask, if your maj- 
esty has passed a comfortable night? 

Chas. Indilt'erent, my lord — {low, to 
Mm) — Traitor! 

Lady C. {smiling). I understood his lord- 
ship had assisted your majesty in your 
labours. 



Roch. Not throughout, my lady. An ac- 
cident obliged me to leave his majesty in 
rather a moment of perplexity. 

Chas. {angrily). Yes, his lordship left 
the whole weight of — busin3ss — upon my 
shoulders. 

Roch. I doubt not your majesty got 
through with your usual address. 

Chas. {apart). Pertidious varlet! 

{Aloud.) My lord, you will please to 
present yourself in my study at two 
o'clock. I have something particular to 
say to you. 

Roch. Deign to dispense with my attend- 
ance, sire. I quit London in a few mo- 
ments for my estate, as I mentioned yes- 
terday. I am a great offender. — It is 
time to exile myself from court, and turn 
hermit. 

Chas. {harshly). I approve the project; 
but will take the liberty of choosing your 
hermitage myself. 

Roch. {low to Lady Clara). The king is 
furious against me. 

Lady C. Courage, my lord — all will end 
w^ell. 

Copp (shouting outside). What the devil 
is the meaning of this ? Am I to be kept 
here all day? 

Chas. What uproar is that? 

Lady C. Oh ! two persons, whom I met 
this morning, seeking to speak with his 
majesty, on some personal concern. As 
I know him to be so accessible to the peo- 
ple, I undertook to present them. 

Chas. Just now it is impossible. 

Lady C. I am very soriy, especially on 
the young girl's account. 

Chas. A young girl, did you say? 

Lady C. Beautiful as an angel! 

Chas. Oh ! since you take such interest in 
her, Lady Clara — (to Edward,) — Show 
them in. 

(Enter Copp and Mary.) 

Edw. (preceding them). Come in — ^liis 
majesty consents to hear you. 

Copp. I 'm taken all aback — my courage 
begins to fail me. 

Mary. What have you to fear, my dear 
uncle? 

(Keeps her eyes modestly cast down.) 

Copp. Fear! it isn't fear, look ye. But, 
somehow, I never fell in with a king be- 
fore in all my cruisings. 

Chas. (Apart.) Copp and his niece! 
here's a pretty rencontre. 

(Summoning up dignity.) 



162 



CHARLES THE SECOND 



Copp. Well, I suppose I must begin. — 
Oddsfisb ! I had it all settled in my head, 
and now, the deuce a word can 1 muster 
up. 

Maky. Come, uncle, courage! I never 
saw you so cast down before. 

CoPP. Well, then, what I have to say is 
this — Mr. King. — {Low.) Hey, Mary, 
what is it I had to say"? 

Chas. What is your name, my good 
friend ? 

Copp. Copp, at your service; that is to 
sa}^, Coppland, or Captain Copp, as they 
call me. And here's Mary, my niece, 
who, though I say it, is one of the best 
girls— 

{While talking, he looks down and 
fumbles with his cap.) 

Mary. But, that 's not the point, uncle. 

Copp. Eh ! true, very true, always keep to 
the point, like a good helmsman. First 
and foremost, then, you must know, my 
lord — when I say my lord, I mean your 
majesty. 

Chas. {Apart.) Egad, he's as much 
puzzled as I was, to give an account of 
myself. 

Copp. {Still looking down.) In finis — 
primo to begin — you mast know, then, 
tliat I command, that is to say, I keep 
the Grand Admiral, as honest a tavern as 
your majesty would wish to set your 
foot in — none but good company ever 
frequent it, excepting when a rogue or so 
drops in, in disguise — last night, for 
instance, a couple of gallows knaves, sav- 
ing your majesty's presence — Ah ! if I 
could only lay eyes on them again — I 
should know 'em, wherever I saw 'em — 
one in particular had a confounded hang- 
ing look — a man about the height of — 
{Eyeing Rochester, stops short.) 
Mary! Maiy! if there isn't one of the 
very rogues! 

Mary. My dear uncle, hush, for heaven's 
sake! {Apart.) That wine is still in 
his head. 

Chas. {Apart.) Rochester's face seems 
to puzzle him. 

Copp. I'll say no more; for the more I 
look — {Low to Mary.) hang me, if it 
is n't himself, 

]\Iary. Hush, I entreat you — I Avill speak 
for you — {Takes his place, her eyes still 
modestly cast down.) My uncle has 
thought it his duty to inform your maj- 
esty, that two strangers came to his house 
last night, and after calling for a great 
deal of wine, were unable to pay, and 



went off, leaving a valuable watch in 
pledge, which has proved to belong to 
your majesty. (Rochester and Lady 
Clara in bye play express great delight 
at the manner of Mary.) 

Copp. {Apart, rubbing his hands.) Oh! 
bless her ! she talks like a book. 

Mary. My uncle being an honest man, has 
brought the watch to your majesty. 

Copp. Yes, by St. George, and here it is. 
The sharpers, to be sure, have run off 
with five pounds ten of my money, but 
that 's neither here nor there — I don't 
say that, because I expect you to pay it, 
you know. — In short, without more pa- 
laver, {Crossing, and giving it.) here's 
the watch — {Glancing at the King, stops 
short, and gives a long whistle.) whew! 
{Treads so f tig back.) — {Low to Mary.) 
Smite my timbers! if it be n't the other 
rogue ! 

Mary. What ails you, uncle? surely, you 
are losing your senses to speak thus of 
his majesty! 

Copp. {Low to her.) Majesty, or no maj- 
esty, I '11 put my hand in the fire on 't 
he 's the other. 

Chas. The watch is certainly mine. 

Lady C. Your majesty's? 

{Smiling significantly at Rochester.) 

ROCH. {Affecting astonishment.) Your 
majesty's w^atch? 

[Chas. Even so; and I might have lost it, 
but for this man 's honesty. I shall be 
more on my guard in future. 

{Looking sternly at Rochester.) 

Mary. {Looking at Charles and Roches- 
ter.) The voice and the face are 
astonishinglv alike. But it is impossi- 
ble.] 

Copp {Rapping his forehead.) I have it 
— I see how it is. — {Low to Mary.) 
We 've made a pretty kettle of fish of it. 
The king, you know, is said to cruise un- 
der false colours. 

Mary. Mercy on me ! what will become of 
us? 

Copp. {To Mary.) Let me alone — it's 
one of the king's mad frolics — but never 
you mind — I'll get you off — {Aloud.) 
Your majesty will not be angry with my 
little fool of a niece. The two strangers 
might be very w^orthy joeople — many a 
man has a gallows look, and is an honest 
fellow for all that. — The truth is, they 
were a brace of merry wags. — Besides, if 
I had known for certain, I would n't for 
the world — ha ! ha ! — because, d 'ye see — 
honour bright — mum! {Turning to 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 



163 



Mary.) Come, I think I've got you 
pretty well out of the scrape, hey? 

CiiAS. Captain Copp, I am aware of all 
that passed at your house. 

CoPP. Ah! your majesty knows, that he 
who cracks a joke must not complain if 
he should chance to pinch his fingers. 

Chas. True, Captain. But was there not 
question of one Rochester? 

Copp. Why, craving your majesty's par- 
don, I did let slip some hard truths aloout 
him. 

ROCH. And do you know him of whom you 
s])oke so bluntly ? 

Copp. Not I, thank heaven! But I only 
said, what everybody says — and what 
everybody says, you knoAv, must be 
true. 

Chas. Spoken like an oracle — and did not 
you say, that this pretty lass was his 
niece ? 

Copp. Ay, as to that matter, I '11 stick to 
that, proof in hand. Make a reverence, 
Mary, and no thanks to Rochester for the 
relationship. 

Chas. I will take care that he shall make a 
suitable provision for his niece, or pro- 
vide her an honourable husband. 

RocH. I can assure your majesty, you only 
anticipated his intentions. 

Copp. Avast there! — I don't give up my 
girl. 

RoCH. But you will choose a match suited 
to her noble family. 

Copp. I '11 choose for her an honest man ; 
but no ranticumscout companion to suit 
that Earl of Rochester you talk of. — 
{Chuckling and winking.) To tell the 
truth between friends, and all in confi- 
dence, I had a match in my eye, a young 
music master. — Nay, don't blush, girl — I 
know there was a sneaking kindness in 
the case. 

Chas. I oppose that match. That young 
man received a ring last night, but has 
not had the honesty, like Captain Copp, 
to seek the owner. 

(Mary involuntarily springs forward 
to defend Edward against the charge, 
which Lady Clara and Rochester 
observe and smile at.) 

Edw. (Advancing.) He only waited a 
suitable moment to return it to your 
majesty. [Kneels and presents it.) 

Chas. How! Edward! — The resemblance 
is no longer a wonder. 

Copp. AMiat, little crotchet and quaver! 
Aha! ha! ha! there's witchcraft in all 
this. 



Mary. Oh, heavens! Georgini a gentle- 
man ! But my heart knew it. 

Chas. It is in vain, Lady Clara, to at- 
tempt concealment. Behold the heroes 
of the adventure. 

Lady C. Pardon me, sire, I knew it all 
along — I was in the plot. 

Chas. How? 

Lady C. Her majesty, the queen, was at 
the head of it. If the earl be guilty, it 
is we who induced him, and should un- 
dergo the punishment. 

Chas. I understand the whole. But the 
treacheiy of this earl I cannot forgive. 
He shall not obtain my pardon. 

Lady C. {Producing a paper.) It is al- 
ready obtained. Your majesty, ever 
merciful, has signed it. 

Chas. What! he, too, is the author for 
whom you have interested yourself. — 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! fairly taken in at all points. 
Rochester, thou hast conquered. 

(Rochester kneels.) 

Copp. {Passionately.) Thunder and light- 
ning! this man Rochester! — come along, 
girl, come along! 

Mary. What, can he be that hard-hearted 
man? He does not look so cruel, uncle. 

Copp. {Taking her under his arm.) 
Come along, girl, come along. 

Roch. One moment, Captain Copp. 
(Copp stops, and looks fiercely at him.) 
It is true, I am Rochester — a sad fellow, 
no doubt, since all the world says so — 
but there is one grievous sin which I will 
not take to my conscience, for it is against 
beauty. I am not the Rochester who dis- 
claimed this lovely girl — he was my 
predecessor, and is dead. 

Copp. {Sternly.) Dead! — gone to his 
long reckoning. — {Pauses.) May Heaven 
deal kindlier with him than he did with 
this orphan child! 

Mary. That 's my own uncle ! 

Chas. I have pardoned you, Rochester; 
but my eyes are opened to the follies 
which I have too frequently partaken. 
From this night I abjure them. 

Roch. And T, my liege, {Bowing to Lady 
Clara) will mortify myself Avith matri- 
mony, and hope to reform into a very 
rational and submissive husband. {Tak- 
ing Lady Clara's hand.) 

Chas. There yet remains a party to be 
disposed of. What say you, Captain 
Copp? — What say you, my Lord of 
Rochester? Must we not find a husband 
for our niece ? 

Copp, Fair and softly, your majesty — 



164 



CHARLES THE SECOND 



craving your majesty's pardon, I can't 
give up my right over my little girl. 
This lord is an uncle — I can't gainsay it; 
but he 's a new-found uncle. — I have 
bred her, and fed her, and been her uncle 
all her life, haven't I, Mary? 

Mary. Oh, sir, you have been a father to 
nie! 

COPP. ]\Iy good little iiirl — my darling girl. 
— Take thee away from thy own uncle'? 
Pshaw ! Ha ! ha ! I shall grow silly 
and soft again! Ha! ha! 

Chas. You are right, captain — ^you alone 
ought to dispose of her. But I hope to 
propose a match that shall please all 
parties. — What think you of my page — 
the music-master, who brought back the 
ring"? I shall present him with a com- 
mission in my own regiment. 

Edw. Oh! so much goodness! 

Copp. Your majesty has fathomed my own 
wishes. 

RocH. And mine. 

Edw. And mine. 

{Approaching Mary.) 



Mary. And — {Extending her hand.) — 
and mine. 

CoPP. So, here we are, all safe in port, 
after last night's squall. Oddsfish! I 
feel so merry! — my girl's provided for 
— I have nothing now to care for — I '11 
keep open house at the Grand Admiral — 
I '11 set all my liquor a-tap — I '11 drown 
all Wapping in wine and strong beer — 
I '11 have an illumination — I '11 make a 
bonfire of the Grand Admiral — I '11 give 
up business for the rest of mj- life — I '11 
sing "In the time of the Rump" — 

(Mary runs down and stops him.) 

Chas. Captain Copp, I am your debtor 
— five pounds ten? — accept this watch as 
a mark of mj^ esteem. The ring I re- 
serve for the lovely Mary. {Putting it 
on her finger.) And now, {Beckoning 
all the characters to the front with an air 
of mystery.) let me particularly enjoin 
on all present, the most profound secresy 
in regard to our whimsical adventures at 
Wapping. 

CoPP. {Clapping his finger to his lips.) 
Honour bright! — Mum! 



THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 

BY 

Richard Penii Smith 



The Triumph at Plattshurg is here printed for the 
first time from the original manuscript through the 
courtesy of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. 



THE TEIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 

The Triumph at Plattshurg represents the historical play dealing with the 
war of 1812. Richard Penn Smith,, its author, was born in Philadelphia, March 
13, 1799, the grandson of Provost William Smith, the patron of Thomas God- 
frey. He was educated at IVIount Airy, and was admitted to the Bar. He 
succeeded Duane as Editor of The Aurora, in 1822, but after five years spent in 
journalism, he returned to the practice of law. According to his biographers 
he had a wide knowledge of French and English drama which indeed is shown 
directly in several of the plays. He died August 12, 1854, at the family seat 
at the Falls of Schuylkill, near Philadelphia. 

He wrote twenty plays, fifteen of which were performed. His first play to be 
acted, Quite Correct, was produced at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, 
May 27, 1828. It is a farce altered from the French, as was also Is She a 
Brigand, played at the Arch Street Theatre, in 1833. The largest group of 
Smith's plays may be called romantic comedy or melodrama. The most important 
plays in this group are The Disowned, a melodrama, played first at the Balti- 
more Theatre, March 26, 1829, and printed in Philadelphia in 1830, A Wife 
at a Venture, an oriental comedy, played first at the Walnut Street Theatre, 
Philadelphia, July 25, 1829, The Sentinels, or the Two Sergeants, a clever play 
on the theme of fidelity, adapted from the French, performed at the Chestnut 
Street Theatre, December, 1829, and The Deformed, a verse play, based on 
Dekker's Honest Whore, played first at the Chestnut Street Theatre, February 
4, 1830, and printed the same year. According to Durang and Rees, The 
Disowned and The Deformed were afterwards acted in London. 

Smith also wrote a blank verse tragedy, Caius Marius, for Edwin Forrest, 
which the latter produced at the Arch Street Theatre, on January 12, 1831, and 
later in other places. It has not survived, except in fragments. 

Smith did his most significant work, however, in the field of historical drama. 
The Eighth of January, in which General Jackson is the central figure, was 
played at the Chestnut Street Theatre, January 8, 1829, and was very popular, 
being repeated in New York, Baltimore and Washington, and, as late as 1848, 
being put on at the Broadway Theatre, New York. It was printed in Phila= 
delphia in 1829. William Penn, a play in three acts, has as central theme the 
intervention of Penn to save the life of an Indian chief, Tammany, by name. 
It was first played at the Walnut Street Theatre, Dec. 25, 1829, and seems to 
have been revived as late as 1842. 

167 



168 INTRODUCTION 



The Triumph at Plattshurg is the best of the national plays of Smith. He 
has avoided actual historical characters, and the conflict is kept in the back- 
ground, while IMcCrea's danger keeps the element of suspense alive. It was 
first played at the Chestnut Street Theatre, January 8, 1830, with a strong 
cast, and was repeated. Apparently the scenery was quite effective and the 
national appeal met with a response. 

For biography of Richard Penn Smith, see a sketch by Morton McMichael 
in The Miscellaneous Works of the late Richard Penn Smith, edited 
by H. W. Smith, Philadelphia, 1856, and an anonymous sketch in Burton's 
Gentleman's Magazine, Vol. V, p. 119 (September, 1839). For accounts of the 
performances of the plays, see Charles Durang, History of the Philadelphia 
Stage, Series 2, Chaps. 51, 55, 56. 

The published plays of Penn Smith, The Eighth of January, (1829), The 
Disowned, (1830), The Deformed, (1830), Quite Correct, (1835), Is She a 
Brigand, (1835), and The Daughter, (1836), all printed in Philadelphia, are 
hard to obtain. The following plays are in manuscript form in the Historical 
Society of Pennsylvania, in Philadelphia: The Pelican, A Wife at a Venture, 
The Sentinels, William Penn, The Triumph at Plattshurg, The Bomhardment of 
Algiers, The Solitary or the Man of Mystery, Shakespeare in Love, and The 
Last Man. Smith's novel The Forsaken was published in Philadelphia in 1831. 

The present text is based on the manuscript copy, for whose use the editor 
is indebted to the courtesy of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, especially 
of the Librarian, Dr. John W. Jordan, and of the Assistant Librarian, Mr. 
Ernest Spofford. The original program, found with the manuscript, has been 

reprinted here. 

Note to Revised Edition. 

An authoritative life of Penn Smith has been published under the title of 
The Life and Writings of Richard Penn Smith with a Reprint of His Play, The 
Deformed, 1830, by Bruce Welker McCullough, 1917. (University of Pennsyl- 
vania Thesis.) 



Chesnut Stree t* 

Boxes 75 cents. — Pit 37 1-2 cents — Gallery 25 cents: 

Saturday Evening, 

January 9, 1330, 

Second night ©f a 
JV«tr Patriotic l^rama 

Written expressly for this Theatre, called 
THE 

AT J/L 

Plattsbiirg*, 

AVITH NEW SCENERY. 

PAINTCU BY MR RI.INAGLE. 

Major M Cren ^Ir. Foot. I :d SoM-r Mr Forreat. 

Captain ?taiily. Mr. lioirbotham. | ScnuntI, Mr Ilcnry. 

An.lrew Muckleijraith Mr. Maifwood. j 

Capiiin IVaho.ly., . -iVr J Jefferson. \ Elinor M'Crea. ..Mrs. Roper. 

Corpxnl Pcdhoily,. .iVr. M Uou^al. j Mrs. !Vlucklegraith,3//-« Turner. 

Dr. I)rench,. . . . . . . ..^/r llathotH. j Lucy Mt.is Waring. 

Itt SdIJicf Mr Watson J Mrs. Drcncfi Miss Armstrong 

American aiul English Soldier*. Citizens, Village Girls, &.c. 
In the course of the Piece the following 

Scenery, Incidents, &c» 

View of the Tillage of 

Ptattshurg, 

Fopt Moreau. 

T.WKKN 0,\ CLniBERL.\i\'D HEAD; 

Tlirougli liic windows of winch is a View of 

Lake Chaniplain, 

Arrival and Capture of the 

British Fleet. 

TltlUMPH OF THE 

American Arms, 

PROGRAM OF THE SECOND NIGHT 
Reproduced from the original Program in the possession 
of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. 



[M anil script} 

CHARACTEES 

Major M'Crea Mr. Foot 

Captain Stanley [Mr.] Rowbotham 

Andre Macklegraitii [Mr.] Maywood 

Captain Peabody [Mr.] J. Jefferson 

Corporal Peabody [Mr.] M'Dougal 

Dr. Drench [Mr.] Hathwell 

Elinor M 'Cre^v Mrs. Roper 

Mrs. Macklegraith Mrs. Turner 

LiucY Miss Waring' 

]\Irs. Drench ..,,<... ,o. » Miss Armstrong 



THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 



ACT FIRST. 

SCEXE 1. The village of Plattshurg, in 
fro7it of Fort Moreau. The fort prac- 
ticable. Flag flying, Sentinel on duty; 
villagers cross stage removing property. 

{Enter Corporal Peabody with soldiers.) 

Corporal. Halt. Stand at ease. Good 
people, what is the meaning of all this 
confusion and consternation'? You could 
not be more alarmed if the whole village 
were already in flames about your ears. 

Dr. Drexcii. And so it will be, corporal, 
if we stay here a few hours longer. The 
ease is a des]:)era1e one I assure you, be- 
yond the reach of medicine. Is not Sir 
George Prevost, with many thousand 
troops, already within a few miles of the 
village? 

Corporal. Very true, but I calculate he 
will have to come nearer before he takes 
the village, and that you know he cannot 
do without having a taste of the quality 
of the Green Mountain Boys. 

Dr. Drexch. Exactly as you say, but I 
would just as leave be down at Whitehall 
during the operation, so I '11 move my- 
self and plunder out of harm's way. 
Must have an eye to the main chance, 
corporal, and take care of my property, 
you know. 

Corporal. The surest way to take care of 
it is to defend it with a musket in your 
hand. I have one at your service, doc- 
tor. 

Dr. Drexch. Thank ye, thank ye kindly, 
just as much as though I had accepted 
of it ; but no occasion at present. 

Corporal. What, doctor, not afraid to . 
look upon death at this time of day? 

Dr. Drexch. Afraid ! La ! no, that 's my 
trade, and that I may continue to exer- 
cise it, I decline your polite offer. 

AxDRE. (Without.) Stand out o' the 
way, man, and make room for Andre 
Macklegraith, w^ho would see the general. 

Corporal. What noise is that? 

Dr. Drexch. It is Andre Macklegraith, 
the miller. 

{Enter Axdre.) 



171 



Axdre. Corporal Peabody, it warms the 
cockles o' my heart to see your good 
natured face at this present speaking, 
though you ken weel enow, that the time 
ha' been, and that na lang syne, when I 
would ha' preferred your room to your 
company any day in the week, and ha' 
been the gainer by it. 

Corporal. Twist me, but I guessed as 
much, Andre, but what has worked this 
sudden change in your feelings ? 

Axdre. Our feud 's at an end, corporal, — 
Our feud 's at an end. Take a pinch o' 
sneezer out o' my mull, and that you ken 
will be as binding as though we drank 
out o' the same cup together, and the 
ceremony is more economical — take a 
good pinch, man, you 're welcome.— Ah ! 
doctor, I cry you mercy, it glads one to 
see your gracious physiognomy; and how 
does the w^orld wag with you, man? 

Dr. Drexch. Only so, so. 

Corporal. The war is about to drive him 
from the village, Andre. 

Axdre. The doctor is right. It is an old 
saw, ye ken, that twa of a trade can 
never agree, and the war I am thinking 
will do business upon a larger scale than 
the doctor. — Ha! Ha! do you take my 
meaning? 

Corporal. Yes, and so does the doctor 
too ; but he makes a wry face in taking it. 

Axdre. Well I have done as much in swal- 
lowing his nostrums. — Ha ! Ha ! — Never 
look vexed, doctor. — A harmless jest will 
break no bones, and Andre, you ken right 
weel, is not the churl that would hurt as 
much as a hair upon his neighbor's head. 
Well, Corporal Peabody, as I was say- 
ing, our feud 's at an end. You know I 
always counted you a bonnie laddie when 
you used to come to my mill on Dead 
Creek with your grist of white wheat, and 
as fine wheat it w^as as any that grew in 
Clinton County, that I will say for it. 

Corporal. And heavy tolls came out of it 
too, Andre. 

Axdre. Ha! Ha! Let Andre alone for 
that man; but de'il a grain more did he 
take than his lawful toll. Ye canna say 
that ever Andre Macklegraith lost sight 
of the golden rule, which bids him do as 



172 



THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 



he would be done by. Well, as I was 
saying, ye came oft to the mill with your 
grist, and ye came often without any 
grist at all, and by my troth you soon 
wore out your welcome, for I found out 
that Lucy my handmaid was the attrac- 
tion. Ha! laddie, say 1 not true? 

Corporal. Why now I reckon you had 
some reason for you[r] suspicion. 

Andre. Ah ! let Andre alone for seeing as 
far into a millstone as he that picks it. 
I had taken a fancy to the lassie mysel, 
and with my old mither's consent, will 
make Lucy, Mrs. Maeklegraith, before 
we are many days older. — So, corporal, 
our feud 's at an end. 

Corporal. But have you Lucy's consent 
out and out? 

Andre. Why you simpleton, do you think 
she could refuse Andre Maeklegraith? 
I should like to see the lassie who would 
turn her back upon a man of my sub- 
stance. — Take another pinch o' sneezer. 
Take it, you 're welcome, and should be 
glad to see you at the mill again when 
Lucy and mysel are bone of one bone — 
but not till then, mind ye. 

Corporal. You are what I call a shocking 
polite feller. 

Andre. Let Andre alone for that, he kens 
bravely how to conduct himself in a be- 
seeming manner in all company. But 
w^iere is General Macomb; I have come 
here in person to speak to the general 
himself. 

Corporal. You speak to the general ; you? 

Andre. Yes, Andre Maeklegraith the mil- 
ler would speak to General Macomb. 
What's wonderful in all that? We live 
in a free land, man, and it would be 
strange indeed if the voice of the lowly 
could not reach the ears of those above 
them. 

Corporal. And what would you say to the 
general? 

Andre. An affair of interest, but as he is 
not here I will even open my budget to 
you. Some scouts of the enemy have 
appeared in the neighborhood of my mill, 
and as I am afraid they may set fire to 
my property, and in one hour consume 
the rakings and scrapings of many toil- 
some years, of a painstaking man, I 
would just ask the general to be so oblig- 
ing as to send a company or two to pro- 
tect me and mine from the fire and sword 
of the invader. 

Corporal. And you think that he will 
grant your request? 



Andre. Think, man! Hoot, hoot awa! 
how can he get over it? Does not youP 
constitution protect every man, rich and 
poor, in the peaceful enjoyment of his 
property, and if you let an honest citizen 
suffer in this manner, how can you hope 
for emigration? "^ 

Corporal. Why now there is something in 
that. 

Andre. Something.— A mickle deal. Let 
him refuse my reasonable request, and 
by the cross of Saint Andrew, 1 '11 come 
John Doe and Richard Roe over him. 

Corporal. And do you wish the soldiers 
to guard Lucy also? If you do, I'm 
your man. 

Andre. And do you think Andre daft or 
dighted, to set a fox to take care of his 
pullet. — She would be in good hands, by 
my truly. — No, no, if they only keep the 
Philistines out of the mill, they may let 
me alone to take care of the lassie. 
Come, show me the way to the general's 
headquarters that I may speak to him 
wuth my own tongue, for I never liked do- 
ing things by deputy. Come along, Doc- 
tor; never look so gloomy, man; my jest 
was a keen one, it must be allowed, but 
heed it not, it broke no bones, and if it 
had, you have the skill to make all whole 
again. — 

(March. Exeunt. ) 



Scene 2. A street in Plattsburg. 
(Enter Elinor followed hy Mrs. Drench.) 

Mrs. Drench. ^Y[ly do you leave us? and 
whither are you going, Miss Elinor? 

Elinor. I have already told you, to the 
enemy's camp, to seek a husband who, 
I fear has deserted me. Six weeks have 
elapsed since I heard from him — ]\Iy 
foreboding heart tells me that a fearful 
destiny aw^aits me, — ! Stanley, I did 
not merit this cruel treatment at your 
hands. 

Mrs. D. Let him go for a good for noth- 
ing fellow as he is. 

Elinor. Alas, you did not know him or 
you would not speak thus harshly. He 
appeared to me to be the very soul of 
honor. — 

Mrs. D. And so they all appear until they 
are found out. Never trust to appear- 
ances. 

Elinor. He had been taken prisoner, and 
while on his_parol, he boarded at my 



RICHARD PENN SMITH 



173 



father's farm in Vermont. He was so 
kind and obliging that my father and all 
of lis looked upon him as one of the 
family. We were much together; he be- 
came particular in his attentions to me, 
and my inexperienced heart was alas! 
but too sensible to his accomplishments. 

Mrs. D. Well, miss, I sympathize with 
you for before I married Dr. Drench I 
was precisely in the same sitiation with a 
young cornet in the militia. These mili- 
tary men ! 

Elinor. He pressed me to consent to a 
secret marriage, urging as an excuse that 
my father would never sanction our union 
during the continuance of hostilities. 
My heart was his, and I finally gave him 
my hand without my father's knowledge. 
He left me shortly after our marriage 
and I have not heard from him since. 
0! Stanley! 

Mrs. D. 0! the Bluebeard. I should like 
him to serve me so once. He 'cl find his 
match, I war'nt him. 

Elinor. My situation now became daily 
more irksome. I felt that I had been 
betrayed; I feared to make known the 
dreadful secret to my father ; I fled from 
my paternal roof, in quest of my hus- 
band. — I have not heard from my home 
since I left it, which is now more than a 
week; my father is ignorant of my fate, 
and perhaps he mourns me for dead. 
Bitterly do I repent of the imprudent 
step I have taken. 

Mrs. D. Will you not return, ma'am, to 
our housed 

Elinor. No, accept my gratitude for the 
protection yo\x have already given me. — 
My determination is made. I will search 
out my husband and satisfy myself 
whether I am his lawful wife, or a wretch 
indeed. 

Mrs. D. But the soldiers, ma'am. 

Elinor. They are men, and being such, 
they will not insult a woman in distress. 

{Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. Andre's Mill. View of the 
Lake. Boat near the mill. Distant can- 
non. 

{Enter Mrs. Macklegraith and Lucy 
from mill.) 

Mrs. Mack. Hark! Lucy, a skirmish is 
taking place and at no great distance 
from us. This war is a dreadful thing; 



it destroys everything like peace and 
comfort. A^d my poor son Andre, what 
can prevent his return? I fear some 
ill has befallen him. — 

Lucy. No danger of that, ma'am; Mr. 
Macklegraith is too wise and prudent. 

Mrs. Mack. He would go to Plattsburg in 
spite of all I could say. He had better 
have staid at home to protect us. — See, 
Lucy, a soldier approaches in haste. 

{Enter Major McCrea.) 

Major McCrea. At length I have eluded 
their pursuit. Good woman, do you in- 
habit this mill"? 

Mrs. Mack. Yes, sir. 

Major McCrea. Are you alone? 

Mrs. Mack. For the present. My son 
Andre has gone to the village. 

Major McCrea. I am pursued and my 
fate is inevitable unless you afford me 
an asylum and conceal me from my ene- 
mies. 

Mrs. Mack. It is impossible. We every 
instant expect a guard to take possession 
of the mill and they will certainly dis- 
cover you. 

Major McCrea. You are from Scotland 
and several years ago lived in Vermont 
upon the estate of Major McCrea. Is it 
not so? 

Mrs. Mack. It is, but how have you learnt 
my history? 

Major McCrea. Look at me well. — Ten 
years and recent affliction may have 
wrought great change in me. He who 
gave you shelter in your time of need, 
now request [s] protection in his turn. 

Mrs. Mack. Major McCrea ! Never can I 
repay the debt of gratitude that I owe. 
But by what chance do I see you here 
alone? 

Major McCrea. A melancholy one. You 
remember my little Elinor — she was but 
a little flaxen headed girl when you knew 
her — She grew up as beautiful as her 
mother — She was the pride of my heart — 
the comfort of my age — at least, I 
thought so, but what is blinder than par- 
ental love! — 0! who would be a father, 
and in his dotage fondly nourish a viper 
in his bosom until it gains sufficient 
strength to sting him to the soul ! 

Mrs. Mack. Nay sir, give not way to your 
feelings. 

Major McCrea. She left me. Can you 
credit it; fled from her fond father's 
house — reckless of the misery she entailed 
upon me — ! the ungrateful — but I will 



■^>- 



174 



THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 



not curse her — She has broke [n] my 
heart, but she is still my child and I will 
not curse her. 

Mrs. Mack. Have you received no tidings 
of her yet, sir? 

Major McCrea. This morning- I heard 
that she had just left the village, and 
hoping that she might have sought pro- 
tection mider your roof, I left my station 
and came in pursuit of her, but she is 
not here, alas ! she is not here. 

{Distant drums.) 

Mrs. Mack. Hark! sir, the enemy ap- 
proaches. If you remain here you will 
certainl}^ be taken prisoner. Is there 
nothing we can do to save you*? 

Major McCrea. You have said that your 
son is not here. Get me a suit of his 
apparel ; I will pass for j^our son. 

Mrs. Mack. Pass for my son ! 

Major McCrea. Where are his clothes? 
AYe have no time to lose. 

Mrs. Mack. Follow me, sir, and I will get 
you a suit. 

Major McCrea. {To Mrs. M.) Do you 
remain here and give me timely notice 
when danger approaches. 

{Exit with Lucy into the mill.) 

Mrs. Mack. What an astonishing adven- 
ture. I am thankful that an opportunity 
has occurred for me to evince my gTati- 
tude to him who protected the widow and 
her son for years. AYhat. so soon re- 
turned? 

{Enter Lucy.) 

Lucy. I have given him the cloathes, 
ma'am, but I did not stay to help him 
on with them because he is a man. 

]\1rs. Mack. You are a prudent girl. A 
young woman ought not to expose her- 
self. Ah ! the soldiers here already. We 
are lost. — {Goes to mill.) Major, have 
you finished? Hasten or your fate is 
inevitable. 

{Enter Captain Stanley and soldiers.) 

Capt. Stanley. Halt. — Be not alarmed, 
good woman. No injui^ is intended; I 
have merely come to station a sentinel at 
this place. Have you any men in your 
family? 

Mrs. Mack. My son Andre, sir. 

Capt. Stanley. Where is he? 

Mrs. Mack. He is — 

Lucy. In the mill, sir. 

Capt. Stanley. I would speak to him. 
— {Goes to mill.) 



Mrs. Mack. Do not put yourself to the 

trouble sir : I will go in search of him. 
Capt. Stanley. No ; I wish to satisfy my- 
self that he is alone in the mill. My 

friends, follow me. 
Mrs. ]\Iack. Heavens! what shall we do! 
Lucy. He is lost. 

{As soldiers are about to go into mill, 
Enter from mill Major McCrea in 
a miller's dress.) 
Major McCrea. Here I am, my friends — 

what would you have? — Captain Stanley 

— I must be on my guard. {Aside.) 

Mrs. Mack. 0! fortunate! 
Capt. Stanley. Are you the owner of this 

mill? 
Major McCrea. No, not as long as my 

mother lives. 
Capt. Stanley. Well, friend, I ought to 

advise you that I have orders to place an 

advance sentinel on this spot. 
Major McCrea. Then address alone can 

save me. {Aside.) 

Capt. Stanley. Be not concerned; the 

females of your family shall be respected. 
Major McCrea. I doubt it not ; you do 

not wage war with women. Well I am 

glad of the measure, it will protect my 

mill from depredators. — Captain, my 

mother is a fine fresh looking old lady for 

sixty five, is she not? 
Mrs. Mack. The captain can see plain 

enough, son, that you don't know my age. 

I am not sixty-five. 
Lucy. She must be that full out if slie 

intends to pass for the mother of the 

major. — {Aside. ) 
Major McCrea. I think, mother, you 

would take off a few years. 
Capt. Stanley. Women are liable to those 

mistakes. — Have you any spirits in the 

house, my good fellow? 
Major McCrea. Certainly, and good too. 

Mother, give us some brandy. 
Mrs. Mack. But, my son, we have none. 
Major McCrea. Have none? Ah! true, 

it is all out, but if you would like some 

whiskey — 
Capt. Stanley. Anything. 
Mrs. Mack. We have a little whiskey still 

left. 
Major McCrea. Then let us have it. — 

{Exit Mrs. M.) You appear fatigued. 
Capt. Stanley. Yes; we have had some 

skirmisliing on Cumberland Head, and 

no rest since. 
Major McCrea. The first virtue of a sol- 
dier is to endure fatigue. 
Capt. Stanley. Why, comrade, from your 



RICHARD PENN SMITH 



175 



step, I should guess that you have been 
a soldier in your time. 

(Re-enter Mrs. Mack. — with bottle d'c.) 

Major McCrea. I have served a campaign 
and know something of the world. At 
the age of fifteen I left my father's 
house ; a juvenile frolic — you recollect, 
mother. 

Mrs. Mack. Yes, the libertine, but he is 
now likely to be settled in life for this 
is his intended. 

Capt. Stanley. A charming creature. — 
Here ['s] to a speedy and happy mar- 
riage. {Brinks.) 

Lucy. Happy. 0! never fear, sir, after 
our marriage we shall never quarrel. 

Capt. Stanley. That 's well, an excellent 
resolution, but more frequently made 
than kept, my pretty one. 

(Enter Andre.) 

Andre. At last I am at home again, thanks 
to as good a pair of shanks as ever grew 
among the highlands o' bonny Scotland. 

Mrs. Mack. How unfortunate! See, my 
son has returned. 

Major McCrea. No matter. — 

Mrs. Mack. Do not betray yourself. 

Major McCrea. Fear nothing ; be on your 
guard and take your cue from me. 

Andre. The detachment here already! 
This General Macomb is a practical man 
in the way of business, and kens right 
weel what is due from the government to 
an honest citizen who pays his taxes on 
the nail when called upon. But how is 
this! the carls have red coats upon their 
backs. Are ye the volunteers from York, 
gentlemen ? 

Capt. Stanley. No, we are his majesty's 
soldiers from the Eighty-second. 

Andre. The de'il's blessings on you for 
the information. 

Major McCrea. Ah! brother, I am de- 
lighted that you have returned so soon. 

Andre. Brother! and who may this oily 
tongued carl be with my ane clothes 
upon his back, and Lucy hanging on his 
arm with as little shame as if she were a 
canty quean. And these desperado sol- 
diers here ! — My mill 's besieged and 
Andre Macklegraith 's a ruined man. 

Capt. Stanley. Don't be alarmed, friend, 
you have nothing to fear from us. 

Mrs. Mack. Yes, Andre, these gentlemen 
have told your brother that they have 
come to protect us. 



Andre. My brother! How, mother, are 
you, too, in tlie same ridiculous story'? 

Capt. Stanley. Come, my boy, and take a 
social cup with us. 

Andre. No; I'm not athirst. A bonny 
kettle o' fish is this'. The first steals my 
liquor and then asks me to drink with 
him. I would not as much as take a 
pinch o' sneezer with such a knave, and 
that's more economical. 

Major McCrea. Why, brother, you will 
not be such a churl as to refuse"? 

Andre. Brother again ! and what the de'il 
man made you my brother? You are 
none of my father's begetting unless in- 
deed over the left shoulder, and such it 
would not be beseeming in me to ac- 
knowledge in my good mother's presence. 

Major McCrea. Your folly will anger me. 

Andre. My folly! Hoot awa! I take 
myself to be as wise a man as ever stood 
upon your shanks. 

Major McCrea. Go brother, go into the 
house; you know not what you say. Go 
into the house. 

Andre. I won't. I 'm not a fool. Hear 
me. 

Lucy. Come Andre, come with me. 

Andre. I won't; and the de'il fly away 
with me if I stir a peg until I see the 
siftings of the plot against me. 

Major McCrea. Poor fellow. — Captain, 
he is sometimes a little touched — you un- 
derstand me. 

Capt. Stanley. Oh! perfectly! 

Mrs. Mack. He is a good hearted boy, 
but when he takes a drop too much. — 

Andre. A drop too much ! Why, mother, 
not a mouthful has passed my windpipe 
since breakfast, saving and excepting an 
cup of molasses and water, which I swal- 
lowed out of pure friendship for Dr. 
Drench. And well you know that a hale 
man might swill a pale ^ full of such like 
taplash 2 and not become heady. — But 
how is this, mother, that you combine with 
my enemies against your own flesh and 
blood*? — And Lucy too, whom I intend at 
no distant day to make Mistress Mackle- 
graith — 

Capt. Stanley. Ha! Ha! An odd fel- 
low ! why he '11 take your sweetheart from 
you presently, comrade. 

Andre. His sweetheart ! Am I awake ! 

Lucy. This is one of the causes of his 
strange behaviour. He loves me, but as 

1 Pail. 

2 Poor or stale malt liquor, the refuse of the 
tap. 



176 



THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 



I ^i>ive the preference to bis brother, he 
disowns bini, and acts in a manner that 
frightens us all. 
Andre. What a shocking lie ! It 's gross 

, enpwgh to choak ^ the throat of the Witch 

[^y€t Endor. 
Capt. Stanley. Go in, my friend, and 
compose yourself. A little sleep will do 
you good. 
Andre. I dinna want to sleep. By my 
troth, a pretty piece of work. Here 
comes a thief that I never before set my 
eyes upon, who calls himself my brother, 
steals the betrothed of my heart from 
me, seduces my mother, wears my clothes 
and uses my mill, and then I am told to 
go to sleep for it will do me good. Who 
the de'il could sleep with all that upon 
his conscience? 

Mrs. Mack. Pray keep your temper, son. 
Capt. Stanley. Poor fellow, he is very 
far gone. 

Lucy. Very far gone indeed, sir. — Ah ! do 
not come nigh me. 

Capt. Stanley. Take care, he is danger- 
ous. 

Andre. But, mother, I am in my sound 
senses. Can't you put in a word to show^ 
that you have not quite cast me off? 

Mrs. Mack. Why are you so unwilling to 
acknowledge your brother then"? 

Andre. Simply because I can't exactly re- 
member him, never having had the pleas- 
ure of seeing him before. Indeed, 
mother, if you say he is my brother it 
does not become me to gainsay it, and I, 
like a dutiful son, will acknowledge the 
kin, provided he will get about his busi- 
ness speedily and leave me my cloathes, 
my lassie and my mill in no worse condi- 
tion than he found them. 

Capt. Stanley. It is dangerous to let him 
run at large — I wonder you have the 
courage to trust him so near you, 

Andre. The fault 's on his side, it is he 
that 's near me. 

Major McCrea. My friend, my brother, T 
beg of you to go in for a moment with 
your mother. 

Andre. And leave the lassie alone in your 
clutches ! Andre may be confounded, but 
he is nae sic <in> a fool as that. 

Capt. Stanley. Get in, comrade, or do 
you require the help of my foot to assist 
you? 

Andre. No, I can walk on my own shanks 
well enow. — 

Capt. Stanley. Charge. — {The platoon 

1 Choke, 



charge bayonet and advance toward 
Andre.) 

Andre. How, do you make me a prisoner 
in my own house! Horrible, horrible! 
and all this in a free country, and towards 
an honest and harmless citizen, who pays 
his lawful taxes regular down upon the 
nail. Ken ye what ye do upon your own 
responsibility. I shall make it all known 
to General Macomb, and if he don't call 
you to a severe account, by the cross of 
Saint Andrew, I '11 come John Doe and 
Richard Roe over you at the next assizes. 
{They push him in and close the door.) 

Capt. Stanley. Ha, ha, ha! a comical 
fellow. 

Major McCrea. Thanks, comrade, he is 
more violent than usual, but a few mo- 
ments' reflection and he will become paci- 
fied. 

Capt. Stanley. I hope so.— I must leave 
you sooner than I would wish in order 
to station the sentinels. — {Selects one sol- 
dier from the platoon and stations him.) 
—Adieu, comrade. Platoon, to the right 
face; forward march. 

{Exit with soldiers.) 

jMajor McCrea. Good woman, I shall 
never forget this proof of your attach- 
ment. Sooner or later I will recompense 
your generosity. 

Mrs. Mack. I am paid, sir, in the oppor- 
tunity of serving you. 

Major McCrea. Go to your son and dissi- 
pate the alarm that tliis strange adven- 
ture lias occasioned. Tell him who I am, 
and doubtless he will aid in my escape. 

{Exeunt Mrs. Mack. & Lucy into the 
mill. ) 

{Enter Elinor.) 

Elinor. I am faint with fatigue and 
fright. Here is a place of shelter where 
I may rest until I recover sufficient 
strength to pursue my search. Alas! 
how severely is my disobedience punished. 

Sentinel. Stand, give the word. 

Elinor. I know it not. 

Sentinel. You cannot pass, then. 

Major McCrea. Elinor, my child. 

Elinor. Whose voice is that. My father! 

Sentinel. His child ! This is not the mil- 
ler then. 

Maj. McCrea. She faints. A glass of 
water, for heaven's sake. 

Sentinel. I cannot leave my post, 

(Enter Andre.) 



y 



RICHARD PENN SMITH 



177 



Andre. What noise is this? 

Ma J. McCrea. Look up, my child ; you are 
in your father's arms once more and he 
for<>ives you all. — Look up. She revives. 
Andre Macklegraith, some water for the 
love of heaven. 

Andre. Ye ken me for Andre weel enough 
now, and I ken ye too. Why call ye so 
loud for water man, when the lake is so 
near at hand? Carry your bairn to the 
shore and help yourself to what you need. 

Maj. McCrea. Lnf eeling monster ! 

AxDRE. Nay, no abuse, bat follow Andre's 
advice. — Even a fool may at times give 
good advice to a wise man. — Help your- 
self, I say, and ye '11 have no cause to 
find fault with your servant. Hoot man, 
to the shore, you '11 find a boat there, 
make the best use on't and trust to me. 

{Apart.) 
(Col. McCrea supports Elinor to the 
shore.) 

Sentinel. I reckon, friend, you are not 
much troubled with Christian charity. 

Andre. That 's my affair — Charity is a 
fine topic to talk about and preach about 
too, but I have remarked that where there 
is a large stock of charity, there is usually 
a small stock to answer its demands. 
Charity is an ungrateful guest, for it is 
sure to rob the man who entertains it. 
Take a pinch o' sneezer. A large pinch 
man, you[']r[e] hearty welcome. 

{Boat pushes of.) 

Sentinel. Death ! He has escaped. Hold 
on, or I '11 fire. 

Andre. Fire at a lassie ? Shame, where 's 
your manhood. — {Fires. — Andre strikes 
the gun up. Enter soldiers, Mrs. Mack. 
and Lucy. Boat disappears. Curtain 
drops.) 

end of act first. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. A tavern on Cumberland Head. 
Folding window through which is seen a 
view of the lake. Discovered. Four 
British soldiers drinking, and Captain 
Peabody, the landlord. Cannon at inter- 
vals.) 

1st Soldier. Well, comrades, the army is 
prepared to commence the grand assault, 
and in a few hours we shall behold his 
majesty's flag waving over the fortress 
of Plattsburg. 



Landlord. I 'U bet you all the grog in my 
bar to a chew tobacco that you have 
missed a figure in your calculation, 'cor- 
poral. 

1st Soldier. What 's that you say. Land- 
lord? 

Landlord. I am thinking that if you ever 
march into Plattsburg it will be under a 
flag of a different color than that you 
display at present. 

1st Soldier. Ha! Ha! why, you don't 
suppose that experienced soldiers are to 
be beaten by a handful of ragged militia, 
do you? 

Landlord. Yes, I do, and they will be 
switched like tarnation too. Take my 
word for it, corporal, you'll have your 
red jackets drubbed off of your backs, 
and if you are so fortunate as to return 
alive, I calculate you '11 cut a more sorry 
figure than the ragged militia you jeer 
at. 

2d Soldier. The fellow 's mad. 

Landlord. Cuter than you think for. 
You seem not to reflect that the enemy 
you despise are fighting for their homes, 
and remember 't is the nature of a man 
to fight despert fierce when a foe's at his 
threshold. 

1st Soldier. Then why don't you turn out 
with your rifie on your shoulder, since 
you are surrounded with your enemies? 

Landlord. Mayhap I '11 answer that ques- 
tion when occasion offers, but business in 
the mean time, you know, must be at- 
tended to, and if I can make an honest 
penny or two out of you before your 
affairs are settled, it 's nothing to Uncle 
Sam, you know. Old Captain Peabody 
will make it up to him in the long run 
I '11 war'nt it. 

{Enter Major McCrea and Elinor.) 

Major. We have mistaken the path, my 
child, and here we are on Cumberland 
Head instead of approaching Plattsburg. 
Cheer up, Elinor. 

Elinor. I am faint, very faint. 

{[He] supports her to a chair.) 

Major. Landlord, some wine. — The walk 
has been too much for you. Yield not 
to your feelings. A few moments' rest 
will refresh you. 

Elinor. 0, my father, this unmerited 
kindness overwhelms me with confusion. 

Major. You are still my child, Elinor, 
though a villain persuaded you for a 
time to forget your father. 

Landlord. Take a glass of Mrs. Peabody's 



178 



THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 



currant wine, miss; it is the right stuff, 
I '11 war'nt it, and a glass or two will 
make you feel all over quite a different 
person. 

Elixor. You are very kind, but I had 
rather not. 

Landlord. Then here 's your health. 
Help yourself sir, there 's not a head- 
ache in a hogshead, as the saying is, — 
Bless me the young women is rather 
faintish. Lead her into that room and 
Mrs. Peabody will comfort the poor 
eritur. — 

{Exeunt Major and Elinor.) 

{Enter Captain Stanley.) 

Capt. Stanley. Soldiers, really it is time 
for you to be upon duty, if you wish to 
partake of the brilliant achievement that 
is about to crown his majesty's arms. 

Landlord. Now I calculate they had bet- 
ter be off of duty, lest the brilliant 
achievement turn out like that affair of 
General Proctor's. You 've heard tell 
on 't, I reckon ■? If you ha' n't, I '11 give 
you the whole story from first to last. 

Capt. Stanley. Pon honor, landlord, you 
should confine your conversation to gin 
slings and apple toddy, and such pro- 
fessional topics as you understand, and 
not hazard an opinion on military mat- 
ters. 

Landlord. Now that beats all nature that 
Captain Peabody's opinion on military 
affairs should go for nothing. I reckon, 
captain, that you are yet to learn that I 
was a major in the Vermont militia for 
ten years, and never missed a training 
day, that my father served under old 
Ethan Allen and was at the taking of 
Ticonderoga, and that my son Nathan is 
a corporal in the sarvice at this present 
speaking. Rat it, we are a military fam- 
ily, root and branch, and you will find 
that I can look upon a field of battle 
with the eye of a soldier though I do not 
carry a laced coat upon my back. 

Capt. Stanley. I will not dispute the 
judgment of so experienced an officer, 
but I will lay my honor to a brass far- 
thing that I sup in Plattsburg tonight. 

Landlord. An even bet I reckon, and no 
doubt you will win it, for you will cer- 
tainly sup there if you have any appetite 
for supper. {Cannon.) 

Capt. Stanley. Hark! the British fleet is 
already under weigh. The attack soon 
begins. — ^A fine sight that, Landlord. 

{Looking out.) 



Landlord. Why they do sail trim enough 
for sartin, but I calculate they'll follow 
the example set by the squadron on Lake 
Erie. 

{Enter Major McCrea.) 

Major. Captain Peabody, my daughter 
has recovered sufficient strength to walk. 
Can you direct us the shortest route to 
the village. 

Landlord. That I can for sartin, — but 
wait a few moments and I '11 be your 
guide, for I guess I may have a little 
business in that quarter myself. 

Capt. Stanley. Ha! what do I see? The 
fellow who escaped from the mill this 
morning. This time, however, your 
Yankee ingenuity shall not avail. Ho, 
there guards. 

Landlord. Why, captain, for sartin you 
dont want a platoon of red coats to take 
an unarmed man. 

(Stanley approaches [the'] Major.) 

Major. Stand back, come not within the 
reach of my arm or you will receive a 
token that you will remember the longest 
day you live. 

Capt. Stanley. Why, what a ruffian it is. 
Ho, guards — {Enter soldiers.) seize upon 
that spy. — 

Landlord. No, I reckon you don't. Young 
man, you forget that I'm the landlord 
of this inn, that I keep an orderly house, 
and I '11 just inform you that if you are 
for kicking up a dust here, by zounds 
I '11 be for turning you out neck and 
heels. 

Capt. Stanley. Obey my orders. 

Major. Let them come on, Major,^ I fear 
not now all that he can do; he has done 
his worst already. 

{Enter Elinor.) 

Elinor. My father's voice. — soldiers here 
—Ah! Stanley. 

{Sinks in her father's arms.) 

Capt. Stanley. Elinor! — Her father. 

Major. Look on me, villain, you know me 
now, and look here upon the victim of 
your treachery, — I received you beneath 
my humble roof in full confidence, my 
hospitality was extended towards you, 
and like the serpent that had been 
warmed into life you spread dismay into 
my little family. — You stung me to the 
heart, but the hour of retribution has 
come. 

Capt. Stanley. Confusion! 

1 Evidently an error for "Captain." 



RICHARD PENN SMITH 



179 



Major. I did hope to have met you in 
battle, and there have glutted my private 
vengeance, but the cup that my soul 
thirsted for is within my grasp sooner 
than I anticipated. I knew you not this 
morning when we met, as the villain who 
had betrayed my child, or we had not 
parted as we did. She has since con- 
fessed all to me, — I know the full extent 
of my debt to you — the account between 
us is a fearful one, and now it must be 
settled. — Take your choice. — {Producing 
pistols.) 

Elinor. ! my father — Stanley ! 

Capt. Stanley. Hear me speak, sir. 

Major. It is useless. The shame of my 
child can only be washed out with your 
blood. — Come, sir, we lose time. 

Capt. Stanley. Her shame'? Colonel 
McCrea, in what instance has my conduct 
been such as to inflict shame upon those 
connected with me? 

Major. Insolence! Look there, and thy 
conscience if not seared with crime, will 
:answer the question. 

Capt. Stanley. I do look there and find 
no cause to blush either for myself or 
for my wife. 

Major. Your wife ! 

Capt. Stanley. Yes, as firmly as a heart 
overflowing with love and the marriage 
ceremony can make. {Embrace.) 

Elinor. Why, father, I am sure that I 
told you we were privately married. 

Major. True, true, I remember now, but 
I supposed it nothing more than the 
common artifice of a seducer. Then you 
did not intend to desert my child'? 

Capt. Stanley. Desert her! not while I 
have life. I married her secretly, fear- 
ing that under existing circumstances you 
would not consent. I was at Montreal 
when I received word that my exchange 
had been effected, and at the same time 
instructions to join my regiment with- 
out delay. I obeyed, and though I have 
written repeatedly to Elinor, repeating 
my vows of unalterable affection, it 
seems that all my letters have miscarried. 

Elinor. Forgive me, Stanley, that I could 
for a single moment doubt your truth. 

Capt. Stanley. Appearances were against 
me, 't is true, but frequently the most 
innocent appear the most guilty, since a 
temporary shade was cast even upon the 
spotless fame of my Elinor. — 

Landlord. As true a saying as ever passed 
the lips of Deacon Tibbets. 

Major. Young man, your deportment is 



such as to command my confidence. — 
Take her, sh^ is yours. — Should you sur- 
vive the approaching conflict, remember, 
I depend upon your honor. — {Cannon.) 
— Hark ! the conflict has begun. — Major 
— {Apart.) it is time for us to be else- 
where — Can you accompany me. — 
Landlord. {Apart.) 1 will but get my 
rifle. — I may have use for it, you know. 
This way. — 

{Exeunt Major and Landlord. The 
British fleet is seen through the large 
window sailing on the lake. Tab- 
leau. — scene closes.) 



Scene 2. A street in Plattsburg. Alarm. 

{Enter Corporal Peabody with soldiers.) 

\ 

Corporal Peabody. Here, boys, we can 
take a breathing spell and then to it 
again. Our forts stand it bravely, and 
the enemies' assault has already dimin- 
ished in vigor. Look out on our little 
fleet. Every shot tells. — {Cannon.) 
Huzza, there goes the main mast of the 
brig Linnet. — 

{Enter Dr. Drench.) 

What 's the matter, doctor'? 
Dr. Drench. I wish I was safe down at 

Whitehall with all my plunders as I had 

intended. The town will be taken, and 

then the jig 's up with the whole of us. 
Corporal Peabody. Stay where you are, 

man. 
Dr. Drench. ! there 's no. danger of my 

going away at present. Never fear that. 
Corporal Peabody. Stay and you will 

have practice plenty before sunset. 

Huzza ! — Look there ! — The Confiance 

has struck. 

{Enter Andre.) 

Andre. The Saranac runs blood. The 
days of Culloden and Falkirk have come 
upon us. At the bridge the flght was 
fearful, and our men played the part of 
Samson among the Philistines and slew 
their thousands. Take a pinch o' sneezer, 
and tell me where will I And General Ma- 
comb. 

Corporal. In Fort Moreau I reckon. But 
what would you have with the general at 
such a time'? 

Andre. Nothing more than to gratulate 
him. — A slight breaking out o' family 



180 



THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 



pride, for you must know that the Gen- 
eral and myself are cousins. 

Corporal. It 's the first I heard of it. 
How do you make it ouf? 

Andre. Plain enough, man. He 's a Ma- 
comb and I am a Macklegraith, and that 's 
sutTieient to make us Scotch cousins all 
the world over. 

Corporal. And what do you say to Com- 
modore Macdonough *? 

Andre. I have no doubt that he is ane of 
the same family. — Doctor, I am glad to 
see you again, but I must be bold to say, 
the beveridge you gave me this morning 
was but ill adapted to^ the condition of 
my stomach, but then 'twas better than 
your physic, (Alarm.) 

Corporal. Hark, the attack on Fort 
Brown is renewed. Forward, Com- 
rades. — 

Andre. Go on, Corporal, I '11 follow you. 

Dr. Drench. I won't. 

(Exeunt, Drench [on] opposite side.) 



Scene Last. View of Lake Champlain, 
and shipping. 

(Enter Major McCrea, Captain Peabody, 
Capt. Stanley, Elinor, soldiers and 
prisoners.) 

Major McCrea. My countrymen, another 
wreath has been added to the chaplet of 
American glory. A never dying wreath. 
Two brilliant victories at the same mo- 



ment have been achieved. The invader 
has been driven back, with great loss, and 
their leader has tied in consternation and 
dismay. The hostile fleet is ours; they 
attacked our little armament confident of 
success, but behold the valiant Mac- 
donough now bringing the crestfallen 
enemy in triumph into the harbor of 
Plattsburg. — 

(The fleet appears. Music.) 

All. Huzza ! huzza ! — 

Capt. Peabody. Well, captain, you see I 
understood something about military mat- 
ters though I was educated in the militia. 
— (To Stanley.) 

Capt. Stanley. You have fought bravely, 
and I feel it no disgrace to be conquered 
by so magnanimous a foe. For myself I 
have but little cause to regret being a 
prisoner, as I shall no longer be sep- 
arated from her whom most I love. 

(Enter Andre.) 

Major McCrea. Bless you, my children, 
bless you, my days will close in peace. — 
Andre, I must ask your pardon for the 
dilemma in which I placed you this morn- 
ing. — 

Andre. Hoot, think no more of it. Major, 
think no more of it, but join your voice 
with mine in a wish which no one here 
w^ill say nay to. 

Major McCrea. Name it. 

Andre. Long life to Ma[c]donnough, Ma- 
comb, and Macklegraith, three as brave 
men as ever trod in shoe leather. 

All. Huzza, Huzza. — 



THE END 



POCAHONTAS 

OR 

THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 

BY 

George Washington Parke Custis 



POCAHONTAS 

Pocahontas or the Settlers of Virginia represents the plays on Indian themes 
and also the drama written in the South. The first Indian play to be written by 
an American was the tragedy of Ponteach or The Savages of America, by Major 
Eobert Rogers (1766). This was not acted. There were many Indian dramas in 
the first half of the nineteenth century — the earliest by an American to be per- 
formed being Barker's Indian Princess, (1808). It began the series of the Poca- 
hontas plays, the theme being used by Custis in 1830 in the play now reprinted, 
by the Englishman, Robert Dale Owen, in his Pocahontas, acted February 8, 
1838, at the Park Theatre, New York, in which Charlotte Cushman played 
''Rolfe," and by Mrs. Charlotte Barnes Conner in her Forest Princess, played 
in Philadelphia, February 16, 1848. Finally the motive ran to satire in John 
Brougham's burlesque of Pocahontas or the Gentle Savage, produced at Wal- 
lack's Theatre, New York, on December 24, 1855. Custis 's drama is especially 
significant in a comparative study of the Pocahontas plays. Its author is de- 
serving of recognition, if for nothing else, for his self-restraint in not endowing 
Pocahontas with the ability to speak blank verse. But his dramatic instinct 
showed itself most definitely in his handling of the theme. The trouble with 
the Pocahontas plays in general is that the most dramatic incident, the saving 
of Smith's life, comes too early in the play. The other playwrights in their 
endeavor to follow history have sacrificed dramatic effectiveness. Custis, with 
cheerful courage, took liberties with actual facts in order to put the striking 
event in the last Act. 

Perhaps the most significant of the Indian plays in general was Metamora 
or the Last of the Wampanoags, written for Edwin Forrest by John A. Stone, 
and produced at the Park Theatre, New York, December 15, 1829. Forrest 
played in this for many years. So far as the editor is aware, Metamora exists 
only in the manuscript of the name part in the Forrest Home, at Holmesburg, 
Pennsylvania. The language of the fragment is bombastic, but the play was ef- 
fective and was widely imitated. Besides the Pocahontas series, the most im- 
portant Indian play that has survived seems to have been Dr. Bird's Oralloossa 
(1832), laid in Peru. Very few of the forty Indian plays of which record has 
been made, have come down to us. They were popular between 1830 and 1850, 
but they were usually artificial and their picture of the Indian was not a true one. 

George Washington Parke Custis was born at Mount Airy, Maryland, April 

183 



18 1 IXTRODUCTION 



30, 1781. He was the son of John Parke Custis, the stepson of Washington, 
whose early death, of camp fever incurred in the Yorktown campaign, brought 
his two younger children under the direct charge of President and Mrs. Wash- 
ington at Mount Vernon. Here young Custis grew up and here he lived till 
Mrs. Washington's death, when he built his house at Arlington, opposite Wash- 
ington City. He was appointed a cornet of horse in the army of the United 
States in 1799 but did not see active service at that time, although he afterwards 
became a volunteer during the War of 1812. After his marriage to MaryXee 
Fitzhugh in 1804 he lived on his large estate and devoted himself to the care 
of it. He was a writer of prose and verse and a speaker of ability, but with 
the instincts of the Southern landed proprietor he published comparatively 
little. After the visit of Lafayette to this country in 1824, he wrote his enter- 
taining Conversatio7is with Lafayette, and in 1826 he began in the United States 
Gazette his recollections of the private life of Washington which were continued 
in The National Intelligencer and which were published by his daughter in 
1861. He died October 10, 1857. 

His first play, The Indian Prophecy, was performed in Philadelphia at 
the Chestnut Street Theatre, July 4, 1827. According to the title page of the 
printed play, it was performed also in Baltimore and Washington. The same 
authority describes it as "A National Drama in two Acts founded upon a most 
interesting and romantic occurrence in the life of General Washington." In 
1770, while on a surveying expedition to the Kanawha region in Virginia, Wash- 
ington was visited by an Indian chief who told him that he had been the leader 
of the Indians at Braddock's defeat and that although their best marksmen had 
levelled their pieces at Washington they had been prevented from killing him 
by a higher power. The chief went on to prophesy that Washington would never 
die in battle but would live to be the chief and founder of a mighty empire. 
This incident, which is given in Custis 's Recollections, became the climax of the^ 
play which is otherwise but a series of conversations between Woodford, a cap- 
tain of rangers, Maiona, his wife, and their Indian protegee, Manetta, daughter 
of the chief ]\Ienawa, w^ho delivers the prophecy. The play was published in 
Georgetown in 1828 as *'By the author of the Recollections." 

Pocahontas or the Settlers of Virginia, was played first at the Walnut Street 
Theatre, Philadelphia, January 16, 1830, and was performed for twelve nights, 
among them Washington 's Birthday. Elaborate preparations were made for the 
production of the play, the theatre being closed from January 11th to January 
16th. Durang states that it was received with great applause. On December 
28, 1830, John Barnes produced it for his benefit at the Park Theatre, New 
York, playing "Hugo." It is probable, therefore, that The Forest Princess, 
written afterward by his daughter, Charlotte Barnes Conner, was inspired by 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 185 

Custis's play, since she undoubtedly witnessed the performance, in which her 
mother took the part of ' 'Pocahontas.'^ The play was published in Philadel- 
phia in 1830. That it was played again seems certain, for the Clothier Collec- 
tion includes a prompt copy belonging to John Sefton, the manager of Niblo's 
Theatre, in New York, and of the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, under 
E. A. Marshall. In this copy the parts of ''Hugo," "Mowbray," "Namoutac" 
and "Mantea" are omitted and the play is much cut. 

On May 16, 1830, Custis's play of The Railroad, a national drama, was 
performed at the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia. Durang, in his account, 
tells us that a locomotive steam carriage was introduced in the last act, which 
whistled as it went out ! It moved off the stage to the music of the ^ ' Carrolton 
March," composed for the occasion by Mr. Clifton of Baltimore. 

At the request of the manager of the Baltimore Theatre, Custis wrote a 
play called North Point or Baltimore Defended, in celebration of the battle of 
North Point, on whose anniversary, September 12, 1833, it was produced. It 
was completed according to the author in nine hours and was "a two-act piece 
with two songs and a finale." His Eighth of January was played January 8, 
1834, at the Park Theatre, New York. He- seems also to have written an Indian 
play, The Pawnee Chief, but accurate information concerning this is wanting. 
An account of Custis is given in Recollections and Private Memoirs of Washing- 
ton, hy his Adopted Son, George Washington Parke Custis, with a Memoir of 
the Author hy his Daughter [Mary Custis Lee] , Philadelphia, 1861. The original 
source of Pocahontas was Captain John Smith's Generall Historic of Virginia, 
New England and the Summer Isles (1624), as Smith's earlier True Relation 
(1608) does not mention the salvation of Smith by Pocahontas. For accounts of 
the productions of the plays, see Charles Durang, History of the Philadelphia 
Stage, Series 2, Chapters 52 and 53, and Joseph N. Ireland, Records of the New 
York Stage, Vol. I, p. 644. 



OR, 



THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA, 



A NATIONAL DRAIIIA, 



IN THREE ACTS 



Performed at the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, twelve nights, wiii 
great Buccees. 



WRITTEN BT 

GEORGE WASHINGTON CUSTIS, ESQi 

Of Arlington House, Author of the Rail Road, Pawnee Ciiief. &c. &c. 



PHILADELPHIA EDITIONi 

O ALKX&NDKR, VtU 

i83a 



PEEFiVCE 

The national story upon which the play of POCAHONTAS is founded, was 
a tempting one for a dramatist, and more could not have been made of it than 
has been done in the present instance. Mr. WASHINGTON CUSTIS, in this 
production, has fully proved his capability as an author. The plot keeps up a 
lively interest; its gradual development, judging from the effect the piece pro- 
duces on representation, is at once natural, and decidedly dramatic; and, no 
doubt, when supported by good actors, it will always be received with the same 
success that characterized its representation at the Walnut Street Theatre. 
This drama was peculiarly fortunate in being produced by that celebrated melo- 
dramatic director, the late Mr. S. Chapman. Had the piece been his own he 
could not have displayed a greater desire to render it effective ; and his persona- 
tion of Captain Smith will long be the theme of unqualified praise. The part 
of jMatacoran was excellently played by Mr. CLARKE ; Mr. BALL, a very young 
actor, showed considerable promise in ]\Iaster Rolfe, and Messrs. PORTER and 
GREENE, in their respective parts of Powhatan and Hugo, were very success- 
ful; the heroine, Pocahontas, found an able representative in Mrs. GREENE. 
Indeed, few pieces have been more successful than this drama, and Mr. WASH- 
INGTON CUSTIS has done the stage considerable service, by showing the re- 
sources for dramatic materials in the annals of American history; and we 
anticipate with pleasure his future productions, whether historical or otherwise. 



DRAMATIS PERSONAE 

ENGLISH 

Captain Smith Mr. S. Chapman 

Lieutenant Percy Mr. Allen 

:\LvsTER Rolfe Mr. Ball 

]\LvsTER West Mr. Thompson 

Barclay Mr. Waldegrave 

Hugo De Redmond Mr. Greene 

]\Iowbray Mr. Bloom 

INDIANS 

Powhatan Mr. Porter 

]\Iatacoran Mr. Clarke 

Selictaz Mr. James 

Namoutac Mr. Garson 

Princess Pocahontas. Mrs. Greene 

Omaya Mrs. Hathwell 

Mantea Mrs. Slater 



POCAHONTAS 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1. The hanks of James' River. 
View of the river — two ships and a sloop 
at anchor in the distance — on one side of 
the stage a hut — composed of mats and 
reeds; on the other rocks and cliffs. In- 
dians on the cliffs gazing at the shipping, 
and making signs to each other. 

{Enter Matacoran and Selictaz, as from 
the chase; Matacoran with a light hunt- 
ing spear in his hand, Selictaz carry- 
ing his bow and game — down rocks.) 

Selictaz. There, my prince, behold the 
great canoes. Have 1 not told thee 
truly? 

Matacoran. They are call'd barques, and 
bear the adventurous English in search 
of their darling gold, the god they wor- 
ship! Away to Weorocomoco, and re- 
port this coming to the king. I will fol- 
low quickly on thy track. Fly with thy 
utmost speed — away. — {Exit Selic- 
taz.) Barclay! English! come forth. 
{Striking with his spear against the 
hut.) 

{Enter Barclay.) 

Barclay. Give you good morrow, Prince. 
So early return'd from the chase ; yet, by 
your game, it would seem you have not 
drawn an idle bow. 

Matacoran. Tell me. Englishman, are 
those the barques of thy country; or 
those wild rovers of which I have heard 
thee speak, who, acknowledged by no 
country, are consider'd enemies by all? 

Barclay. {Aside, with ecstasy.) 'T is 
the flag of England. Prince, those are 
the barques so long expected with suc- 
cours for the colony. — {Aside.) Alas! 
they have come too late. 

Matacoran. Why do they remain at rest? 
wliy not approach the shore? 

Barclay. They await some signal of rec- 
ognition from those they expect to find 
here. I have bethought me of the old 
pennon under which I sail'd when first 
leaving my native land to seek adven- 



tures in the New World. From amid 
the wreck of our misfortunes, I have pre- 
serv'd the flag with the fondness of an 
old man's treasure. An' it please you. 
Prince, I will ascend the clifi:, and wav- 
ing the well-known signal of friendship, 
they of the ships will answer with their 
ordnance, and presently prepare to land. 

Matacoran". Do as thou hast propos'd, 
and with the least delay. (Barclay en- 
ters the hut, then returns hearing a flag, 
ascends the cliff and waves it. A gun is 
fired from the ship; Matacoran starts, 
Indians utter cries, and fly from the cliffs 
in great terror.) 'T is well; and now. 
Englishman, hear me. The strangers, 
no doubt, will question thee as to the 
fate of thy comrades; beware of thy 
speech in reply, lest they become alarm'd 
at thy tale. Speak of the great King's 
virtues and clemency; how he sav'd thy 
life, that thou might teach his people the 
arts of the white man; and hath given 
thee lands and wives; and how his fa- 
vours have made thee forget that ever 
thou wert a native of countries beyond 
the sea. 

Barclay. Since I have taken service with 
the great King, I have not much to com- 
plain of; but all his favours, and his 
kingdom in the bargain, can never make 
me forget Old England, the land of my 
birth and affections; and tho' far distant 
from her, she is ever present to my sleep- 
ing and waking thoughts, while my 
heart, at sight of those vessels, yearns 
for the embrace of my countrymen. 
Surely, Prince Matacoran, the brave in 
war, the just in peace, the favourite of 
his king, the friend of his country, must 
admire that patriotic feeling in another, 
which he himself possesses in no ordi- 
nary degree. 'T is one of the first of the 
virtues, and one of the last that will 
abandon the generous bosom. 

Matacoran. You 're right ; — but if you 
English so love your own country, why 
cross the wide sea to deprive the poor 
Indian of his rude and savage forests? 
But see, the smaller barques approach 
laden with the strangers; hear me — look 



189 



190 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 



well to thyself. I must on to Weoroco- 
moco, and report to tlie king. Be as- 
sur'd of his favour, if thou prove faith- 
ful — but, if false, beware of his anger, 
for it is ten'ible. 

Barclay. That, Prince, we can only judge 
of by imagination. No victims having 
ever surviv'd, so as to be able to speak 
feelingly on that subject. 

Matacoran". Look well to thyself, thou 
knowest Matacoran, and by this time 
thou should'st know how to value his 
friendship and protection; and see, the 
spear of Matacoran is sharp. 

{Exit Matacoran.) 

Barclay. Yes, and unsparing as 't is 
keen. They come, my countrymen come; 
I will retire, and observe them from a 
distance. {Exit Barclay into the hut.) 

{Boats arrive with Smith, Percy, 
ROLFE, West, and Soldiers. Trum- 
pet sounds — Smith draws his sword 
and leaps ashore. Farmer of Smith 
home hy Percy. — Three Turks' 
heads on a field; motto — Vincere est 
Vivere, Accordamus.) 

Smith. God save the King! Lieutenant, 
advance my banner — and now plant it 
deep, where nor force, nor fraud, shall 
ever root it out again. This goodly land, 
which the brave Raleigh nam'd from the 
virgin Queen, we will possess for her 
successor, the royal James; whom God 
preserve, and grant a long and prosper- 
ous reign over these fair realms. Wel- 
come, comrades, welcome to Virginia. 

Percy. A right fair and goodly land it 
seemeth, but sadly deficient of inhabit- 
ants. We have only seen some fishers in 
light canoes, which at approach of our 
barques, and discharge of our ordnance, 
skimm'd like dolphins o'er the waves, and 
soon vanished from our sight. 

RoLFE. It was surely no savage hand 
which hung the English pennon from the 
cliffs. Here seems to be a dwelling, and 
tho' rude, is yet of better structure than 
the Indian native wigwam. — What ho! 
there! within! 

{Enter Barclay.) 

Barclay. Save ye, noble sirs. 

Smith. Thy tongue is English, but the 
freshness of health so mark'd in the 
natives of Albion's salubrious isle, is 
marvellously chang'd in thy complexion, 
which is as tawney as a Morisco's. How 
fares the world with thee, comrade ! wert 



thou of Weymouth's or of Grenville's 
crews ? 

Barclay. Thou see'st. Sir Cavalier, the 
solitary remnant of all the English, 
whom ambition and avarice have sent at 
various times to settle and to perish in 
this inhospitable land. Mine is a tale 
of sorrow. 

Smith. Let it be a short one, then; for 
we have come not to mourn over past 
misfortunes, but to prevent future ones. 
To your tale. 

Barclay. Soon after the departure of the 
ships, the colonists, divided amongst 
themselves, threw off all rule, and instead 
of fortifying the tower, and cultivating 
the soil, began to oppress and plunder 
the natives, who, in return, waylaid and 
slew them. The wily Powhatan, profit- 
ing by our disunions and the weak state 
to which sickness had reduced us, sur- 
pris'd and laid waste the settlement, ere 
a second harvest had ripen'd for our use. 
I was alone preserv'd by the influence 
of the powerful Prince Matacoran, the 
general and chief counsellor to the King. 

Smith. Thy tale is as sombre as thy vis- 
age. But come, thy condition shall be 
mended; thou shalt take service nnder 
thine own liege lord, our gracious mas- 
ter. Thou canst materially aid us in our 
enterprise here, and the reward of thy 
fidelity shall be lands and privileges in 
this colony, which, trust me, profiting by 
the experience of those who have gone 
before us, we shall know how to conquer, 
aye, and to hold too ; or, if thou would'st 
rather seek thy guerdon in thy native 
land, thou shalt be recommended in our 
despatches to the royal James. 

Barclay. My allegiance is due to my 
rightful sovereign, w^iom I will well and 
truly serve. But, Sir Cavalier, I am 
now old, and my long sojourn from my 
native land would make me a stranger 
and friendless there, while I have here 
much consideration from the grandees of 
tlie savage court. My children, altho' 
the offspring of an aboriginal mother, 
are dear to me, and so may it please 
your gracious pleasure, I would prefer 
to end my days in Virginia. 

Smith. Be it so, I understand thee. Be 
secret and thou wilt be safe. Go gain us 1 
what intelligence thou canst. f' 

{Exit Barclay.) 

West. I do not much like this renegado. 

Smith. By my faitli, Master West, but 
we are of the condition of the host, who. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 



191 



having but one flaggon for the use of all 
his guests, must serve peer, and peasant 
alike; now be our thirst for intelligence 
ever so great, we must drink from this 
renegado, our only cup. 

Percy. The ruthless hand of Powhatan 
has indeed so lopp'd the branches from 
the colonial tree, as to have left only this 
Wiisted and wither'd stump. But let 
Esperance, the motto of the Percy, bear 
us out at every need. 

ROLFE. From the tale of this renegade 
countryman of ours, I opine that in the 
Kmg Powhatan we shall meet with a 
savage of no ordinary sort; an' he pos- 
sess as much courage, as 't is said he hath 
craft, he may prove to us a troublesome 
customer. 

Smith. For my part, having held war- 
fare with wild Tartar and Hern, the sav- 
ages of the Old World, I care not how 
soon I break a lance with his savage 
majesty of the New. But come, my mas- 
ters, let 's to our muster, and prepare 
our array for the morrow's pageant. 
'T is fitting that we appear in our best 
harness, and that in its best burnish too, 
that we may strike upon the minds of 
the natives here, fair impressions of our 
might and grandeur. I pray of you, 
worthy sirs, that ye appear in all your 
braveries, for ye well know that first im- 
pressions are strongest, whether in love 
or warfare. Allons! we will pitch our 
camp and array our forces, and to-mor- 
row on to the savage court, where we will 
invest his heathen majesty wdth the 
crown and mantle sent to him by the 
Lord's anointed; then demand, in behalf 
of our gracious sovereign, dominion in 
and over the countries from the moun- 
tains to the sea, and if denied us — why 
then — Bieu et mon Droit — for God and 
our right. (Exeunt omnes.) 



Scene 2. The interior of the hut of Bar- 
clay. — Mantea mending a net. 

[Enter Pocahontas and Omaya, with bas- 
kets of shells.) 

Pocahontas. The blessings of this fair 
morning upon you, Mantea, and good 
father Barclay. Do you know, that 
while with Omaya, gathering shells upon 
the beach, we heard a noise of thunder, 
and looking out upon the wide sea, we 
beheld those great canoes which bear the 



English, from one of which a white cloud 
arose; it seem'd as tho, it contain'd the 
spirit of sound, it floated awhile majes- 
tically in the air, and then disolv'd away ; 
and while we gaz'd upon a spectacle so 
new and imposing, came to land the 
lesser canoes fill'd with the gallant stran- 
gers. Oh, 't was a rare sight to behold 
the chiefs as they leap'd on shore, deck'd 
in all their braveries ; their shining arms, 
their lofty carriage, and air of command, 
made them seem like beings from a 
higher world, sent here to amaze us with 
their glory. 

Mantea. The English, my princess, have 
indeed arriv'd, and Barclay has gone to 
join his countrymen, while I have been 
so lost in fear and wonder, as to remain 
without the power even to look abroad. 
Whether this coming may prove of ill or 
good to Virginia we shall soon determine. 
I fear we shall have sad times again. 

Pocahontas. Come good, come ill, Poca- 
hontas will be the friend of the English. 
I know not how it is, but my attachments 
became fix'd upon the strangers the first 
moment I beheld them. Barclay has told 
me much of his native isle, and I liave 
listen'd to his tale with all the admira- 
tion of a young untutor'd mind. But 
now I can well believe all that I have 
heard of that fair land, when I see that 
it doth produce such noble creatures. 

Mantea. Lady, beware how you make 
known your fondness for these strangers. 
Recollect you not, that your hand is des- 
tin'd to reward Prince Matacoran for his 
exploits against the English in the late 
wars? Powhatan so wills it. 

Pocahontas. Matacoran is the sworn en- 
emy of tlie whites, and implacable in his 
hatred; but sooner shall the sun cease to 
shine, and the waters to flow, than Poca- 
hontas be the wife of Matacoran. 

Mantea. This powerful prince is the gen- 
eral and chief counsellor to the king, and 
first in his favor and affection, renovvn'd 
in war, and wise in council. 

Pocahontas. Matacoran is brave, yet he 
lacks the best attribute of courage — 
mercy. Since the light of the Christian 
doctrine has shone on my before be- 
nighted soul, I liave learn'd that mercy is 
one of the attributes of the divinity I 
now adore. To good father Barclay I 
owe the knowledge which I liave acquir'd 
of the only true God, whose worship I 
in secret perform; and rather than be 
the bride of that fierce and vindictive 



192 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 



prince, I would fly to the depths of the 
forests, and take up my abode with the 
panther. 

{Enter Barclay and Namoutac.) 

Barclay. My princess — let me say my 
own good child, this poor hut is always 
made cheerful and happy by thy pres- 
ence. Know you my companion? 

Omaya. Ah! it is, it is indeed Namoutac. 

Pocahontas. Thy love hath made thee 
sharp-sighted, girl; thou hast the Van- 
tage of me. 

Barclay. 'T is indeed Namoutac, tho' 
scarcely to be recognized as the wild In- 
dian boy who used to climb like a squir- 
rel for birds' nests, and dive in the rivers 
for shells. Namoutac can tell you much 
of his travels, and of the English who 
have just landed in Virginia. 

Omaya. Tell m-e, Namoutac, whether the 
English maidens wear their plumes as 
high as we do, and whether in painting 
they use most, the red or the yellow. 

Namoutac. Indeed, girl, I believe the 
English dames carry their heads to the 
full as lofty as ye do here, and they have 
quite as much red on their cheeks, tho' 
the yellow is not admired. 

Barclay. Cannot you tell the princess 
somewhat of your adventures'? 

Namoutac. Were I to live to the age of 
Powhatan, I could not relate a thou- 
sandth part of the wonders I have seen, 
or the persons I have met with in that 
world of itself. Agreeably to the orders 
of my king, I commenc'd notching a stick 
for every person I met, but soon threw 
it away in despair, as all the sticks in 
Virginia would not suffice to notch down 
the numbers in yon mighty realm. 

Omaya. Indeed, Namoutac, I do not think 
your travels abroad have much improv'd 
your taste in dress; I think you look'd 
far handsomer when you w^re formerly 
plum'd and painted among the young- 
warriors in attendance on the king. 

Pocahontas. Do tell me truly, Indian, 
what effects have your travels abroad 
had upon your attachments to your 
native country? 

Namoutac. In good truth, lady, I can say, 
all which I have seen has impress'd me 
with the most exalted ideas of the power 
and grandeur of a people, who are as 
gods are to men. Still amid all the 
splendours of the courts of Europe, I 
have never forgot my native land, but 
long'd to re-visit even its poverty and 



nothingness; while amid the pomp and 
pageantry of England, I sighed for the 
sports of our rude forests, and tiie wild, 
free life of an Indian. I wish'd to be 
away from the restraints of civiliz'd so- 
ciety, to throw off the cumbrous dress 
which fetter'd my limbs, and re-assume 
my primitive nakedness and liberty; to 
enjoy the hunt and the dance, and again 
to become a son of Virginia. 

Pocahontas. How call you the chiefs of 
the English lately arrived? 

Namoutac. The leader is Smith, a re- 
nown'd chieftain in the three quarters 
of the world; his lieutenant, Master 
Percy, kinsman to the great Werowance 
Northumberland, whose territory alone 
could produce more bowmen than the 
whole kingdom of Powhatan; then Mas- 
ter West, related to the noble Lord de la 
War; then Master Rolfe, of gentle blood, 
with others of lesser note. I must to the 
king. Plow my heart will throb as I re- 
visit Weorocomoco and its well-remem- 
ber'd scenes, where the earliest and hap- 
piest days of my life have been pass'd. 

Omaya. And so you have not forgot the 
Weorocomoco and the merry dances we 
us'd to have there. I long to see you 
dress'd and painted as becomes you; for 
really, Namoutac, in these clothes you are 
hardly tolerable. 

Namoutac. The sun shines for the last 
time upon Namoutac the English. Its 
morning beams will cheer him while 
roaming in his native forests, seeking the 
favourite haunts of his youth, dress'd 
in the garb of his country, his limbs will 
again become vigorous and elastic, he 
will be as swift as the deer of the hills, 
his heart will be as light as the feathers 
of his plume; such will soon be Na- 
moutac the Indian. Namoutac the Eng- 
lish, will be no more. {Exit Namoutac.) 

Barclay. Behold the force of early hab- 
its, as exemplified in this young native. 
Princess, the strangers are bound to your 
father's court, and soon as the presents 
are landed, will invest Powhatan with 
the regalia sent by the English monarch. 
It will be an imposmg spectacle. 

Pocahontas. But I must hasten to We- 
orocomoco, to prepare fitting entertain- 
ments for such noble guests. Omaya, we 
will take the near way path. 

Omaya. We shall soon overtake Namou- 
tac, and then we will fly by him to shew 
our speed, while in his clumsy clothes ht 
will come toiling after us. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 



193 



Pocahontas. Adieu, Mantea — adieu, good 
father Barclaj^ — soon will I be here 
again; for I am no where so happy as 
under this hospitable roof. 

{Exit Pocahontas and Omaya.) 
Barclay. Come, Mantea, you may now 
gaze on the ships without fear of the 
English. This way; be not alarm'd. 

(Exeunt both.) 



Scene 3. A wood. 

{Enter Rolfe.) 

RoLFE. I am completely lost amid the 
mazes of this interminable wood. My 
companions, intent on the pursuit of 
game, have left me to indulge in the 
contemplation of the sublime and beau- 
tiful, which is every where to be found 
in the wild and picturesque scenery of 
these interesting regions. What a. vast 
and splendid park this savage king pos- 
sesses here; how insignificant appear our 
European pleasure grounds, where a few 
trees have been planted and train'd by 
the hand of art, when compar'd with 
these noble forests, planted by the hand 
of nature. Our pieces of water, too, as 
they are called, where a few small fishes 
are fed and fatten'd, to those magnifi- 
cent rivers, which, rising in the moun- 
tains, traverse the country for some hun- 
dred miles, then rush with indescribable 
grandeur to the sea. And the contrast 
holds equally good with regard to ani- 
mals; in the European parks a herd of 
tame stags lie lazily about the keeper's 
lodge ; in the forests of Virginia, the wild 
buck arouses him from his leafy lair, 
flashes his bright eye indignant on his 
pursuers, and then bounds gracefull}^ 
away over these interminable lawns. 
Verily, things are on a great scale in this 
New World. I will rest me awhile on 
this shady bank, till our hunter's horn 
announces the conclusion of the chase. 
{Reclines on a hank.) 

(Enter Pocahontas and Omaya.) 

Omaya. Why, lady, you tire; Namoutac 
cannot be far before us. 

Pocahontas. Indeed, girl, I am not much 
us'd to racing of late; I would fain take 
breath awhile. Hereabouts is the shady 
bank and the old oak at which w^e us'd 



to rest; we wdll stop but for a moment, 
and then restime our chase of Namoutac. 
Come — ah ! 't is occupied, and by a 
stranger. (Discovers Rolfe.) 

Rolfe. (Coming forward.) But will be 
most cheerfully relinquished, maidens, to 
your better use. 'T is a pleasant seat, 
and invites the weary to comfort and 
repose; I pray you rest from your fa- 
tigue. 

Pocahontas. Thanks, courteous stranger; 
altho' our journey has been somewhat 
rapid, we have but little need of rest. 

Rolfe. The duties of a Cavalier to your 
sex are the same whether in the Old 
World or the New; I therefore pray ye 
accept my service. Say whither do ye 
roam thro' these extensive forests? 
Seek ye your friends, or is it in the 
mere wantonness of health and spirits 
attendant on the gay morning of life, 
that ye have come abroad to gather 
flowers in this wild garden of nature? 

Pocahontas. We go, Sir Cavalier, to We- 
orocomoco, the abode of Powhatan, the 
sovereign of these countries; where, if 
report speaks truth, we may soon ex- 
pect the English. 

Rolfe. I am greatly mistaken, if I am not 
addressing the Princess Pocahontas, the 
favourite daughter of the king, and the 
friend of Barclay. 

Pocahontas. Such is my name and char- 
acter. 

Rolfe. Again I tender my duteous serv- 
ice; and tho' I should be but a bad 
guide in the forest, yet I may afford ye 
protection on your way. 

Pocahontas. The paths are well known 
to us whose feet so often traverse them, 
and ere the shadows of the trees are 
much more aslant, we shall reach the 
abode of Powhatan. Adieu, courteous 
stranger, at Weorocomoeo we shall meet 
again. 

(Exeunt Pocahontas and Omaya.) 

Rolfe. What gone! why they have flitted 
away like the nimble fawns which start 
from the thicket to avoid the hunter's 
aim. And see, they now hold on their 
light and rapid course, and are now hid- 
den by the luxuriant foliage. How full 
of grace and courtesy is this princess — 
savage, should I say. By my faith, and 
such be the damsels of the savage court, 
we shall need all the advantages of our 
civilization when we appear before them. 
(Horn sounds.) Aha! 't is our wild gal- 
lants; they have at length stricken the 



194 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 



deer, and now blow a mort. Here they 
are. 

{Enter Percy and West.) 

Percy. Well, Master Rolfe, still given to 
meditation ! but if our eyes have not de- 
eeiv'd -us, thou art not solitary in thy 
musings — surely we saw something of 
the female form glide swiftly away, as 
tho' alarmed at our coming. Perhaps 
some sylvan deity of these shades, who 
pitying thy forlorn and solitary state, 
came to amuse thee, and to sing wood 
notes wild, as a cure for thy melancholy. 

West. Or rather say the driads of this 
wood, who finding him absorb'd in 
dreamy musings on his absent love, came 
to console the hapless swain, and try if 
the tawny maidens of Virginia could not 
make him forget the fair dames of Eu- 
rope. What say you, Master Rolfe? 

Rolfe. Why, my merry masters, I say 
that ye are bad woodsmen, and have shot 
wide of your mark; an' ye draw no bet- 
ter bow at the stag, your arrow had as 
well remain'd in its quiver. 

Percy. We '11 guess no more. Master 
Rolfe, but are all attention to your story. 

Rolfe. Well, you must know, that while 
resting on this bank, and listening for 
echoes from your horn, came tripping 
by no less a personage than the Princess 
Pocahontas, and a light-footed damsel, 
her hand-maiden, and after a few words 
of fair and courteous speech, they van- 
ished like fairies from a moon beam. 

Percy. And so. Sir Knight of the Wood, 
a fair princess has form'd thy adventure ; 
but, if I mistake not, thou wilt yet have 
to win by sword and lance, and not by 
soft and gentle dalliance of words. Our 
valiant captain doubts the sincerity of 
the friendship with which we are to be 
receiv'd, and bids us all look to our 
arms. Now his experience of Turk, Tar- 
tar, and Hun, will make him keep a wary 
eye upon the proceedings of his savage 
majesty here, and at all events be pre- 
par'd for the worst. 

West. Master Rolfe looks grave. My 
broider'd doublet to a carman's frock 
but he is in love with this dark princess. 

Percy. A match, I say, between Master 
Rolfe, and the tawney daughter of Vir- 
ginia. 

West. Agreed, agreed. 

Rolfe. My meeting with the damsel was 
purely accidental; still let me say, that 
the' of dark complexion, she is well fa- 



vour'd both in form and feature, of ad- 
mir'd carriage, courteous and discreet in 
discourse. 

West. Excellently well describ'd. A 
match, a match, I say : but hark'ee. Mas- 
ter Rolfe, an' ye succeed your father-in- 
law Pohawtan, who they say is well- 
stricken in years, and become king of 
these realms, I pray ye make me, your 
old camarado, your master of the horse. 

Rolfe. Well, my merry masters, here 's a 
hand to each of you, and right royally I 
swear, to grant all your wishes, and a 
thousand largesses beside, so soon as I 
wed the princess, succeed Powhatan, and 
become sovereign lord of these realms. 
The day I mount the throne of Pawmun- 
kee, thou. Master West, slialt mount the 
horse of state, thou Master Percy, the 
viceregal seat in the government of the 
gold mountains; while our valiant cap- 
tain, as commander of the forces, will 
march to the conquest of the Monecans, 
and tribes far westward toward the set- 
ting sun. Now, my bon camarados and 
merry wags, having dispos'd of the gifts 
of royalty, I become plain Master Rolfe 
again, and propose that we burnish our 
harness for the morning's pageant, as it 
is fitting we appear in proper knightly 
array where a princess is to be won. 
Lieutenant, we wait thy leading. 

Percy. Nay, my liege, we thy humble 
squires, know better our places than to 
precede the heir presumptive to a throne. 

Rolfe. What! at your waggeries again — 
well, ye shall be pleasur'd. AUons, my 
noble vassals, allons. {Exeunt omnes.) 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. The palace of Powhatan at We- 
orocomoco. Powhatan seated on a 
throne which is covered with hear skins. 
Powhatan wearing a coronet of feath- 
ers, and a robe of skins, a spear in his 
hand; on his right the Princess, on his 
left, Omaya, with fans of feathers, dou- 
ble rows of guards with spears, bows and 
arrows. 

{Enter Matacoran.) 

Matacoran. The English have airiv'd, is 
it tlie great King's pleasure the strangers 
be brought before him? 

Powhatan. Bring they the presents? 

Matacoran. They do, great King. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 



195 



Powhatan. And their guns? 

Matacoran. They have weighty guns in 
their boats, such as ten of the strongest 
of our warriors could not lift. 

Powhatan. I like not their guns. 

Matacoran. They say these great pieces 
are brought to give salvos of welcome at 
thy coronation, such as is due at the 
coronation of a king. 

Powhatan. Well, be it so, introduce tlie 
strangers to my greatness. 

{Flourish of trumpets. Soldiers 
marching. Drums and trumpets. 
Banner of Smith home hy Rolfe. 
Smith, uncovered, bearing a scroll. 
Percy bearing a coronet. West, 
the mantle. Soldiers.) 

Powhatan. English, ye are welcome to 

the dominions of Powhatan — welcome. 
Smith. Great King, I will display, and 
read my credentials, which are under the 
sign manual of my sovereign, and the 
great seal of England. {Reads.) "To 
the high and mighty Powhatan, sovereign 
of Pawmunkee. These. We, James, by 
the grace of God, of Great Britain, 
France, and Ireland, King; Defender of 
the faith; greet thee well, and by these 
presents we do command our trusty and 
well beloved cavalier and captain. Smith, 
that he do invest thee with a crown, which 
we have sent as a token of our love; and 
to acknowledge thee by right and title 
as holding the realm of Virginia in vas- 
salage of us, and our heirs, forever. 
And we do further command our right 
trusty and well-beloved cousin, Percy of 
Northumberland, that he do invest thee 
with the scarlet mantle as a badge of thy 
royalty, to be worn as such by thee, and 
thine heirs, forever. Sign manual and 
great seal of England." 

(Smith and Percy, bearing coronet 

and mantle, invest Powhatan with 

them.) 

Smith. In the name of the most puissant 

James, I crown thee King. {Flourish.) 

Percy. And I thus invest thee with the 

mantle of royalty. Hail to the King. 

(Flourish.) 

Smith. God save the great Powhatan, 

King of Paw^munkee. {Flourish.) 

{Flourish of drums and trumpets. 

Cannon fired without — at the firing 

the Indians exhibit great terror. 

Powhatan leaves Ms throne. Smith 

re-seats him.) 

Smith. Our shew of gratulation hath 



alarm'd your highness; it is now over, 
dismiss thy- terrors. These ceremonies 
were commanded by my royal Master, as 
due to the coronation of so great a King 
as thou. I pray your highness, that ye 
will be pleas'd to visit us at James' 
Town and inspect the presents. 

Powhatan. If your king has sent me 
presents, I also am a king; this is my 
land, you must come to me, not I to you. 
Yet, Captain Smith, many do inform me 
that your coming hither is to invade my 
people, and possess my country. We 
fear your arms, now lay them aside, for 
they are useless in times of peace. 

Smith. Great King, thou art falsely in- 
form'd; we came not only to be friendly 
with thee, but to aid thee with our arms 
in thy wars with the Monecans. 

Powhatan. It suiteth not with my great- 
ness to have foreign aid in my wars. 
Captain Smith; I am old, and have seen 
the death of my people for three gen- 
erations. I know the difference between 
peace and war better than any one in my 
country. I am old, and soon must die. 
This tale, that thou art come to destroy 
my country with thy arms, troubleth me, 
and affrighteth my people. What can 
ye gain by war, when we can fly to the 
woods, whereby ye must perish for want 
of food. Think ye that Powhatan is so 
simple as not to know that it is better 
to eat good meat, laugh, and receive pres- 
ents from you, than to live in the woods, 
eat acorns, and be hunted by you, that if 
a twig break every one cryeth, there 
Cometh Captain Smith! thus ending my 
miserable life, and leaving my pleasures 
to you. Be assur'd of our love, and come 
not with guns and swords, as if to invade 
your foes. 

Smith. King! — our arms are a part of 
our apparel; had we intended to do you 
a harm, what has there been to prevent 
us? View kindly as friends those who 
would be terrible to thee as foes. 

Powhatan. Well, Captain Smith, ye are 
a great Werowance; ^ we will be kind to 
thee, and accept thy presents. But come, 
my favourite daughter hath entertain- 
ment for thee in a dance. Come, the 
dance, I say, the dance. 

(Smith, Percy, Rolfe, and West are 
placed on stools in the centre of the 
stage. Suddenly come dancing in 
from each side Indian ■ girls with 

1 Ruler. 



19G 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 



hows and arrows, tlien youths with 
spears; tliey present the weapons as 
if to slay them, retire, and bring in 
pine branches, which they hold over 
the English in form of a canopy. 
The English rise, the dancers form 
in two lines, the King, having Po- 
cahontas and Omaya on each side 
of him, leads the way, the English 
folloiv, the Indians holding the pine 
branches over the train. Exeunt all 
but Matacoran, who, during these 
ceremonies, stands apart, his arms 
folded, and looking sternly on. He 
comes forward.) 
Matacoran. And lick we feet which soon 
will trample us in the dust, fold we to our 
bosoms those serpents which will soon 
entangle us in their coils, and then sting 
us to the death. Why this idle page- 
antry of crowning him a king, who is a 
king already! The coming of these pal- 
lid strangers bodes no good. Matacoran 
despises their friendship and disdains 
their gifts; and swears^ by the heroic 
fame of his fathers, eternal enmity to the 
invader, and devoted fidelity to his king 
and country. {Exit Matacoran.) 



Scene 2. Interior of Barclay's hut. 
{Enter Mantea and Rolfe.) 

Mantea. Be seated, good sir; rest thee 
awhile, and such hospitality as this poor 
hut can afford, shall ever be at the serv- 
ice of Barclay's countrymen. 

Rolfe. Thank thee, good dame. I left 
thy husband but a little while ago. I 
came to expedite the landing of the 
stores and presents. — Who have we here? 

{Enter Pocahontas and Omaya.) 

Pocahontas. Mother, I have hasten'd to 
tell thee how we receiv'd the noble 
strangers. {Sees Rolfe.) Ha! the 
handsome Cavalier! 

Rolfe. Lady, you have made the English 
for ever your debtors, by the kind and 
flattering manner in which you receiv'd 
them. Of a truth, we were all most 
happy and content while at Weoroco- 
moco. 

Pocahontas. Our means were small com- 
par'd to the quality of our guests; yet, 
such as they were, most freely offer'd, 
and we hope most pleasingly receiv'd. 

Rolfe. May we not hope, lady, that thou 



wilt not always bury thy rare qualities 
in these wilds; thou should'st to England, 
where many will approve thy visit, and 
thou find much to admire. 

Omaya. Oh do, dear lady; we shall be so 
delighted. Namoutac has told us of the 
royal court, and of the great ladies there, 
who are of such circumference that they 
could not enter the door of our king's 
palace, and so laden with braveries that 
pages are employ'd to carry them. 

Pocahontas. I fear that a Virginian fe- 
male would be but a poor personage 
where there is so much show and 
grandeur. 

Rolfe. Pardon me, lady, thy worth and 
dignity will not be obscur'd, even by the 
state and splendour of the English court ; 
the one is the genuine adornment of na- 
ture, the other the mere effect of art. 
An' ye will go, I could hope to be your 
squire; and trust me, lady, the kindness 
which you have shewn to my countrymen 
will be remember'd to thee in England. 

Omaya. Oh do, dear lady, go ; and we will 
carry with us our best plumes, and good 
store of red paint; and when my lady is 
deck'd in her armlets and blue beads, 
she will appear as royally as the best of 
them. 

Pocahontas. Good girl, thy warm imag- 
ination foresees manj^ pleasures in the 
far country, while thy long and faithful 
attachment to me, makes it sure, that if 
I go abroad, thou shalt accompany me. 

Omaya. Thank 'ee, thank 'ee, dear lady ; 
and when we come back, I shall take care 
to show Namoutac what it is to have 
travell'd — I shall indeed. 

{Enter an Indian, with fruit.) 

Indian. Barclay bade me give this fruit 
to an English Cavalier I should find here. 
He begs you will look to its seed imme- 
diately ; it hath a rare seed, and ye '11 find 
it worthy of your notice. 

Rolfe. {Opens the fruit and discovers a 
billet.) Aha! something in the wind. 
{Aside.) Indian, I find indeed it is a 
most pleasant fruit, and of a winning 
flavour; tell Barclay the seed will be well 
car'd for. — Away. {Exit Indian.) 

Rolfe. {Reads.) "A panther lurks near 
the great oak, and will molest the gentle 
doe an' there be no lion to guard her on 
her way." — How 's this, the princess 
menac'd; treachery abroad! her safety 
be my care. Lady, it behooves thee to re- 
turn to Weorocomoco without delay, but 



GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 



197 



as a i)antlier lias been seen near the great 
oak, I will guard thee on thy way in 
safety to thy father's palace. 

Pocahontas. Nay, good Sir Cavalier, we 
will not intrude so much upon thy cour- 
tesy. We have often tarried at the great 
oak, sometimes to enjoy the shade of its 
spreading branches, sometimes to shelter 
in its ample hollow from the summer 
shower, yet have we never seen beast 
other than the pretty deer that graze in 
the forest, or the nimble squirrel, leap- 
ing from tree to tree, chattering to its 
mates. 

ROLFE. Not only duty and honour, but a 
warmer impulse, bids me be thy pro- 
tector. I long to prove my sincerity: 
let 's away — an' the panther spring, I 
will defend my charge, aye, to the very 
death. 

(Exeunt Pocahontas, O^iaya, and Rolfe.) 

Mantea. The good Spirit guard them in 
safety. Here comes my husband, he 
seems in haste, and much disordered. 

(Enter Barclay.) 

Barclay. Where is the princess and the 
Cavalier? 

Mantea. Gone, and the cavalier gone with 
her. 

Barclay. Heaven be prais'd, then all is 
well. Hear me, Mantea — I have just 
discovered a horrible conspiracy to sur- 
prise and murder my countrymen; and 
the Indians knowing the attachment of 
the princess to the English, have caus'd 
Namoutac to lie in ambush at the oak, 
to seize the amiable girl and bear her off, 
till the conspiracy is completed. Hap- 
pily my billet has been read and under- 
stoodj and the brave Cavalier will, I 
trust, defeat the plan, and protect the 
dear child from harm. Be secret on 
your life. 

Mantea. Return ye to Weorocomoco to 
give the alarm to the English? 

Barclay. I dare not leave this place; the 
Prince Matacoran has order'd me to re- 
main here in charge of the presents; al- 
tho' no one would steal them, for they 
consist of a grindstone, of which the 
Indians know not the use, and two demi- 
culverins, which twenty could not carry 
away. I have had no means of com- 
munication with my countrymen but by 
the billet — Heaven send them a safe de- 
liverance. 

Mantea. I think I have discover'd that 



the princess and cavalier are not indif- 
ferent to each other. 
Barclay. 'T is well; but let women alone, 
whether savage or civiliz'd, for linding 
out the secrets of her sex. Hear me, 
Mantea, be silent, be secret, if it is in 
the nature of a woman to keep a secret; 
your life, your husband's life, your chil- 
dren's lives depend upon your prudence 
in the matter of this conspiracy. Come, 
take up the nets, and let 's to our fish- 
ing; we must appear as if nothing had 
happen'd a little while — and then — 

(Exeunt Mantea and Barclay.) 



Scene 3. A wood, within which is a tem- 
ple of matting and poles — an image of 
the Okee, or God — a Priest prostrate 
before it. 

Powhatan. Now, priest — what says Okee ; 
is he propitious? 

Priest. Great king, the god will indulge 
thy prayer, but demands a heavy sacri- 
fice. 

Powhatan. Well, fifteen youths, I sup- 
pose, will content the Okee. 

Priest. Fifteen^ my king! Okee de- 
mands an hundred. 

Powhatan. Enormous! Why at' that 
rate, I shall soon have none to offer; my 
kingdom will be depopulated. Go, try 
if he will not be content with fifty. 

Priest. I dare not provoke the god; he 
will not be question'd a second time. 

Powhatan. An hundred! I never gave 
more than fifty in all my wars. 

Priest. Thy wars were with Monecans — 
the English are not Monecans. 

Powhatan. If I give an hundred youths 
to the sacrifice, what am I promis'd, 
priest ? 

Priest. The entire discomfiture of all thy 
enemies. 

Powhatan. But their guns — ? 

Priest. Will become harmless as blunted 
arrows — their lightnings may flash, their 
thunders roll, but they will be no more 
than the rumbling and glare from the 
summer cloud, where no bolt descends to 
shiver the pine. 

Powhatan. Ensure me the head of Cap- 
tain Smith, and the hundred is granted. 
Go, select the youths, array them in their 
white vestmentSj our affairs admit of no 
delay. 



198 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 



Priest. All thy enemies shall be in thy 
power — so the god has promis'd. 

{Exit Priest.) 

Powhatan. But a little while, and these 
proud invaders will share the fate of 
their countrymen. They have brought 
me a crown, 't were better to have been 
an hoe or a hatchet. They ask the lands 
from the mountains to the sea; but will 
they be content with part, when their ob- 
ject is to take the whole? This Smith 
is a warrior; his air and manner is that 
of command — and then their dreadful 
fire arms. My daughter, too, favours 
these English; but I have sent Namou- 
tac with a party, to seize and bear her 
to a distance, till my scheme has taken 
effect. I '11 to the prince and hold deep 
counsel; and, ere another moon, I trust 
that my land will be rid of these for- 
midable invaders. {Exit Powhatan.) 

Scene 4. A wood. The great Oak in the 
centre — a hollow in its side. 

{Enter Rolfe.) 

ROLFE. I have preceded my charge that I 
may reconnoitre the enemy, and see if 
the coast be clear. This is the spot al- 
luded to in Barclay's billet. What a 
giant of the forest is here! Centuries 
have witness'd its growth, centuries have 
witness'd its prime, and centuries will 
elapse ere its final decay, — within its 
vast hollow, a cavalier, arm'd cap-a-pie, 
with lance in rest, might caracole a steed, 
and yet touch not the sides. But hark! 
I hear footsteps approaching; I will take 
Vantage of the cover this mighty tree 
affords, and form my ambuscade. 

{Enters the tree.) 
(Namoutac and Indians come through 
the wood.) 

Namoutac. Hide ye in the adjoining 
thickets, and when ye shall hear my 
whoop, rush forth, seize the princess and 
Omaya, and bear them to the canoes, 
which shall convey them to Pawmunkee. 
— Down, down, they are coming. 

{Indians hide.) 

{Enter Pocahontas a^id Omaya.) 

Pocahontas. Here is the great oak. 

Omaya. And nothing seems to disturb the 
stillness of the scene, save the birds, 
which sing in joyous melody, and the 
playful squirrel, which pursues his gam- 
bols amid the limbs of this aged father 
of the forest, All is peace, and sure no 



cruel animal lurks hereabout to destroy 
two such harmless beings as we are. 
{Whoop heard. Namoutac and In- 
dians rush forth to seize Poca- 
hontas and Omaya — at the same 
moment Rolfe comes from the tree, 
fires a pistol, Indians run off scream- 
ing.) 

Namoutac. Aha I Sir Cavalier, is it thou "l 
why you have really spoil'd a pleasant 
frolic. 

Rolfe. Villain! confess thy treachery, or 
you die. {Presents a instol.) 

Namoutac. A love affair, Master Rolfe, 
nothing more. I wish'd to surprise the 
damsels, and bear off' Omaya, after the 
manner of love affairs, of which I have 
heard report in thy country; nothing 
more. Master Rolfe — nothing more. 

Rolfe. Rascal, in my country where love 
affairs are conducted by treachery and 
outrage to the female parties, they end in 
the death of the traitors. Now you have 
play'd your part in this love affair, I 
shall play mine by shooting you thro' 
the head. {Presenting pistol.) 

Omaya. Oh, good Sir Cavalier, do spare 
poor Namoutac; his travels have turn'd 
his brain — he would not have behav'd so 
when he was only an Indian. 

Rolfe. Begone, fellow! and when you 
next propose to alarm an innocent fe- 
male, beware lest you find an English 
cavalier for her protector. {Exit Na- 
moutac.) Thy guileless heart, my prin- 
cess, knows not yet of the ways of 
treachery and deceit. This alarming af- 
fair happily ended, let us proceed. 

Pocahontas. Whatever may have been 
the intention of those who surpris'd us, 
thy gallant deliverance claims our grati- 
tude and regard. 

Rolfe. A regard, dear lady, which I hope 
will be mutually increased on our fur- 
ther acquaintance. Yet speak not so fa- 
vourably of a service which every cava- 
lier is bound to render to thy sex. Come, 
let 's on with our journey; and the gentle 
fawn of Virginia need fear no panther 
when the lion of England doth guard 
her on her way. {Exeunt.) 



Scene 5. Wood. Distant view of Weoro- 
comoco. 

{Enter Matacoran and Selictaz.) 

Matacoran. Go, Selictaz, to all the tribes 
fiiendly to Powhatan, bid them muster 



GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 



199 



their warriors and repair to Weoroco- 
moco; promise them much bounty at the 
hands of the king, and great rewards in 
the spoils of the English. 

Selictaz. 1 go, my prince, but opine they 
will come in but tardily, the tribes do so 
much fear the arms of the English. 

Matacoran. Bid them not fear those noisy 
weapons; the thunder rolls not always, 
and in its pauses our arrows will enter 
our enemies' bosoms, and our spears 
strike home. Tempt their avarice, Selic- 
taz, by saying much of the riches of the 
strangers; say the king will relieve his 
people from the burthens lately impos'd 
— say every thing to induce the distant 
tribes to give their aid in driving these 
accurs'd English into the sea. 

Selictaz. You shall be obey'd ; and I hope 
to return with many of these fierce and 
hardy warriors. 

Matacoran. Yet stay, thou can'st not well 
be spar'd; we shall have need of thee in 
a daring enterprize that will be this night 
attempted. Go, send Yaamayden; teach 
him as I have taught thee; and say fur- 
ther, that Matacoran will lead in the war, 
and uphold the fame and manhood of the 
Indian. — Go. {Exit Selictaz.) 

{Enter Indian.) 

Indian. The king awaits thee near the 
ancient tomb. 

Matacoran. I come. (£Ja^it Indian.) All 
now is prepar'd, an' if Powhatan do not 
shrink from the trial our success is cer- 
tain ; and from the fate of Smith and his 
comrades these pallid adventurers will 
learn in future better to respect the cour- 
age and ability of the Indian, than with 
a few score of followers to expect to 
overcome and conquer a country inhab- 
ited by thousands of warlike men. The 
accepted moment is at hand, and ere an- 
other sun shall rise to cheer with its 
beams the too confident English^ the 
spear of Matacoran will have drank 
deeply of their blood, or Matacoran be 
gather'd to his fathers, to enjoy the hap- 
piness reserv'd for the brave. 

{Exit Matacoran.) 

Scene 6. a wood — on one side of the 
stage the ruins of a tomb, in large letters 
thereon, "Madoc, 1170.'' 

{Enter Pocahontas.) 

Pocahontas. 'T is superstitious awe gives 
privacy to this tomb, erected by the first 



conquerors of this country, and sup- 
pos'd to contain the ashes of Madoc, their 
chief. What could have caus'd Namou- 
tac to lie in wait with arm'd men to sur- 
prise us in the wood, when but for the 
brave Cavalier, what might not have been 
our fate? All is not well. — Ah! here 
comes the king and with him Matacoran ; 
they are in deep conference, and seek 
this secluded spot to hold their councils. 
Could I but learn the subject of their de- 
bate, it might throw much light upon late 
events. Time was, I should have fear'd 
to enter this sepulchre, but since the light 
of true faith dispell'd the first darkness 
of my mind, this solemn place with all its 
wild tales has no terrors for me. The 
prince being engag'd in this conference 
bodes no good to my English. I will re- 
tire into the tomb, and may learn that 
which will enable me to protect him who 
so late protected me. 

(Pocahontas goes into the tomb.) 

{Enter Powhatan and Matacoran.) 

Powhatan. To-night say'st thou? and the 
plan so well arrang'd that the English 
cannot escape? I have order'd the sac- 
rifice of an hundred youths to the god; 
Okee would not for less ensure me the 
destruction of my enemies, the possession 
of their riches, and the heads of their 
chiefs. 

Matacoran. 'Tis well to sacrifice to the 
gods; but, believe me, king, the gods of 
the English are as much superior to our 
gods, as their guns are superior to our 
bows and arrows. But if we cannot suc- 
ceed by open force, we must resort to 
stratagem. Hear my plan. The feasts 
of the coronation being over, the Eng- 
lish will return to the vicinity of their 
ships. I have selected for their guide 
Selictaz, who will conduct them to the 
old ruinous hunting lodge on the banks 
of the river; there supplied with good 
victuals, they Avill feast and carouse, for 
not like we do the English prepare for 
war, by fasting and hardihood; they are 
a people who have much regard for the 
belly and after eating they will sleep; 
then, my king, we w^ill approach and pin 
them to the soil they so greedily covet. 

Powhatan. A good plan; but keep they 
no watch to alarm the sleepers of dan- 
ger? 

Matacoran. Barclay has told me, that 
English warriors guard their camp by a 
cbarm'd word, which, if spoken by a foe. 



200 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 



makes that foe a friend. Now Selictaz 
is directed to obtain that charm'd word, 
which is always given out when the guard 
is set. That obtained, we proceed secure 
to the work of death. 

Powhatan. Brave and wise Matacoran, 
success to thee; and the English once de- 
stroy'd, name thy reward; a still greater 
Werowance shalt thou be, and rule over 
the countries conquer'd from the Mone- 
cans.^ Bring me the head of Captain 
Smith, and thou shalt be second only to 
the king. 

Matacoran. Since first I enter'd the ranks 
of men, I have been in the service of my 
country; how faithfully, how daringly I 
have serv'd her, the renown of thy arms, 

king ! will best declare. Yet of all the 
spoils of war, what hath been the share 
of Matacoran? None — for Matacoran 
fought not for wealth, but for glory and 
Pocahontas. Now he must fight for 
glory and his country. 

Powhatan. Nay, my prince, be of good 
heart, the girl is young and knows not 
thy worth. Drive out the English from 
my shores, and the choicest of my gifts 
and my beloved daughter, shall be thy 
reward. — I sw^ear it. 

Matacoran. No — as an unwilling bride I 
would not receive even Pocahontas to my 
arms. She has seen the strangers, and 
no longer looks upon an Indian warrior 
with favour or regard. 'T is no matter 
— Matacoran must have done with love. 
Glory and his country must return and 
possess his soul. Talk not of reward, 
king; thou hast often seen me return 
from the combat cover' d with mine own 
and my enemy's blood — say, did Mata- 
coran ever ask reward? Tho' he hath 
added country to thy kingdom, and led 
many captives to thy feet, one boon alone 
he crav'd, and 'twas her whose image 
nerv'd his arm in battle, and sooth'd the 
agonies of his many wounds — her who in- 
spir'd the generous passion which 
bloom'd in his boyhood, and ripen'd in 
the man. 

Pow^HATAN. Your loug and constant at- 
tachment deserves the possession of its 
object. Pocahontas shall be thine. — 

• Again I swear it. 

Matacoran. While I now bid adieu to a 
hopeless passion, the remembrance of 
once happy days clings in fondest twin- 
ings around my hearty and soothes me, as 

1 Monacan, a nation to the west of Powhatan. 



the mild radiance of twilight continues 
to shed its comforts on nature after the 
departure of the brighter sun. In my 
gay morning of life I sought renown in 
all the manly games, that my brow might 
receive the wreath from the hand of Po- 
cahontas. How oft have I launched my 
light canoe, when the angry waves had 
driven our boldest fishers to the land, and 
drenched with the spray, have gain'd the 
distant shore to procure rare shells for 
the armlets of her I lov'd. How oft 
have I plung'd into the depths of the for- 
ests, and pierc'd with my arrows the bird 
of many dyes, that with its beauteous 
feathers I might plume the coronet of 
Pocahontas. Aye, I have dar'd death in 
an hundred battles, that, when returning 
victorious, Pocahontas m.ight hail me 
with honour to the brave. 

Powhatan. My good and gallant prince, 
I swear my daughter shall — 

Matacoran. Enough, enough — 't is the ex- 
piring struggle of love. Now Matacoran 
breathes alone of war, and pants for the 
combat. The bowmen await their chief. 
Adieu, my king — Matacoran will deliver 
his country from her invaders, or soon 
exist only in his fame. 

(Exit Matacoran.) 

Powhatan. How brave and noble is this 
prince! and then that silly girl of mine 
to reject his love, and place her affec- 
tions upon these pale-fac'd strangers. 
But Namoutac has by this time remov'd 
her afar, till the English are destroy'd, 
and Matacoran returns victorious to 
claim her as his bride. This night, this 
eventful night, Powhatan, old king, thou 
hast need of all thy craft and energ}'-, or 
soon thy white head will no longer wfiar 
the crown so lately plac'd upon it. The 
sun which rises to-morrow will either be- 
hold thee a victorious king, or a humbled 
prisoner. {Exit Powhatan.) 

(Pocahontas comes from the tomb.) 

Pocahontas. What have I heard! treach- 
ery and massacre against those whom 
they so lately receiv'd with every shew of 
hospitality and kindness. And Mataco- 
ran — he the brave and noble — and the 
reward of his achievement to be the hand 
of Pocahontas. No, chieftain, no. 
•When Pocahontas rewards courage it 
must be unmix'd with treachery. Na- 
moutac's conduct is explain'd. What is 
to be done? Can I fly to the English 
whom Selictaz leads on to sacrifice? The 



GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 



201 



bands of Matacoran beset the path on 
every side; the river is the only hope. 
(A flash of lightning.) Ha! a storm is 
brewing, and how will these little hands, 
us'd only to guide the canoe in sportive 
race on a smooth and glassy surface, 
wage its struggling way, when raging bil- 
lows uprear their foamy crests'? Brave 
English, gallant, courteous Rolfe. 
(Thunder.) Night comes on apace — Oh, 
night of horror! (Clasps her hands and 
looks up to heaven as if in prayer.) 
Thank thee, good Spirit; I feel thy holy 
influence on my heart. English Rolfe, I 
will save thee, or Pocahontas be no more. 

(Bushes out.) 



Scene 7. A hunting lodge composed of 
mats and poles. View of the river. 

(Enter Selictaz, leading the English. 
Indians following with baskets on their 
heads.) 

Selictaz. Rest ye here, my noble captain, 
and your good companions. The king, 
most careful of thy persons, commends 
thee to this rude lodge as a shelter against 
the falling dews, and the storm that 
seems fast gathering; and of his gracious 
bounty has sent ye good store of victual. 

Smith. The king is most royal in his 
bounty, and most ample in his stores. 

Seltctaz. The king desires that ye will 
not spare the victual, but feast and be 
merry. (Aside.) 'Twill be thy last 
feast. 

Smith. On your return, present our hum- 
ble duty to his highness; and had we a 
flask of good Rhenish here, in troth we 
would drink a deep carouse to his higli- 
ness's health, and that of his daughter, 
our esteem'd good friend. 

Selictaz. Had ye not better lay aside 
your armour? Sure it will hinder your 
rest. 

Smith. The English soldier is so us'd to 
his iron panoply that it seems as light to 
him as thy thin harness is to thee. Lieu- 
tenant, prepare for the night. 

Percy. The watch-word, an' so please ye, 
and we '11 set the guard. 

(Selictaz gives attention.) 

Smith. What ye like; suppose thine own 
fair mistress. 

Rolfe. What say ye to the Princess Poca- 
hontas, our well approv'd friend? 



Smith. The princess then, with all my 
heart. 

West. Aha! Master Rolfe, remember the 
wood — thou hast an arrow in thy heart — 
deep, deep, I say. 

Percy. This charm'd word wall protect us 
in our rest, but disturb the sleep of our 
bon camarado. 

West. Of a truth, she is the friend of the 
English. 

Smith. Be that the watch-word — Poca- 
hontas, the friend of the English. 

(Selictaz retires satisfied.) 

Percy. So please ye, any further orders? 

Smith. None. And now to rest, each in 
his soldier's cloak, his shield his pillow, 
and embracing his arms as he w^ould soft 
and yielding beauty. Gentle sirs, good 
rest to ye, and many sweet dreamings of 
your lady loves ; while wrapped up in my 
roquelaire, I will think awhile; till lull'd 
by the measur'd pacing of the guard, and 
the wild plaintive notes Virginia night 
birds sing, I too shall slumber. The 
guardian spirits which watch o'er the 
soldier's rude couch, keep ye all in their 
holy keeping. Give ye good night — good 
night. 

(Slow music — curtain falls.) 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene 1. The hunting lodge as before. 
Night. Thunder and lightning. The 
river appears agitated. English asleep. 
Soldier on guard. Pocahontas is seen in 
a canoe struggling with the waves; she 
lands, and approaches the guard; a pad- 
dle in her hand.) 

Soldier. Who comes there? Stand. 

Pocahontas. Oh, for breath (leaning on 
her paddle). I fear that I shall expire 
ere I can save them. 

Soldier. What, ho! I say, the watch- 
word, or I fire. (Presenting his piece.) 

Pocahontas. 'T is Pocahontas comes — 
Pocahontas, the friend of the English. 

Soldier. Right — Pass. 

Pocahontas. What, are they so still, and 
death so near? English, arouse ye, or ye 
die. 

Smith. (Starting up.) Who calls? Is 
it day-dawn already? Ah, my mistress, 
what can have brought thee abroad, and 
the elements so rude and angiy? Surely 
thou has held some revelry to-night, and 
supposing that we poor soldiers are but 



202 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 



illy content, have tripp'd down with thy 
light-footed damsels, and will again sur- 
prise us with a masquerade. But that 
my beard is grizzled, and my face marvel- 
lously ill-favour'd by sears of foreign 
service, I might hope this visit was made 
to me, and receive tliee as my lady love. 

Pocahontas. A more fearful fate awaits 
thee; — even now, Matacoran at the head 
of seven hundred bowmen, all chosen 
from my father's guard, comes to sur- 
prise and slay thee. Arm, arm; I pray 
thee arm, and away. 

Smith. To arms there, ho! {English 
spring up, arm, and are mustered by 
Percy.) By my faith tho', mistress, it 
would be but of ill savour to the fame of 
English cavaliers, were they to fly from 
the foe, leaving thee a distrest damsel be- 
hind. What say ye, Master Percy, could 
w^e expect favour from our dames were 
such ill fame to befall us? 

Percy. Let the enemy come, we will bide 
their brunt. The Percy fears no odds. 

ROLFE. We are but eighteen in all; but 
then our men-at-arms are all veteran sol- 
diers bred in battle, and for our captain, 
a braver heart never throbb'd against a 
corslet. 

Smith. Thank ye, my stout and worthy 
gentlemen. We will give this prince a 
right soldierly welcome — first a volley of 
hail shot, and then on him with sword 
and target. 

Pocahontas. Nay, nay, your courage will 
not avail ye, the darkness will mar the 
superiority of your arms, while from 
every side will fly the poison'd arrows. 
Can Pocahontas ask a boon, which the 
EngHsh will deny? 

Smith. After thy generous service, lady, 
thy boon is granted ere 't is ask'd. 

Pocahontas. Then fly ! ! fly, my Eng- 
lish, ere 'tis too late. Fly, I beseech 

ye. 

Smith. Thou hast prevailed. But thou 
must bear us company; within our steely 
circle we will place our protectress, and 
the harm that reaches her must first de- 
stroy us. 

Pocahontas. No, I must return; should 
the king learn that I have preserv'd thee, 
not even his belov'd daughter will escape 
his wrath. Pocahontas gone, who will 
befriend the English? 

Smith. Lady, thy nobleness wins all our 
hearts. Grant me, I pray ye, a single 
feather of thy plume. {She gives a 
feather.) This will I wear on my helm. 



— Aye, and when the chivalry of Europe 
hold tournament in honour of their 
dames, I, thine own true knight, will ap- 
pear in the lists, proclaim the Princess 
Pocahontas the most peerless of her sex, 
and shiver a lance in honour of the flower 
of Virginia. {Exeunt all the English.) 
Pocahontas. Now all is well — yet how 
the wind roars among the lofty pines, 
the heaving surge beats heavily on the 
shore, while the blazing sky serves to 
light Matacoran on his way. I must 
launch my little barque, and as it tosses 
amid the foam and fury of the waves, 
feel sure that good and guardian Spirit, 
which urg'd me to the rescue of my fel- 
low creatures, will not forsake me amid 
the dangers of the storm. {Pocahontas 
re-embarks, and is seen at first strug- 
gling with the waves. — Exit.) 

(Matacoran, Selictaz, and Indians 
enter. They rush to the spot where 
a lamp burns j and' where Smith was 
sleeping. ) 

Matacoran. Now, soldiers, strike, and 
spare not ; strike for your country — Hah, 
escap'd! {Turning to Selicitaz.) Vil- 
lain! thou hast deceiv'd me, and thou 
shalt die. Where are the English? 

Selicitaz. Dread chief, an' I play ye 
false, let my bosom receive your spear. 
I left them buried in sleep, what hath 
alarm'd them I know not. Some spirit, 
my Prince, some spirit has come to their 
aid, and marr'd thy purpose. 

Matacoran. Be it a good or evil spirit, I 
defy its power. Let 's on, the day is 
dawning — we dare do by courage what 
we have fail'd ia by surprise. On, I say. 
{As they are going off, they meet 
Indians with Hugo de Redmond 
prisoner. Indians carrying his mus- 
ket, shield, and sword.) 

Matacoran. Stop — who have we here? 

Indian. Prince, we found this old war- 
rior lost in the mazes of the forest. We 
have disarm'd and brought him here to 
abide thy pleasure. 

Matacoran. Who art thou? How cam'st 
thou away from thy companions? 

Hugo. So please ye. Sir Savage, I am 
Hugo de Redmond, an old man-at-arms 
in the service of King James. My 
limbs are stiff, I had sat me down to 
await the day dawn, when these painted 
devils sprang upon me, and master'd my 
arms; an' my match had not gone out, 



GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 



203 



they would not have found me an easy 
conquest. 
Matacoran. Where is thy leader and his 

warriors ? 
Hugo. Not far off. 

Matacoran. What are the numbers of the 
English warriors'? 

Hugo. Including the soldiers in the 
barques, about three-score. 

Matacoran. Ha! not more? 
Hugo. An' I be not greatly mistaken, 
you '11 find 'em enough. 

Matacoran. Do not deceive me; we In- 
dians have strange tortures for our pris- 
oners; we stick them full of splinters 
from the oily pine, and then light them 
into flame, and dance round, singing their 
funeral songs. 

Hugo. Sure, an' the devil's own dance it 
must be. Well, old Hugo has stood fire 
in the four quarters of the Old World, 
and it matters little if he die by fire in 
the New. I was born in a camp, cradled 
in a buckler, and these white locks and 
batter'd arms, are proofs of my long and 
faithful service. I am thy prisoner, Sir 
Savage, do with me as you list. 

Matacoran. I like thy boldness. An' I 
give ye liberty what will ye do? 

Hugo. Rejoin my banner with all speed. 

Matacoran. And then — 

Hugo. Fight the enemies of my king and 
country. 

Matacoran. I like thee, old Warrior. 
Thou shalt return to thy chief, and tell 
him that Matacoran admires his valour, 
and bids him to the combat. 

Hugo. On my life an' he '11 not baulk ye 
in your bidding. 

Matacoran. Thy sword and shield I keep 
in pledge, which thou may'st redeem in 
battle; take thy other arms, a brave sol- 
dier should never be unarm'd. Thou'rt 
free — Go. 

Hugo. Thank 'ee, Sir Savage. Here 's 
my hand, in an hour hence it will seek 
thy life in battle. Hugo hopes to re- 
deem his arms where the combat thickens. 
Farewell, noble, generous enemy, fare- 
well. {Exit Hugo.) 

Matacoran. Soldiers! the hour is come. 
Be not alarm'd at their noisy arms ; grap- 
ple with the foe, and his thunder will 
cease. We exceed them in numbers, of 
twenty to one — shame if they overcome 
us. They liave great store of riches, win 
but the battle, and take all my share; this 
trusty blade will be all my spoil. On, 
comrades, on — the spirits of thy fathers. 



thy king, country, all, will behold thy 
battle. On to victory! 'T is Matacoran 
leads the way. {Exeunt cheering.) 



Scene 2. Woody country. View of 
James River. Reports of musketry. In- 
dians fly in terror across the stage. 

{Enter Matacoran and Selictaz.) 

Matacoran. Fly, Selictaz, to the rear, and 
bid the guards receive these cowards on 
their spear points, and turn them back 
upon the English. {Exit Selictaz.) 
Now to my chosen guard, and form them 
on the river bank. The rout continues! 
Stop, cowards ! Ah, those dreadful arms. 
Stop — 't is your general calls you. 

{Exit Matacoran.) 

{Enter Smith, Percy, Rolfe, West, and 
Soldiers.) 

Smith. Well done for the onset; spare 
your shot, and press them, brave com- 
rades, w^ith sword and target. Be my 
banner, like the eagle of Virginia, soar- 
ing above our battle, nor let it rest from 
its majestic flight, till it perches in tri- 
umph on the palace of Powhatan. On, 
I say ! let my war cry be Victory and Vir- 
ginia! {Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. A Wood. Alarms. Reports of 
musketry. 

{Enter Smith, pressed hy many Indians. 
Smith tvith an Indian tied to his left 
arm, uses him as a buckler; he throws 
the Indian from him dead. Smith is 
forced over the hank, and appears as 
fighting in the water. The Indians over- 
power, and hear him off in their arms.) 

{Enter Matacoran.) 

Matacoran. There, now, stand flrm: and 
if their armour should resist your arrows 
it will not repel a spear when thrust by 
the vigour of a brave man's arm. See, 
your prince advances first to meet the 
foe. Indians, place your trust in the 
spear, in courage, and Matacoran. {Dis- 
charge of musketry heard, two Indians 
fall dead, the rest fly in disorder, uttering 
loud cries.) All is lost. Oh! cowards, 
your general's curse, the curse of your 
king and country attend your flight. 



204 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 



What remains now to face the foe, 
nought but despair end Matacoran. 

{English enter and attack Matacoran, 
who defends himself bravely — he is 
beaten down on one knee. Hugo 
enters and covers him with his buck- 
ler.) 

Hugo. Spare, comrades, spare the prince; 
't is your father Hugo commands ye. 
{English desist. Matacoran rises.) 
Brave, generous chief, the fortune of war 
is against thee, but thy courage demands 
esteem from thy enemies. 

Matacoran. I have fought to the last, 
courted death, and hop'd to fall with my 
falling country. 

Hugo. Prince, I now claim my old arms, 
and am happy that the act of their re- 
demption has been in saving the life of 
a gallant enemy. 

Matacoran. {Giving up sword and buck- 
ler.) There! in my hands they have 
been unfortunate, but not dishonour'd. 

Hugo. When I was thy prisoner, thou 
said'st that a brave man should never be 
without arms, restor'd to me a part of 
mine; I admir'd tliy courtesy then, and 
now offer thee in return a sword just 
Hesh'd in this its maiden battle. Look, 
Prince, when old Hugo's wars are ended, 
and his last peace made, it will remind 
thee that honour and generosity could 
dwell in the bosom of so humble a being 
as a poor English man-at-arms. 

Matacoran. Good old warrior, I accept 
thy gift, tho' it comes too late ; for Mata- 
coran has fought the last of his country's 
battles. Thy countrymen I can never 
love; but honour bids me say, they have 
about them much to admire. Lead on, 
lead your prisoner to your chief. 

{Exeunt all.) 



Scene 4. Interior of Barclay's hut. 
{Enter Barclay — meeting Mantea.) 

Mantea. Hath the thunder ceas'd — how 
fares the English"? 

Barclay. It still echoes among the pines. 
Three wounded English are just brought 
down to be embark'd — they report that 
our leader, the vaUant Smith, is taken 
and carried to Weoroeomoco. It seems 
impossil)le to believe it. 

Mantea. Oh ! sad, sad day for us all. 

Barclay. Do not so soon despond — tho' 



a leader be slain, English soldiers are 
not long without another. The brave 
Percy may by this time have restor'd the 
day. The daring valour of Smith led 
him too far in pursuit of the flying en- 
emy, when slipi)ing from a bank into the 
river, he was overpower'd by numbers, 
and the hero, before whom hundreds had 
fled, was taken and carried captive to . 
Powhatan. {Knocking at the door.) 
Be still, on your life. Who's there? 
( Without. ) Mowbray ! 

{Barclay opens the door.) 

{Enter Mowbray.) 

Barclay. My dear friend and country- 
man, what news, what news? 

Mowbray. Good. — Victory to the English, 
thanks to the gallant Percy. 

Barclay. And our leader — but I can see 
by thy looks — taken, Smith taken? 

Mowbray. 'T is even so. His chivalric 
courage bore him head-long on the foe, 
when tired with slajdng them, accident 
threw him into the water, where the 
weight of his armour, and the numbers 
who press'd upon him, render'd resist- 
ance vain, and he was borne off on the 
shoulders of the Indians. 

Barclay. I trust the captain made his 
peace with God before the battle, for 
Powhatan allows his prisoners no time 
for prayer; and ere this the gallant soul 
of Smith is join'd to the souls of those 
made perfect in another and a better 
world. 

Mowbray. Let 's still indulge a hope. 
Percy, Rolfe, and West, learning the fate 
of their leader, furiously charg'd the In- 
dians sword in hand, routed, and pursued 
them towards the savage capital. Amid 
the rout <e> and carnage, one Indian, 
Prince Matacoran, was unappall'd; he 
fought like a lion, disdaining to fly, till 
old Hugo de Redmond, the father of our 
men, rush'd to the rescue, cover'd the 
chief with his buckler, bidding the sol- 
diers spare so gallant an enemy. By 
this act of generosity calling forth shouts 
of admiration from our ranks. 

Barclay. And the Prince — the brave, the 
stern Matacoran? ■ 

Mowbray. Despoil'd of his arms, he is I 
led in chains, an hostage for the safety 
of the valiant Smith : ere this our troops 
have reach'd the savage capital, the sol- \ 
diers rending the air with cries for their 
ador'd commander, 

Barclay. Come, Mantea, let 's on to We- 



GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 



205 



orocomoco. An' our leader lives, Vir- 
ginia is ours. 
Mowbray. Aye, Virginia will be ours — 
Victory and Virginia! {Exeunt.) 



Scene 5. The palace of Powhatan. 
Guards, etc. 

{Enter Powhatan, meeting Pocahontas 
and Omaya.) 

Powhatan. A strange tale this I hear of 
Namoutac and the Cavalier in the great 
tree. Namoutac is a fool, and deserv'd 
to be shot for his idle frolic. But, girl, 
something of greater moment claims at- 
tention. How comes it that ye continue 
to refuse the Prince as thy husband, the 
pride of my kingdom, the favourite of 
its king? 

Pocahontas. I love not Matacoran, my 
affections are plac'd on another. 

Powhatan. Hear me, girl! the Prince is 
now engaged in combat with the English, 
whom he expects to destroy or drive 
from Virginia. An' he perform either 
of which good services thou shalt be his 
reward — aye, the bride of Matacoran. 

Pocahontas. An' the Prince conquer the 
English, he will find better reward in 
their spoils, than in me, an unloving 
wife. 

Powhatan. He asks not reward, nay, re- 
fuses even thy ungrateful self; but I 
have sworn, yea, solemnly sworn, thou 
shalt be his, so prepare yourself to obey 
my will. 

{Enter Selictaz, in great haste.) 

Powhatan. Ha! what news, Selictaz? 
what of the Prince ? how goes the battle ? 
speak, if thou canst gather as much 
breath. An' thy news be great as thy 
haste, 't will be worth relating. 

Selictaz. Great King ! Smith ! the leader 
Smith. — {Panting.) 

Powhatan. Well — Smith is not near We- 
orocomoco, I hope! 

Selictaz. Aye, great King, very near. 

Powhatan. {Alarmed.) Guards there! 
say quickly thy say — 

Selictaz. Smith is a prisoner, and will 
be here anon. 

Powhatan. Ha! prisoner! Smith a pris- 
oner! and alive! Smith a prisoner! 

Selictaz. 'T is even so — Smith is thy 
prisoner, and alive. 



Powhatan. Far beyond my hopes, thanks 
to the gods, and the brave Matacoran. 
Aha! girl, what say'st thou now to thy 
darling English, thy valiant Smith? 
Aha! wilt thou not now be the bride of 
Matacoran, the victorious Matacoran? 

Pocahontas. Never! the' he were victor 
of the world. 

Powhatan. Oh! joy, joy; say, Selictaz, 
how long before the remaining English 
are brought captives to my feet. 

Selictaz. That, King, is a very doubtful 
matter; for tho' the leader is taken, the 
battle doth not abate. In truth, my 
King, there seemeth to be many Smiths 
in the field; they fight as tho' they were 
all Smiths. 

Powhatan. How fares the Prince? 

Selictaz. I left him at his wonted place, 
the thickest of the battle. {A yell.) 
But hark, I hear the Indians who bear 
the captive Smith on their shoulders to 
make the greater haste to thy presence. 
Shall I usher them in? 

Powhatan. Wait yet a moment, while I 
ascend my throne, and put on the crown 
and mantle, that I may receive the pris- 
oner in the royalt}^ of his own making. 
Come, girl, take thy place at my side — 
take thy place, I say. 

Pocahontas. Excuse me, father, I 'm not 
us'd to such sights. I am not well. 

Powhatan. Thou wilt be well when the 

English are destroy'd. Take thy place. 

(Pocahontas and Omaya take their 

places on the throne. Powhatan 

ascends and seats himself on the 

throne.) 

Powhatan. Now bring the captive to my 
feet. Take with thee my guard, Selictaz, 
lest he may escape. 

(Selictaz and guard go out and re- 
turn with Smith, his clothes stained 
and in disorder, his plumes broken. 
Indians hearing his arms.) 

Powhatan. Thou 'rt welcome. Captain 
Smith, tho' thou now com'st with not 
quite so gallant a train as when thou 
last did deign to visit my poor house. 

Smith. My train will be here anon. 

Powhatan. Aye, as captives like thyself. 

Smith. No! but as conquerors, to plant 
my banner in victory on the throne where 
thou now sittest. 

Powhatan. How ! and their leader taken ? 

Smith. That 's no matter, the Percy does 
battle in my stead; and were he to fall, 
I would say, as old King Hal said of the 
Percy who fell at Chevy Chase, good he 



20G 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 



was, but thank God I 've many as good 
as he. 

Powhatan. Captain Smith, the king ad- 
mires thy boldness. Wliat would'st thou 
give for thy ransom? No doubt all the 
rich lading of thy barques; but then, 
Captain Smith, I would not set thee at 
liberty; for my people would fear thee, 
tho' thou wert in chains. 

Smith. Not a rusty nail would I give for 
ransom. I tell thee again, old fool, 't is 
not thee but we are the conquerors in 
this fray — that my banner, borne on the 
wings of victory, will soon be planted on 
thy throne — my war cry be heard in thy 
palace, and the royal James be sovereign 
of Virginia. 

Pow^HATAN. Bold man, thou speak'st as 
tho' thou wert king, and I a captive. 

Smith. Accident overcame me; give me 
again but my sword and buckler, and see 
with what ease I '11 cut my way thro' thy 
guards — aye, and with their king to com- 
mand them. 

Powhatan. 'T is too much — thou shalt 
die, and that forthwith. 

Smith. 'T is well. 

Powhatan. Yet the king is merciful — is 
there aught thou would wish to say ere 
the blow fall? {A noise of musketry at 
a distance. ) Hah ! thy moments are few. 
Executioners, bring forth the stone of 
sacrifice; and hark'ee, see that ye pro- 
vide your heaviest clubs ; and their heads 
be as hard as their hearts, ye will need 
your heaviest weapons. 

{Executioners bring in the stone, and 
poise their clubs, as if prepared for 
sacrifice. ) 

Pocahontas. Oh! father! shew mercy to 
the brave unfortunate. 

Omaya. Spare, oh! King, the noble pris- 
oner! 

Powhatan. Silence both. 

Pocahontas. Delay, father, only till 
thou canst hear more of the battle — 
spare, spare the gallant Smith, thy 
daughter, thy favourite 'tis who im- 
plores thee. 

Powhatan. Hah! thy tone is chang'd. 
The prisoner shall die, and that anon. 

Pocahontas. Only till one other messen- 
ger arrives. Mercy, mercy. 

Powhatan. Guards! take these silly girls 
away. 

{Guards remove Pocahontas and 
Omaya to the rear of the throne — 
guarding them there.) 

Powhatan. Captain Smith, if you have 



aught to say, be brief, for thine hour is 
come. 

Smith. Thanks for thy savage courtesy. 
Hear me. When the blow is struck, and 
Smith ceases to live, but in his fame, do 
with my senseless corse as thou listeth; 
thou wilt find upon it many scars of 
honourable service. It matters not, 
whether it shall gorge the maws of thy 
cannibals, or be urn'd in marble, to await 
the slower progress of the worm. My 
heart preserve; give it my lieutenant, to 
be by him embalm'd and convey'd to 
England. That England, for whose 
glory it did so truly beat in life, will 
give it place amid the cemeteries of her 
illustrious dead. 

Powhatan. It shall be done, the king is 
merciful. 

Smith. Plant my banner on my grave, 
the three Turks' heads, the cognizance of 
my achievement on the plains of Tran- 
sylvania, that when the chivalry of Eu- 
rope shall hereafter pass that w^ay, they 
may low^er pennon and lance in memory 
of Smith. 

Powhatan. The king admires thy warlike 
fame; that too shall be done. 

Smith. Give my gold chain to thy admi- 
rable daughter; it was given me by 
Charitza, the most peerless lady of the 
Old World, and I now bestow it on Poca- 
hontas, the most peerless of the New. I 
have done, proceed in thy bloody work. 
{Noise of musketry nearer than before.) 
Ah, 'tis the glorious sounds of war, 
which for the last time I hear. Brave 
Percy, good lieutenant, spare thy shot, 
and on them with sword and target. See 
my pennon, how gaily it flies above the 1 
smoke — look on it, my veterans, and it f 
will remind you of your lost commander. 
Hah! they fly! now, Percy, press them 
home. Give them not time to rally — 
well done. Now, comrades, shout my 
war cry in their despairing ears — Vic- 
tory and Virginia! aye, victory and Vir- 
ginia. 

(Smith, exhausted, sinks into the arms 
of the Indians, who bind him, and * 
lay his head on the stone of sacri- 
fice.) 

Selictaz. {Hastily, and in affright.) 
From the height, king, I beheld our 
army flying before the English like unto 
a herd of frighten'd deer, while the 
smoke from the enemy's guns can plainly 
be perceiv'd as it curls amongst the tops 
of the loftiest pines. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 



207 



Powhatan. Take with thee my chosen 
guard, and fly to the succour of the 
Prince — quick, away. 

{Exeunt Selictaz and guards.) 
Powhatan. Executioners, I shall wave 
my fan of feathers thrice, and then 
cry strike. When you hear that w^ord, 
let fall your weapons and with 
all thy force. Now attend — once, 
• twice — 

{Waves the fan of feathers, Poca- 
hontas breaks from her guard, and 
rushes to the feet of the king.) 
Pocahontas. King — father, if ever thy 
poor child found favour in thy sight, 
spare, spare the noble prisoner ; 't is 
Pocahontas, thy darling, who entreats 
thee — her, whom from infancy thou hast 
cherished in thy bosom. Spare, spare; 
here will I embrace thy feet, till thou 
shalt forget the king, and once again be 
the father. 
Powhatan. Away, girl — away. 

{Noise of musketry still nearer.) 
Pocahontas. Hark! hear you not those 
dreadful arms; think that ere long thou 
may have to ask that mercy thou now 
deny'st — Spare. 
Powhatan. Hah, impossible — attend there, 
thrice. {Waves the fan.) The word 
alone remains — attend. 

{Executioners raise their clubs.) 
Pocahontas. {Rising with dignity.) At- 
tend, but first to me. Cruel king, the 
ties of blood which bound me to thee 
are dissever'd, as have been long those of 
thy sanguinary religion; for know that 
I have abjur'd thy senseless gods, and 
now worship the Supreme Being, the 
true Manitou, and the Father of the Uni- 
verse; 'tis his Almighty hand that sus- 
tains me, 'tis his divine spirit that 
breathes in my soul, and prompts Poca- 
hontas to a deed which future ages will 
admire. 

{She rushes down from the throne, 
throws herself on the body of 
Smith, raises her arms, and calls to 
the executioners to *^ Strike''; they 
drop their weapons. Powhatan 
descends, raises up and embraces his 
daughter.) 
Powhatan. I am subdued, unbind the 
prisoner. My child, my child. 

(Smith is unbound, and kneels to the 
Princess. Reports of musketry 
close at hand. Percy, Rolfe, West, 
and soldiers enter, sword in hand, 
driving Indians before them, Percy 



mounts the throne and plants the 
banner there.) 

Percy. Victory — victory and Virginia. 
God save King James, Sovereign of Vir- 
ginia. 

{Drums and trumpets. Soldiers shout. 
Percy, West, and Rolfe embrace 
Smith. Matacoran is brought in, 
in chains, guarded.) 

Percy. Thanks to God, we have arriv'd in 
time to the rescue of our noble com- 
mander. 

Smith. Nay, dear and valued friends^ 
you must be content with victory. My 
rescue is due to her before whom I kneel 
in admiration and gratitude. {Kneels.) 

Percy. Thanks, noble mistress^ thanks for 
the life of our belov'd Captain. An' we 
had not knowledge of thy excelling worth 
before this, thou would'st now amaze us 
with thy virtues. {Kneels.) 

West. Honour thanks thee, England will 
thank thee, while Virginians to remotest 
ages will venerate thy fame, and genius 
hand thee over to immortality. {Kneels.) 

Rolfe. And love thanks thee. {Kneels.) 

Hugo. An old soldier's thanks for pre- 
serving the life of a rever'd comander. 

{Kneels.) 

Mowbray. In behalf of all the veterans, 
who have grown grey under the com- 
mand of Smith, thanks, noble lady, 
thanks. — Long live the flower of Vir- 
ginia. {Shouts.) 

Smith. And now let me place my gold 
chain, the symbol of the preux chevalier, 
and which I bequeath'd to this lady at 
my death, around the neck of her who 
hath preserv'd my life. 

Percy. And bind two in thy golden 
shackle, the good and gallant Master 
Rolfe, and thou wilt unite the hands of 
those whose hearts have long since been 
united. 

Smith. Aha! Master Rolfe, do ye plead 
guilty to the charge? 

Rolfe. Aye, and glory in the guilt. 

Smith. What sayeth the lady? 

Pocahontas. She will most cheerfully 
submit to wear the chain which binds 
her to the honour'd master of her fate, 
even tho' the chain were of iron instead 
of gold. 

Smith. May every happiness attend this 
union of virtue and honour. 

All. Amen, amen. 

Percy. So please ye, the prisoner. 

{Enter Matacoran, guarded.) 



20^ 



POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 



Smith. Aye, true, unbind him; the brave 
honour the brave alike in misfortune and 
prosperity. 

Hugo. So please ye to favour your vet- 
eran Hugo, let this grateful task be mine. 
When I was a prisoner, this chief re- 
leas'd me, and gave me a chance to re- 
deem mine arms, and now old Hugo 
performs the most pleasing duty of all 
his long and arduous services — to relieve 
a fallen enemy. 

{Takes off Matacoran's chains.) 

Smith. Chief, our wars are ended; thy 
noble bearing claims all our esteem. 
Thou hast fought for thy country — we 
for ours. Let 's in future be friends, 
and join in friendship those hands, 
which lately wielded the weapons of en- 
mity. Mataeoran shall be of power and 
influence in the country which he hath so 
gallantly defended, and shall hold of the 
royal James posts of honour and trust 
in the newly acquired colony of Virginia. 

Matacoran. Hear me, chief. Know that 
Mataeoran scorns thy friendship, and 
hates all thy kind. The fortune of war 
is on thy side; thy gods are as much 
greater than the gods of the Indian, as 
thine arms are greater than his. But al- 
tho' thy gods and thine arms have pre- 
vail'd, say did not Matacoran fight 
bravely in the last of his country's bat- 
tles? and when his comrades fled, singly 
did he face the thunders of his foe. 
Now that he can no longer combat the 
invaders he will retire before them, even 
to where tradition says, there rolls a 
western wave. There, on the utmost 
verge of the land which the Manitou 
gave to his fathers, when grown old by 
time, and his strength decay'd, Mata- 
coran will erect his tumulus, crawl into 
it and die. But when in a long distant 



day, posterity shall ask where rests that 
brave, who disdaining alliance with the 
usurpers of his country, nobly dar'd to 
be wild and free, the finger of renown 
will point to the grave of Matacoran. 
(Matacoran rushes out.) 

Smith. Brave, wild, and unconquerable 
spirit, go whither thou wilt, the esteem 
of the English goes with thee. 

Powhatan. Captain Smith, after what 
hath pass'd thou might well distrust my 
friendship for the future. But experi- 
ence makes even an Indian wise. We 
cannot resist thee as enemies, therefore, 
it becomes us to be thy friends. In the 
name of Virginia, I pledge friendship to 
the English, so long as grass grows and 
water runs. 

Smith. And dost consent to the union of 
thine admirable daughter with worthy 
Master Rolfe? 

Powhatan. Aye, and let their union be a 
pledge of the future union between Eng- 
land and Virginia. 

{Enter Barclay^ Mantea and Namoutac.) 

Powhatan. And mine be the privilege of 
giving away the bride. And may the 
fruits of this union of virtue and honour 
be a long line of descendants, inheriting 
those principles, gifted with rare talents, 
and the most exalted patriotism. Now 
it only remains for us to say, that look- 
ing thro' a long vista of futurity, to the 
time when these wild regions shall be- 
come the ancient and honour'd part of 
a great and glorious American Empire, 
may we hope that when the tales of early 
days are told from the nursery, the 
library, or the stage, that kindly will be 
received the national story of Pocahon- 
tas, or the Settlement of Virginia. 



curtain falls. 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 

BY 

Robert Montgomery Bird 



The Broker of Bogota is printed for the first time, 
from the original manuscript presented to the Library 
of the University of Pennsylvania hy Mr. Robert 
Montgomery Bird. 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 

The BroJcer of Bogota represents the romantic verse tragedy, written under 
the inspiration of Edwin Forrest. It represents also the interest in the Spanish 
colonies in America, in which its anthor, Robert JMontgomery Bird, laid so many 
of the scenes of his plays and novels. Bird was born February 5, 1806, in New 
Castle, Delaware. After completing his school life at Germantown Academy, 
near Philadelphia, he entered the Medical School of the University of Pennsyl- 
vania, graduating on April 6, 1827. Although he started practice and at a later 
time (1841-3) was a member of the Faculty of the Pennsylvania IMedical College 
in Philadelphia, medicine was never the main interest in his life. While still 
attending the University he was writing iplays, and completed in 1827 two ro- 
mantic tragedies, The Coivled Lover and Caridorf, and two comedies, A City 
Looldng Glass (1828) and News of the Night, both dealing with life in Phila- 
delphia. None of these w^as acted. 

Pelopidas or The Fall of the Polemarchs, a tragedy laid in Thebes, was 
finished in 1830 and was accepted by Edwin Forrest. It was, however, not played 
by him, probably since it did not provide an opportunity for Mr. Forrest prop- 
erly to exhibit his talent. Instead The Gladiator, which was based on the revolt 
of Spartacus against the tyranny of Rome, was substituted and was played for 
the first time in New York City, September 26, 1831, at the Park Theatre, 
and for the first time in Philadelphia at the Arch Street Theatre, October 24, 
1831. The Gladiator has been produced by Edwin Forrest, John McCullough, 
Robert Downing and other actors, hundreds of times since that day. Of Dr. 
Bird's other successful plays, the first, Oralloossa, was produced for the first time 
at the Arch Street Theatre, Philadelphia, October 10, 1832, and was a tragedy 
founded on the Spanish Conquest of Peru. It was successful, running at its 
initial presentation for five nights against the strong counter-attraction of the 
Kembles at the Chestnut Street Theatre, but it never had the wide popularity of 
The Gladiator. 

The BroJi'er of Bogota was put on at the Bowery Theatre in New York, 
February 1 2, 1834, and was played by Forrest at least thirty years. Among the 
Bird manuscripts is a letter from Forrest to Dr. Bird, dated February 12, 1834, 
in which he says: "I have just left the theatre — your tragedy was performed 
and crowned with entire success. The Broker of Bogota will live when our vile 
trunks are rotten. ' ' Certainly in the character of ' ' Febro, ' ' with his middle-class 
mind, lifted into tragedy by his passionate love for his children and his betrayal 

211 



212 INTRODUCTION 



by liis oldest and best loved son, Bird drew one of the most living portraits in 
our dramatic history. The clever entanglement of ''Febro" largely by circum- 
stances and the climax of the fourth act in which '^ Juana" denounces ''Ramon," 
must have been effective on the stage. 

Bird abandoned his dramatic work at the height of success. Discouraged 
by his financial dealings with Forrest, which brought the author a total of five 
thousand dollars, while the actor made a fortune out of The Gladiator alone, and 
prevented from publishing his plays, partly by the copyright laws and partly by 
Forrest's opposition, he turned to fiction and produced several novels, Calavar 
(1834:), The Infidel (1835), both dealing with Cortez's expedition, and Nick of 
the Woods (1837), a story of Indian life in Kentucky, which was put on the stage 
by Louisa Medina and was widely popular. The Infidel w^as dramatized by 
Benjamin H. Brewster, and played in Philadelphia in 1835. Dr. Bird travelled 
extensively in this country and visited England in 1834, then after some ex- 
cursions into politics settled in Philadelphia as editor and part proprietor of the 
North American and died January 23, 1854. 

None of his plays has been published. The present editor was fortunate 
enough to find The Broker of Bogota and Oralloossa in manuscript at the Forrest 
Home at Holmesburg, Pennsylvania, but it remained for Mr. Clement Foust, of 
the English Department of the University of Pennsylvania, to discover a com- 
plete collection of the manuscripts of Dr. Bird in the possession of the latter 's 
grandson, Mr. Robert M. Bird, who has generously presented them to the Library 
of the University of Pennsylvania. Mr. Foust has in preparation a life of Dr. 
Bird, a critical edition of The Gladiator and the other important plays, and a 
selection from among the many interesting letters to and from Dr. Bird con- 
tained in his correspondence with other writers. Among the most interesting of 
these is a letter from Dr. Bird's son. Rev. Frederick M. Bird, requesting per- 
mission from Forrest, who apparently held the copyrights, to publish his father's 
plays and, in answer, Forrest's curt refusal. Each of the plays exists in several 
forms and the present text of The Broker of Bogota has been prepared by Mr. 
Foust after a comparative study of the manuscripts. Through his courtesy the 
editor is able to reproduce it here. 

The text is based primarily upon the complete manuscript copy, made by Mrs. 
Bird, the wife of the dramatist. This has been collated with the two autograph 
copies, neither of which is complete, and the resultant text represents, in Mr. 
Foust 's judgment, the reading the dramatist preferred. This text was then 
compared with the acting version, at the Forrest Home. Additions from this 
acting version are indicated by square brackets while words, lines, or scenes 
omitted in stage production are enclosed in brackets of this form < > . 

For discussions of Bird's plays, see James Rees, The Dramatic Authors of 



INTRODUCTION 213 



America, Philadelphia, 1845, and his Life of Edwiii Forrest, Philadelphia, 
[1874] ; W. R. Alger, Life of Edwin Forrest, Philadelphia, 1877; Lawrence Bar- 
rett, Edwin Forrest, Boston, 1882, who gives (p. 51) the east of The Gladiator 
at Drury Lane, October 17, 1836 ; Charles Durang, History of the Philadelphia 
Stage, Third Series, Chaps. 16, 25 ; P. C. Wemyss, Tiuenty-six Years of the Life 
of an Actor Manager, New York, 18^7, Vol. 2, p. 239 ; E. P. Oberholtzer, Liter- 
ary History of Philadelphia, Philadelphia, 1907„ 

Note to Second Edition. 

In 1919, Dr. Clement Foust published the Life and Dramatic Work of 
Bohert Montgomery Bird, containing a reprint of The Broker of Bogota, and 
printing for the first time The Gladiator, Pelopidas and Oralloossa. 

On May 21, 1920, the Zelosophic Society of the University of Pennsylvania 
reproduced The Broker of Bogota at the Bellevue-Stratford Ball Room, Phila- 
delphia, under the direction of Mrs. William Merriman Price. The production 
revealed clearly the great appeal of the play from the point of view of dramatic 
structure, and the fine quality of the blank verse was apparent. As had been 
expected, the characters of "Febro" played by Kirk Heselbarth, of the Class of 
'21, and of '' Juana" played by Elizabeth Canning of the Class of '20, were the 
most appealing, and it was interesting to seei that in a play written for Edwin 
Forrest, the most effective scene (Act IV, Scene 4) was one in which he was not 
on the stage. 



CHAB.ACTERS 

[Bowery Theatre, New York City, February 12, 1834.] 

Marques De Palmera, Viceroy of New Granada Mr. H. Gale 

Fernando, his son Mr. G. Jones 

Baptista Febro, the broker Mr. E. Forrest 

Ramon f, . 1 Mr. Ingersoll 

„ < his sons y 

Francisco t J Mr. Connoi- 

Mendoza, a merchant, father of Juana Mr. Farren 

Antonio De Cabarero, a profligate, friend of Ramon Mr. H. Wallack 

Pablo, an inn keeper Mr. McClure 

SiLVANO, servant of Febro 

Leonor, daughter of Febro Mrs. Flynn 

JuANA, daughter of IMendoza Mrs. McClure 

Gentlemen of ^he Court, Citizens, Alguazils. 

Scene, Santa Fe De Bogota. 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1. The Street near Febro's house. 
{Enter Mendoza and Ramon.) 

Mendoza. You have your answer. Come 
no more near my house : I '11 have no 
disobedient, disinherited sons there. 
<Come no more near to me.> 

Ram. Sefior Mendoza, you make my un- 
happiness my crime and condemn me for 
my misfortune. 

Men. Truly, I have so learned to crimi- 
nate misfortune ever since I found that, 
when one grief springs from ill fate, 
twenty come from our own faults. I 
have never known a young man sink in 
the world, without finding he had over- 
burdened himself with follies. 

Ram. If you will listen to me, I will show 
you how much you wrong me. 

Men. Wrong you? I wrong you not: 
you are your own wronger. <I should 
be glad to be rid of you.> 

Ram. You treat me with much shame, 
sehor; but, for your daughter's sake, I 
forgive you. 

Men. So would I that your father did 
you for my daughter's sake; for then 
might I think of you for a son. But 
now, you must pardon me — Think no 
more of that. 

Ram. Seiior Mendoza, I have your prom- 
ise to wed Juana. 

Men. I made that promise when you were 

. your father's heir; and I break it, now 

that you are your father's outcast. I 

will have no discarded son for my child's 

husband, believe that. 

Ram. My father will restore me to his 
favor. 

Men. When he does that, I will perhaps 
take thee to mine, — not before. <Fare 
thee well, serior.> 

Ram. Sehor Mendoza, it is said you will 
marry Juana <to another? 

Men. And if I do, sefior, who is to gain- 
say me ?> 

Ram. To Marco, the young merchant of 
Quito? 



Men. Content thee, sefior Ramon, Marco 
is neither discarded nor poor, nor ill 
spoken of; and will be a good husband 
for a good man's daughter. <Farewell 
— Come to me no more.> 

Ram. By heaven, it shall not be! 

Men. Oho! it shall not be! You are the 
King of Castile, sefior <Ramon!> 
You will have fathers marry their chil- 
dren to men of your choosing! 

Ram. Senor, you will break my heart. 
It is enough to lose my father, my fam- 
ily — all — yet you will rob me of my be- 
trothed wife. 

Men. Betrothed to Baptista Febro's heir, 
not to Ramon the penniless and house- 
less. <You are scurrilous.> I will 
talk with you no more. Farewell^and 
come no more near me: my daughter is 
not for you. (Exit.) 

Ram. Misery follow thee, thou false old 
churl, 
And age's torments! till they rack as 

sore 
As the fresh pangs and agonies of youth. 
Perhaps his daughter is not much averse : 
Yet many an oath, with many a sigh, of 

old, 
Breathed she for truth and loving con- 
stancy. 

(Enter Cabarero.) 

Cab. Hola, Ramon! brother Sorrowful! 
Sefior Will-o'-the-wisp! are you there? 
I have been seeking <for> you. 

Ram. I should think then thou hadst some 
execution upon me; for who else now 
seek me but my creditors? 

Cab. Why, thy true friends, thy true 
friends (for am not I a host?), thy true 
friends, Cabarero. Come now, hast thou 
been petitioning thy father? 

.Ram. I tell thee, I had better ask an alms 
of the cutthroat on the highway, than of 
my father. 

Cab. <An alms!> Oh, thou art the 
smallest-souled pretty fellow in all Gra- 
nada here. Why dost thou talk of an 
alms? Art thou not thy father's eldest 
son? 



215 



216 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



Ram. Had I been the youngest, I should 
liave been the happier. 

Cab. Yea, tliou shouldst have been a 
counter of beads, a beggar of blessings, 
a winner of the elder brother's portion. 
Pish! thy brother Francisco is a rogue; 
he has ousted thee from thine inherit- 
ance. 

Ram. If any one have done that, thou art 
tlie man. I am ruined, Cabarero, and 
thou art my destroyer. 

<Cab. Now, I think thou art repenting 
of thy sins; but thou goest about it the 
wrong way.> 

Ram. Look, Cabarero, there is my father's 
roof. There is no swallow twittering 
under its eaves, that has a merrier heart 
or a gayer song, than were mine once, 
when I was a boy under it. 

Cab. Ay, faith, and that wast because 
thou wert a boy, a silly boy. Now wert 
thou a man, a discreet and reasonable 
man, thou wouldst be even as merry as 
before. <Thou dost not think thou wert 
born to be always in a grin?> 

Ram. I was the eye of my mother, the 
heart of — <my f ather> ; my sister loved 
me ; my brother — <ay, and my brother.> 
— ay, they all loved me; and there was 
no one that did not smile on me, from 
the priest at the confessional to the beg- 
gar at the door. By St. James, I had 
many friends then; and I deserved their 
favor, for I was of good fame and un- 
corrupted. 

Cab. I see thou art a man whose head is 
likely to be as empty as his pockets. 
'Slife! uncorrupted? <Thy nose uncor- 
rupted!> Bad luck is the lot of the 
best. 

Ram. Antonio, I say, thou bast destroyed 
me. Until I knew thee, I abhorred 
shame, and <it is true> my hand was as 
stainless as an infant's. 

Cab. It was thy father's scurvy eovetous- 
ousness that put thee on to showing thy 
spirit. 

Ram. Thou didst delude me. By the 
heaven which has deserted me, I did not 
think this hand could rob! 

Cab. Pho, thou art mad! Remember 
thou art in the street. 

Ram. That is the word, Antonio. — I 
robbed him — robbed him like a base 
thief: and then I became the outcast. 

Cab. And then thou becam'st a fool! 
Thou didst but take <what was> a part 
of thine inheritance. 

Ram. <And> yet he forgave me that! 



Cab. He did not hang thee, for that 
would have brought shame on his house. 
[Forgave thee!] He forced thee to be 
foolish, and then discarded thee — turned 
thee off like a sick servant — abandoned 
thee. 
Ram. <I think he should not have done 

that. Had he forgiven me that! 
Cab. Forgive! Nay, he forgave old Mig- 
uel the mule-driver a debt that would 
have kept thee in bread for a year; and 
yet it was evident to all that Miguel 
cheated him. But to forgive his own 
flesh and blood is another matter. 
Ram. He forgave Miguel because he be- 
sought his pardon: I have not yet be- 
sought him. Dost thou remember the 
holy history of the prodigal ?> Per- 
haps if I humble myself to him, he will 
forgive me. 
Cab. If thou art of that mind, thou may'st 
see, o' the instant, how he will spurn 
thee. Look, he is here, with thy sister, 
and — Pho! thou tremblest! — 'Tis Men- 
doza, father of thy fair Juana. 

(Febro, with Leonor and Mendoza, 

crosses the stage.) 

Ram. He has discarded me too, and Juana 

is given to another. How can I entreat 

him? See, he will not look upon me! 

Leox. Father, will you not speak? It is 

my brother Ramon. 

Feb. The carrion vulture with him. — Get 

thee in. 

I would I had no sons — What ? in, I say ! 

{Exit Leoxor into the house.) 

Seilor Mendoza, what you have said is 

well: 
I must needs own the contract was too 

rash — 
We are both agreed it shall not bind us 

more. 
I hear young Marco is a worthy man: 
Give him your daughter and heaven bless 

the match. 
Will you enter, senor? 
Men. I thank your favor, no. 

This thing despatched, I will to other _j 

business. 
Good evening, seilor. 
Feb. You will be happy, friend — 

Take no wild hothead boy to be your son : 
Look to his friends : If Marco have but one 
Loves mirth more than integrity, discard 

"him. 
These gadflies are our curses — Fare you 
well. 
{Exeunt Mendoza and Febro, the lat- 
ter into the house.) 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



217 



Cab. Oh! o' my conscience, a loving fa- 
ther! 

Ram. He gave me no encouragement to 
speak to him. Had he but looked upon 
me kindly, that look would have cast me 

Cab. What, at his feet? Not if he were 
twenty times your father. <'Slid. at his 
feet! Why> he would have spurned 
thee. Didst thou hear? He has ab- 
solved Mendoza from the match, — robbed 
thee of Juana, — nay, and absolutely 
counselled the merchant to marry her to 
your rival. A loving and merciful fa- 
ther! He ruins thee every way. Were 
he mine own father, I would — 

Ram. What wouldst thou do? Thou 
wouldst not kill him? 

Cab. By mine honor, no. I hold any 
bodily harm done to one's parent alto- 
gether inexpiable. But I would not for- 
give him. 

Ram. I will not! 

Cab. Why, that was said like a man. 

Ram. He forgives not me, he pardons not 
a folly, and how shall I forgive a cru- 
elty? For a single weakness, he pun- 
ishes me with all degradation and mis- 
ery; expels me from his house; looks not 
on me in the street; leagues with those 
who wrong me; leaves me penniless and 
perishing; and even persuades another 
to break faith with me, and give my be- 
trothed to a stranger: And how shall 
I forgive him? 

Cab. Why, thou shalt not. 

Ram. I will not. I am even a desperate 
man; and so I will yield me up to the 
wrath of desperation. Art thou my true 
friend? 

Cab. Else may I have no better hope than 
purgatory. 

Ram. We will kill the merchant of Quito. 

Cab. No, the saints forbid! no murder. 
He hath not money enough w^itli him. 

Ram. Why, thou dost not think I will 
slay him for money? 

Cab. And for what else should you be so 
bloody-minded? Thou art not mad 
enough to cut his throat because he loves 
thy mistress? 

Ram. Thou knowest, if he live, he will 
marry her. 

Cab. Oh! she detests him, and loves you. 

Ram. Yet will she wed none her father 
mislikes; and her father likes not me. 

Cab. Wherefore? Because you have lost 
your father's favor? No. Because you 
are called a wild fellow, and hate chap- 



els? No. Because you are no longer 
the hopefuh heir to Baptista Febro, the 
rich broker? Ay: there lies his disgust, 
thence comes his indignation. Now were 
you the veriest rogue in Bogota, he 
would love you well, so you had but 
money. 

Ram. Why do you tell me that? I know 
he is mercenary; nothing will win his 
heart but money, a curse on it! I would 
I were rich for Juana's sake; but for 
myself, I care not for gold — It has been 
the ruin of me. 

Cab. Thou speakest like an innocent 
goose. Money, <sirrah!> 'tis the es- 
sence of all comfort and virtue. Thou 
carest not for gold! Give me gold, and 
I will show thee the picture of philoso- 
phy, the credential of excellence, the 
corner-stone of greatness. It is wisdom 
and reputation — the world's rehgion, 
mankind's conscience; and what is man 
without it? Pah! 'T is as impossible 
honesty should dwell easily in an empty 
pocket, as good humor in a hollow stom- 
ach, or wit in a full one. Didst thou 
ever see integrity revered in an old 
coat, or un worthiness scorned in a new? 
<Thou carest not for gold!> 'Slife, it 
made my blood boil to hear you say 
so. 

Ram. Well, after all, as money or mur- 
der must rid me of my rival, tell ine how 
one can be more easily come at than the 
other. 

Cab. Why, you rogue, there is our silver 
mine! We have been hunting it long; 
we must needs be near the vein. 

Ram. That stratagem is growing stale. I 
sware but this morning to an old friend, 
of whom I desired to borrow money that 
we had discovered the tomb of Bochica 
the Indian emperor, which was doubtless 
as full of gold as the Inca's grave in 
Peru; but the knave laughed at me, 
<and said if I found no gold in it, I 
should have plenty brass. > 

Cab. The rascal! and he lent thee no 
money ? 

Ram. Not a real. 

Cab. There is no gratitude among friends. 
<Do thy good offices to strangers; and 
courtesy will teach them the grace of 
thankfulness. Canst thou cheat no- 
body? 

Ram. Cheat, Antonio? 

Cab. Pho ! be not in a passion. All 's 
honest that fetches money. > We must 
have gold, or Juana is lost. 



218 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



Ram. Ay — Set me to what roguery you 
will, so it may regain her. 

Cab. The tomb of Bochica, the Indian 
emperor! I know not by what halluci- 
nation it liappens, but I never hear thee 
mention that, without thinking of the 
vaults of thy father. 

Ram. Hah! 

Cab. Now, were he not thy father, couldst 
thou not have the heart to rob him? 

Ram. Rob him! 

Cab. That is, as long as he oppresses thee 
so tyrannically. Faith, I would even 
steal mine own share. 

Ram. Thou dost not seriously advise me 
to be such a villain? 

Cab. No, good faith — I? I was jesting. 
But I will tell thee what thou shalt do. 
Thou shalt ask him for money. 

Ram. And have him spurn me again? 

Cab. Tell him thou art in danger of a 
prison. 

Ram. I will go near him no more. No 
more begging! The prison first. 

Cab. <Why, we must have money. I am 
soiTy to tell thee, some evil rogues have 
disparaged us among the free gamesters, 
and they will be free with us no more.> 
Pablo the innkeeper is wrathful with 
thee, and says he must have money for 
thy food and lodging. 

Ram. The villain! He has had my last 
dollar. 

Cab. He is not so merciful as thy father; 
but he has harboured thee long. 
Hearken — I will go to thy father. 

Ram. Thou ! 

Cab. And entreat him for thee very pit- 
eously. 

Ram. <He will fill thy pockets with 
curses. 

Cab. Why, then I will cheat him. 

Ram. Cheat him? 

Cab. Oh, thou dost not care?> 

Ram. You may rob him, if you will: I 
care not. 

Cab. I will cheat him with good security, 
and will fetch thee the money. <But I 
must not give thee too much hope: he 
will think I borrow it for thee, and will 
refuse me. But> do thou in the mean- 
while endeavor to speak with Juana. 
Marco must not have her. 

Ram. Not if any new dye upon my 
soul can preserve her. <Do wliat you 
will, or can; and if you fail, we will 
consider another way to amend our for- 
tunes.> 

Cab. All the men of Bogota are our ene- 



mies — How many of them have money 
in thy father's hands? 

Ram. Why more than I can tell thee. 
But what has that to do with their en- 
mity? 

Cab. So much that if one were to break 
Baptista's vaults, we should have much 
feeding of grudges. 

Ram. Say no more of this. 

Cab. Look, here comes thy friend Men- 
doza again! 

Ram. Where? Nay, thou art mistaken: 
'tis another, and a greater than Men- 
doza, and one not more our friend. 
Seest thou nothing beyond that muffled 
cloak? It is the Viceroy. 

Cab. The Viceroy! I warrant me, he is 
spying over us. What does he in dis- 
guise ? and near thy father's house ? 

Ram. Perhaps I could tell thee. But let 
us be gone. He hardens my father 
against me. — Let him not see us. 

(Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. A room in Febro's house. 
(Enter Febro and Leonor.) 

Feb. Come hither, Leonora. What, my 

girl. 
That stranger youth I bade thee see no 

more, 
Dost thou still speak with him? 
Leon. Alack, dear father, 

I hope you are not angry. 
<Feb. Is it so? 

Comes he still near thee? 
Leon. Oh, I am sure indeed, 

I never gave him countenance.> 
Feb. I charged thee 

Give him such scorn, if still he followed" 

thee. 
As should have driven him from thee: 

for, indeed. 
These trashbrained idlers, that do fol- 
low thee. 
Sighing in chapel, staring in the street, 
And strumming silly lovesongs at thy 

window. 
They are but things of naught, — base, 

lazy rogues. 
That hunt for rich men's daughters for 

their prey. 
And now they haunt thy steps the more, 

because 
The broker, weak old Febro, that must 

die, 
In natural course of age, ere many years. 
Hath but two heirs to share his hoards^ 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



219 



7 EON. Dear father, 

Will you not then forgive my brother 
Ramon? 

I know he is very sorry he e'er grieved 
you; 

And on his heart your wrath must needs 
be heavy. 
f^EB. If thou believ'st so, then, in time, 
beAvare 

It fall not upon thine. <In sooth, I 
think, 

Thou art leagued with him to vex me. — > 
ye saints ! 

Punish these villains that seduce men's 
sons. 

Making them villains; and with ven- 
geance follow 

The knaves that teach our daughters dis- 
obedience. 
Leon. Dear father, none shall teach me 

that. 
Feb. They shall not, 

When thou seest no more rogue Rolandos. 
Leon. Father, 

Indeed, I think, he is honest. 
Feb. Nay, a knave! 

He doth not come to me, but ever shuns 
me. 

He hath no friends; no man in Bogota 

Hath made acquaintance with him: he 
flies all 

Like a scared thief, save only thee alone, 

<And comes to thee like one, cloaked, 
almost masked, 

As when he followed thee from the car- 
nival. 

Now were my Ramon what in youth he 
was. 

He should be thy protector, and soon 
drive me 

This wasp away. 
Leon. If he return again,> 

I '11 bid him come no more ; — I will in- 
deed. 

Till he has talked with you, and satis- 
fied you. 
Feb. Why there 's my girl ! Let him but 
come to me; 

I '11 tell him that I mean thee for an- 
other. 
Leon. Another, father! I do not wish to 

marry. 
Feb. Thus silly maids will talk! Why, 
thou poor finch, 

A gentleman hath asked thee for his 
wife, — 

Rich, I assure thee, virtuous, honorable. 

And a hidalgo. 
Leqn, And so is Roland^ too. 



Feb. Speak'st thou of Roland? Thou 

wilt anger me. 
He a hidalgo ! By my faith, I think. 
Some heathenish villain, that with magic 

arts 
Hath wound about thy spirits. He I 

meant. 
Is Baltasar, son of Don Lucas Moron. 
Dost thou name him and Roland in a 

breath? 
I' faith, thou stirr'st me, — 

{Enter Silvano.) 

What would'st thou, Silvano? 
SiLV. A customer to your worship. 
Feb. It is a holiday. 

I will no business do today. 
SiLV. Your favor 

Must pardon me. It is his Excellency. 
Feb. His Excellency! oh thou foolish 
knave. 
To leave him waiting! — 

(Enter Palmera.) 

Please, your noble highness, 
Pardon my silly fellow. 

Palm. Good Baptista, 

Forget my state, — it is too cumbersome. 
I am even your humble suitor and poor 

friend. — 
My pretty Leonor! Now, by my life, 
Which like a desert river, flows away, 
I would some green and flourishing j^lant 

like thee 
Had rooted by my current : then indeed 
I should have seen the surges of my age 
Dash with a sweet contented music on, 
Nor thought their course was sterile. 

Feb. _ A silly maid. 

Your highness is too good. — Go, Leonora. 

{Exeunt Leonora <iand Silvano.>) 

< A silly maid ! and yet, or I do dream. 

Loving and true. And yet — But that 's 

no matter. — 
I am at your highness' bidding.> 

Palm. Sit down, Baptista. — 

Oh, then, I must be viceroy and com- 
mand you. — 
I have much to say to thee. 

Feb. I am sorry your grace 

Did not command me to the palace. 

Palm. No. 

Perhaps I have a reason I could tell you. 
Febro, you have my confidence, and 

know, 
What were a wonder unto other men. 
How one can sit upon a viceroy's chair, 
Yet heap no wealth about him. 

Feb, Please your highness^ 



220 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



Your predecessors on Granada's throne, 
Ne'er found a lack of gain; and, sooth 

to say, 
I do remember when no mine could yield. 
Though by a thousand Indians daily 

wrought, 
So rich a revenue as the rod of state 
In one man's hands, were but that man 

the viceroy. 
Palm. Such was its wealth, and such may 

be again, 
To him with heart to use it. But for 

myself, 
I cannot stoop to use those under means. 
That fill the purse of office; and I would 

gnaw 
Sooner my food from off my barren 

trappings, 
Than gild them vilely with the fruits of 

fraud. 
Sales, bribes, exactions, and monopolies, 
The rich dishonor of prerogative. 
<I will this kingdom leave with no man's 

curse, 
And no man's scorn; and to mine own 

land bear 
Even the poor burden that I brought 

with me. 
An honest pride and pure integrity. 
'T is from this thought that I make use 

of thee. 
Out of that lean estate I have, to win 
Such gain as my necessities require. 
And such as though my state must keep 

it secret, 
I have no shame to grasp at. 
Feb. Would indeed 

This principle should come with your 

successor.> 
Palm. I have some gold^ which I would 

have you place 
Even at what profitable trade you can. 
But not in peril; for indeed it is 
After some worthless antique lands in 

Spain, 
The only portion I can give my son. 
But now arrived in Bogota. 
Feb. Your highness 

Shall faithfully be served. 
Palm. I doubt not that. 

Soon as you will, some trusty messenger 
Send to the court, and he shall bear the 

gold. 
Feb. My son shall be despatched. 
Palm. Your son, Baptista ! 

Feb. My son Francisco, — I dare assure 

your highness, 
A trusty youth, and most unequalled 

son. 



Palm. In sooth, I thought you meant his 

elder brother. 
Feb. Francisco, please your grace, — an 

excellent boy, 
<Mine only hope and comfort, — a duti- 
ful son.> 
It is a holiday, and the youths have left 
Their prisoned warehouses, and look for 

mirth 
In the gay squares and streets, — all but 

Francisco. 
He nooks him at his desk, and still pores 

o'er 
The weary mysteries of accounts, as 

though 
Wisdom, as well as wealth, were writ 

among them. 
Palm. A commendable zeal. But tell me, 

Febro, — 
This should have been the elder brother's 

office. 
Pardon me, Febro; but beshrew my 

heart, 
I speak to thee in friendship, when I 

meddle 
In family affairs. You are too harsh : 
Indeed it is the towntalk, your severity 
To your discarded son. 
Feb. It is the towntalk ! 

The town will disobedience teach to chil- 
dren, 
Then censure fathers, who do punish 

them. 
This is the course, and justice of the 

town ! 
Palm. But still, men say, the penance you 

inflict 
Is all too heavy for his boyish follies. 
Feb. Follies ! No doubt, they told your 

excellency 
He idled at his task, sometimes made^ 

blunders. 
Played truant oft, and sometimes laughed 

at chapel — 
Such follies! 
Palm. No, I must needs own, for truth. 
They were of darker color, — running 

forth 
With youths disorderly and riotous. 
Unto the tavern and the gaming-house. 
Feb. Riotous friends! 

Drinking, and gambling! Sir, these are 

such follies 
In youth, as fraud and robbery in men; 
And lie who clouds his dawn of life with 

such 
Shall have a fouller tempest for its close. 
Palm. And yet these are such ills as gen- 
tleness 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



221 



Might best reprove; and, for those after 

crimes, 
Surely your son has not plunged into 
them? 
Feb. I do not say it! There is no man 
dare say it. — 
I say, my Ramon is a foolish boy. 
Your b.ighness cannot say I e'er accused 

him 
Of aught but folly. 
Palm. The more unwise your anger, 

Which may compel him into crime. 

Baptista, 
He is the only one of your three children 
Whose weakness vexes you. 
Feb. I'll not say that. 

Palm. What, Febro? And the paragon, 

Francisco ? 
I'eb. He never gave me pain. 
Palm. And Leonor? 

My pretty Leonor? 
Feb. The world's best daughter! 

Palm. foolish man, that art not yet 
content, 
W^hen heaven that crowns thee with two 

perfect joys. 
Dashes a little gall upon the third! 
<W^ilt thou be harsher than all other 

sires. 
Because thou art happier? Oh, believe 

me Febro, 
There is no father but must much for- 
give; 
There is no father but must much la- 
ment ;> 
And I, that have but one child to mine 

age, 
And him would have an angel in my love, 
Even see him tainted with the spots of 

youth, 
And envy thee that hast such bliss with 
thine. 
Feb. Sir, I have heard the young Fer- 
nando bore him 
Like a most just and virtuous gentleman. 
Palm. And yet, though but few days in 
Bogota, 
His heart is tangled in a low intrigue, 
A base amour. But shall I drive him 

from me? 
I will not ape thy cruelty, but bid thee 
Follow mine own mild counsels, which 

will give thee 
Thy son again, a loving penitent. 
Feb. Sir, I would have him feel in sharp 
extreme 
The bitter issues of his degradation. 
'T is need he feel them. 
Palm. They oppress him now: 



I saw him sad and moody near thy 

house, ^ 
Humbled to earth. 
Feb. Ay! but with Cabarero! 

The villain that seduced him into folly. 
And still cajoles him on. He has his 

choice, — 
That caitiff, or his father — He has his 
choice ! 
Palm. Well, well^ think better of him. 
He loves the man. 
Who seems to be his fast unflinching 

friend. 
Think of my counsel. 
Feb. At your highness' feet! 

Francisco shall attend you to the pal- 
ace, — 
What, boy! Francisco! 
Palm. I prythee, keep thy house. 

I will not have thee follow to the doors. 
Feb. Your excellency's slave. 

(Exeunt.) 

Scene 3. The street at Febro's door. 
[Enter Silvano and Fernando.) 

SiLV. I do wonder at your presumption, 
seiior Rolando. 

Fern. And I do wonder at thine honesty. 
If thou wilt not for money, oh then for 
love bear my message to the fair .Leonor. 

SiLV. To peep from the window, and see 
how prettily thou wilt kiss thy hand to 
her! Art thou really a hidalgo? 

Fern. I am really a hidalgo, a Spanish 
hidalgo. 

SiLV. And your worship does really love 
my mistress? 

Fern. My worship does most devoutly 
adore your divine mistress. 

SiLV. And if you gain her good will, you 
will make her your worship's wife? 

Fern. If I gain her good will, I will fly 
straightway to the altar; <If not, I will 
e'en betake me to the halter.> 

SiLV. Why, if thou wert an honest gen- 
tleman, thou would'st demand her of her 
father. He would be glad to have a 
hidalgo for a son. 

Fern. Oh, thou art a silly fellow. I am 
a poor hidalgo, which is naught to a rich 
commoner. 

SiLV. Senor Rolando, I like thy face in- 
different well; but I think thou art some 
rogue, and no noble. 

Fern. If tliou wilt be as loving as I am 
noble, hear my petition, and beseech my 



222 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



young divinity to look from the window. 

SiLv. Who knows? AVhy, seiior Febro is 
within. 

Fern. How sliall he hear the silver voice 
of his daughter, wlien his ears are filled 
with the golden jingle of his coffers'? 

SiLV. Well, stay a moment till his ex- 
cellency goes. 

Fern. His excellency! What excellency? 

SiLV. W^hy, his excellency the Viceroy. 
<He is a great friend of my master.> 

Fern. Oh! fire and furies! the Viceroy! 
Now, I remember me, I have to meet a 
friend in the great square. 

SiLV. Stay, senor Hidalgo, here comes his 
excellency. Seiior, you are a rogue! 
God be with you! {Exit Fernando.) 
Well, thou art a mysterious, good-for- 
notliing, agreeable rascal, I v/arrant me; 
and someliow, I begin to love thee. But 
thou hast a wholesome dread of great 
men. 

(Enter, from house, Palmera, Febro, 
and Francisco. Leonor appears at 
the door.) 

Feb. Heaven keep your excellence a thou- 
sand years! 

Thou hast thy charge, Francisco. — 
Heaven save your highnesS ! 
{Exeunt Palmera and Francisco.) 

Silvano, hast thou heard more things of 
Ramon? 
SiLV. Please your worship, I heard he was 

last night at Mateo's gambling house. 
Feb. The wretched boy! 
SiLV. And, please your worship, he hurt 

one with his dagger for calling him a 

cheat. 
Feb. a cheat ! Would he had never been 

born! 
SiLV. But then, it was a slander; or how 

should he have stabbed a man for telling 

the truth? 
Feb. Ay, slander, Silvano ! He could not 

cheat. 
SiLV. <And the gambler's boy that told 

me, he is a most notorious liar. 
Feb. I cannot but believe it was a lie.> 
SiLV. And then, if he had clieated, he 

should have had money; whereas, they 

say, he is in great poverty; and Pablo 

the innkeeper threatens to put him in 

prison. 
Feb. In prison! I have been too harsh. 
Stlv. <But that, I tliink, is only to make 

your worship pay his debts; for Pablo is 

reckoned to be a rascal. 



Feb. Will Ramon agree to this roguery? 

I will not pay a real.> 
SiLV. Please your worship, I have heard 

no more of his doings. 
Feb. Well, I did love him well,— but 

that 's no matter. 
My Rachel loved him too, as her first 

born; 
And, for a boy, he was the lovingest one 
Mine eyes ere looked upon. <Get in, 

Leonora. 
Why wilt thou stand at doors, to be gazed 

on 
By these young bawbling wantons of the 

town? 
They '11 smirk at thee, and wink, and kiss 

their hands : 
I know them very well, — such gewgaw 

brains^ 
And hearts of rotten stone, and trash and 

lies — 
Wilt thou not hear me? What? {Exit 

Leonora.) By all the saints, 
She is the very apple of mine eye. 
She does not love this fellow : — the whim 

of girls, 
To have well-favored youths a-wooing 

them. — > 
I know that rogue — is it not Cabarero ? 
Oh, the base villain! had he been but 

hanged 
Six years agone, or ere he looked upon 
My foolish boy ! — Well, will he speak 

with me? 

{Enter Cabarero.) 

Come, let us in. 
Cab. Hola, you money- vender ! 

You reverend old blood-grater of the 
poor! 

Tarry, I '11 speak with you. 
Feb. Now all the saints 

Give me a little patience. 
Cab. Come, how stand 

Your vaults and money bags? Still fill- 
ing, filling. 

Like the horseleech's paunch, and crying 
"More!"? 

I '11 be thy customer. What rate today? 

Not cent per cent, with tenth of gross for 
premium ? 

Be reasonable, and I '11 deal with thee. 

These are hard times, faith. 
Feb. I will not be angry, 

Why should I with a rascal? Seiior, 
base fellow, 

You may go hang or drown — I '11 give 
you naught. 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



223 



Cab. No, by mine honor^ no, you will not 
give me, 
Else should the devil grow weary of the 

earth. 
And leave 't to angels. Give me indeed ! 

When pesos 
Change to perditions, ducats to damna- 
tion, 
Then will I look for gifts. But how now, 

senor 'I 
'Slid, I believe you are angry ! — What 's 

the news? 
How fares my Httle soul, fair Leonor? 
Upon my faith, she's an exceeding girl: 
What portion will you give her? Some- 
times I 
Do think of marriage; and hidalgo blood 
Has often stooped to gutters. 
Feb. Which is to say, 

Your honor might be bribed to marry 
her? 
Cab. Noble 's a noble dower ; and so I say, 

Verily so, if well thou portion'st her. 
Feb. Then shalt thou hear it — When she 
weds a man 
Like thee, her portion shall be cords and 

ratsbane. 
Curses and misery! Oh, thou bold bad 

man. 
How canst thou look me in the face, nor 

think 
Of ruin'd Ramon? 
Cab. I do think of him, 

And wonder at the rage that ruins him. 
Feb. Sirrah ! 

Cab. Why, how you fume? I 

come to you 
To borrow money — good faith, a thou- 
sand ducats — 
At highest rates of interest, with surety 
Of good sufficient names, to be repaid 
Out of my new discovered silver mine. — 
I say, good names. 
Feb. Were they angelical. 

Thou shouldst not have a doit to hang 
thyself. 
Cab. Harkee, old sir — I meant a part 
thereof 
To feed thy starving Ramon. 
Feb. Knave, thou liest! 

It is to tempt him on to further shame. 
To deeper ruin ! 
Cab. Thou art angry^ — I forgive thee. 

But know, unless thou send'st him money 

straight. 
He will be lodged in prison. Ope thy 

heart ; 
Send him some gold. 
Feb. Art thou his friend? 



Cab. His best. 

Feb. <Thou^ lovest my Ramon — ay, and 
thou lovest gold:> 
I '11 teach thee how to serve him as a 

friend. 
And how to win thee money. 
Cab. Speak that how. 

Feb. Leave Bogota forever; swear me 
that: 
Get thee from hence to Spain ; and I will 

give thee 
A thousand ducats. 
Cab. Faitli, now you speak in jest! 

Feb. I say, I '11 give them to thee, nay, 
and more. 
Swear me but that, and keep thine oath. 
Cab. a thousand? 

A thousand ducats to leave Bogota? 
No, not for five ! 
Feb. Wilt thou not go for five ? 

Cab. Art thou in earnest? 
Feb. So may the saints befriend me; 

Get thee to Spain; leave Ramon unto 

me, 
And thou shalt have five thousand duc- 
ats. 
Cab. 'Slid! 

I take thy offer. Give me the gold. 
Feb. Soft, soft: 

I '11 have thine oath before a notary ; 
Find thee conveyance unto Carthegena; 
Pay thee a portion when tiiou art em- 
barked, 
And count the rest, in yearly sums, to 

thee, 
Only in Spain. 
Cab. Five thousand on the nail. 

Paid here in Bogota ; to which e'en add 
A thousand yearly to be paid in Spain, 
During my term of life. 
Feb. grasping villain! 

Thou wouldst have all, and yet wilt go 

with none. 
If thou wilt more, there 's money in my 

vaults ; 
Break them, and rob me ! 
Cab. Oh ! dost thou invite me ? 

Feb. Rob me, thou knave, that I may 
have thy life ! 
Do me that crime, and hang ! 
Cab. Most antique churl. 

Thou shalt be sorry for this fantasy. 
Thou hast no gold for Ramon? 
Feb. Hence, begone! 

And a deep curse go with thee, a father's 

curse ! 
Got thee to fraud and crime, to theft and 

murder. 
Become notorious to thyself, and sleep. 



224 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



Dreaming of gibbets, to wake up to 

racks ; 
Rob other sires of other sons; bring wo 
On other houses; till the general curse 
Heaped like a mountain o'er thy head, 

reach heaven, 
And wall thee in its fiery hell forever! 
Hence, monster, hence! (Exeunt.) 

END OF ACT ONE. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. A street near Mendoza's house. 

(Enter Ramon and Pablo.) 

Pab. I am a poor man, seilor Ramon: I 
must have money. 

Ram. Wert thou as penniless as a beg- 
gar, still couldst thou have nothing of 
me; for I am poorer. 

Pab. Thy father is the richest man in 
Bogota. He should pay for thy food. 

Ram. Get thee to him, and tell him so. 
Look, thou insatiate rogue, I have signed 
and countersigned all thy villainous ob- 
ligations; I have owned me here thy 
debtor, and confessed thou canst justly 
hale me to prison. <What more can I 
do? If thou canst use these to any hon- 
est purposes, or dishonest either, I care 
not. Get thee to my father. If he will 
give thee money, I am content; if not, 
't is but a word to the alguazil, and thou 
shalt have so much satisfaction as my 
incarcerated misery can give thee.> 

Pab. Thou knowest I should be loath to 
be so unfriendly. 

Ram. I know, thou art as much a cor- 
morant as the rest <and as rapacious for 
my lean and impoverished body as ever 
thou wert in my days of fatness.> Get 
thee away : I have one honest friend left, 
whom I would not willingly have to see 
me in thy company. 

Pab. Why, I hope thou art not ashamed 
of me? 

Ram. No, I am now ashamed of nothing. 
The grace in me that would have once 
blushed at unworthiness, is gone; and I 
have nothing left for contempt but my- 
self — myself. Go, get money, if thou 
canst; it is thy only hope; thy stay will 
only rob me of my last. Go, I prythee. 

Pab. Well, God be with you. If I can 
cheat your father, you shall have some 
of the gain. (Exit.) 



Ram. Thus doth severity still goad me on 
Into a hateful villainy; and chains me 
<Whate'er my sighs for better liberty> 
To fellowship with rogues more vile than 

I. 
Thou drivest me, father, to this noose of 

shame ; 
And wilt not bate thy wTath, till I am 

dead. — 

(Enter Juana.) 
I looked for thee, Juana ! for I knew 
Though all else had deserted me, thou 

couldst not. 
Juan. Ramon, I have few words to speak 

to thee; 
And even with these, I lay upon my soul 
The sin of disobedience. 
Ram. Ay, indeed! 

You will obey your sire ! 
Juan. What else should I ? 

I am his only child; in whom, in sooth, 

Heaven would not pardon an unfilial act. 

Ram. Speak boldly; leave me, like the 

rest, and fear not; 
Say, Marco is a rich and honored man. 
And Ramon lost to wealth and reputa- 
tion : 
There 's none but will commend thee. 
Juan. Say not that: 

Thou know'st, I never loved thee for thy 

wealth ; 
For, sooth, I liked thee best when that 

was gone; 
With thy hard father's heart: and, for 

thy name. 
These evil tales destruction speaks of 

thee. 
But spur me on to be thy advocate. 
I never gave them faith. — 
Ram. Lies ! that are ever 

Writ, by contempt, upon the poor man's 

brow, 
But puffed, by flattery, from all jewelled 

fronts. 
But yesterday men found the rich man's 

son 
Worthy and honorable, without stain; 
Today they find the fallen outcast's face 
Charged with the sinful leprosy of 

years — 
An hour for transformation ! 
Juan. They will find thee 

Stainless again, when thou art fortu- 
nate. 
Hark to me, Ramon : there are not many 

days. 
Ere I am lost to thee. Unless thou find 
Before they pass, some happy road to 

wealth, 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



225 



Fortune will come too late to purchase 

me. 
Get gold, and win my father's heart 

again 
Ere he do marry me to Marco. 
Ram. Heaven 

Smite his false, churlish heart ! 
Juan. Curse not my father: 

Do that which shall appease him. 
Ram. Marry thee? 

He had not thought it without thine own 
consent ! 
Juan. How thou dost wound me, Ramon! 

bright saints, 

It was but now, as, at my lattice sitting, 
I looked down on the gardens of our 

sires, 
Which, in their days of friendship, our 

blest childhood. 
Did make one common paradise. — I 

thought 
Even of the thousand hours there, hand 

in hand, 
AVe had roamed among the blossoms. 

All this time 
My father was beseeching me for Marco. 
I saw no Marco, at the lemon-tree; 
It was not Marco, from the chirimoya. 
Had stolen the fragrant buds to crown 

me with; 
It was not he had caught the humming 

bird, 
To keep him radiant in my memory ; 
I saw naught there but Ramon, and my 

heart 
Even while I wept, was hardened to my 

father; 
And with that sin, and with those tears, 

1 won 

A last grace for thee — still a week of 

trial; 
A week wherein if fortune smile upon 

thee 
The rites with Marco shall not be en- 
forced. 
Ram. And how shall fortune smile again? 
Juan. <I '11 teach thee : 

Give o'er all thought of mines; they will 

delude thee 
On to a golden madness, but no wealth. 
Ram. What else remains ?> 
Juan. Thy father, 

<Ramon, thy father.> 
Ram. My tyrant! my destroyer! 
Juan. Speak not thus, — 

Though harsh and most unjust, thy 
father, Ramon ! 
Ram. Wed Marco ! Now by heaven, not 
even for thee 



Will I be spurned again. 
Juan. - Ramon, not spurned. 

Ram. Thou dost not know what wrong my 

sire has done me. 
This wreck thou seest of what I was, 

this shred 
Of my rent happiness, this squalid relic 
Of a once fair and ample reputation, 
This misery of heart and character — 
'T is what my father makes me ! No, 

thou knowst not 
The depth of wrong he has done me. 
Juan. Still remember 

Y/hat e'er thy suffering, that his wrath, 

first springing 
From the base slanders of thine enemies, 
Tliine own rough pride still kindles. 

Nay, my Ramon — 
I know his nature; and, though much 

incensed. 
His heart is yearning to forgive thee, 
Ram. Ay! 

I have found it so ! 
Juan. Thou didst not personally 

Sue to him. Go thyself, go — send no 

more 
Thy friend to him. I like not Cabarero ; 
I fear he is not the true friend you be- 
lieve him. 
Go to him, Ramon, and beseech his par- 
don. 
Think, if thou gain'st him, thou gain'st 

me. t 

Ram. Well, well — 

This day already did I go before him. 
He frowned and passed me by; and, as 

to mad me 
With the extreme of most vindictive 

wrath. 
Did while I stood hard by, advise thy 

father 
To marry thee to Marco. 
Juan. <Then heaven help me, 

There is no hope! 
Ram. Perhaps I '11 find a mine.> 

Juan. Alas, once more, once more beseech 

him, Ramon. 
Seek him alone, humble thyself before 

him. 
I will beseech him too. It cannot be, 
He has learned to hate thee. I will aid 

thy suit. 
Once more, once more, or I am lost for- 
ever. 
Ram. Well, well, I'll think of it.— But 

wed not Marco. 
Juan. Not till the week be o'er; but after 

that 
I have sworn to do my father's bidding. 



226 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



'T was by that oath, I gained this week 
for thee. 

(Enter Mendoza.) 

Alack, I am torn from thee ! 
Men. What, silly girl! 

Get thee to house. Thou wilt not win 

this pupi^et 
By wooing her i' the street. One last 

word, Seiior, 
A week hence is my daughter's wedding 

day. 

(Exit Mendoza, witli Juana.) 
Ram. If I do go to him, he will not hear 

me — 
A week? — Nay, though with tears I 

should conjure him 
Ere he have brought a smile upon his 

face, 
New words of new misdeeds will turn 

its light 
Into a fiercer flame: he must needs find 
Fresh stains of degradation — I will not 

^ go. 
If he have thought to pardon me at all, 
I '11 know't by Cabarero. 

(Enter Cabaeero.) 

Ram. What, Antonio? 

What said my father? 

Cab. Your father? Humph!— Is Febro 
your father? I think we have all along 
made a mistake. Wliat said he? I am 
afraid it will not comfort thee to hear. 
We will not talk it in the street; thou 
wilt rehsh it better over a cup of wine. 

Ram. He has rejected my suit? 

Cab. Wilt thou hear how? Let us begone 
to Pablo's ; for, I swear to thee, rage and 
despair are making me very thirsty. 

Ram. He will give me no relief ? 

Cab. W^ilt thou search my pockets? I 
offered him good security. It is true, the 
names were not so honestly written; but 
he asked not to see them. — Not a penny, 
not a penny; not even to save thee from 
perdition. — Pho, how thou sighest! 
Come, shall we go to drink? Humph! 
— if thou knewest how foolish 'tis to be 
melancholy. — Now have I been thinking, 
a quarter of a minute, how much tliy 
silly face looks like an epitaph — a mor- 
sel of silent lamentation over thy dead 
and buried hopes. Well, thou art con- 
tent to give up Juana? 

Ram. Because Febro, the broker, loves me 
not! — I will call him father no more. — 
He would neither lend to you, wlio could 
give him the securities of law; nor to 



me, who have some of the claims of 
nature ? 

Cab. Not a penny. 'Sfuries, had you but 
seen how he reviled me like a dog ! And 
the more I begged him in thy name, the 
more ^^athfully did he abuse me. Lend 
thee money? said he; I will lend thee the 
pangs of purgatory: Lend thee money! 
I will lend thee the whipping post. 
Thou knowst he was thy father, other- 
wise I had pulled him by the beard. 
Send me then comfort to thy afflicted and 
perishing son, quoth I, with a moderate 
supplicatory air. / luill see him jailed, 
doomed and hanged first, said he. 

Ram. He did not say this? 

Cab. Oh, not in such brief measures, to be 
sure: but that was the end of a ten min- 
utes' malediction. 

Ram. <Why then good luck to him and 
no more begging. Whose throat shall 
we cut? Money must be had. 

Cab. Thy father has most shamefully 
treated thee, that 's certain.> 

Ram. I will forget it when he has driven 
me to the grave, not sooner. Money 
must be had — and within a week. Men 
have been guilty of parricide. <Money, 
money ! Have you no money ? 

Cab. Here is a handful [of] shabby pista- 
reens, if thou art famishing. Let us go 
and drink a toast to Marco's fair wife.> 

Ram. Shall we hang, drown, rob, or com- 
mit murder? I will now do any villainy 
thou canst recommend me. 

Cab. Most unnaturally wronged, and un- 
naturally abandoned. This should ex- 
cuse any vengeance. Thou must do thy- 
self right. And thy milkfaced brother 
shall have thine inheritance ! Thou must 
right thyself — 

Ram. Before the week end; or I am in 
prison, and Juana married. 

Cab. I could teach thee a way. Come let 
us begone. 'Sblood! are there no scav- 
engers? — What have we here? By the 
mass, a key! Now might this belong to 
a rich man's door, and — 

Ram. Hah! 

Cab. Why what is the matter with thee? 
Is it gold? a basilisk? 

Ram. The lost key of my father's vault! 

Cab. Ho, have the saints forgot thee? 
Whj^, here is vengeance! wealth! Juana! 
— It is not thy father's key? 

Ram. I have handled it a thousand times ! 
'T was lost a month ago. 

Cab. Ha, ha ! tliy father bade me rob him ! 
Give me the key. Look — thou art poor, 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



227 



miserable; this will make thee happy. 
Did destiny put it under thy foot for 
nothing ? — Hark 'ee — this is the true 
mine ! Come, Juana is waiting for thee ! 
A little wine will put thee out of this 
stare, — and this will help thee to thine 
inheritance. (Exeunt.) 

<ScENE 2. The street before Febro's 
door. 

{Enter Leonor and Fernando.) 

Fern. Trust me, sweet Leonor, I have 
good cause 
To hide me from thy father. 
Leon. It is no cause 

Of a good man, that makes him shun the 
good. 
Fern. The best, that have infirmities, are 
worst 
Under their proper passions; and the 

foible. 
Which, in thy sire, to other men, seems 

harmless, 
May make him, in mine eyes, detestable. 
Leon. What is 't that makes you say so ^ 
If indeed. 
As I will not believe, thou lovest me, 
My sire should seem an angel in thine 
eyes. 
Fern. And so he should, did I not know, 
in his, 
My own poor image would be devilish. 
Leon. Well, I care not. You will be 
sorry soon, 
When I am wedded to another. 
Fern. Wedded ! 

You do but tell me this to mock my heart. 
Then laugh me out of sorrow. 
Leon. No indeed: 

'T was but this morning that my father 

said, 
I should be married to Don Baltasar. 
And I do think, because you will not do 
As love would still have taught you, for 

my sake. 
It will be best to marry Baltasar. 
Fern. To marry Baltasar! You cannot 
think 
To be so false. What, wed? and Balta- 
sar? 
Leon. He asks my father for me. 
Fern. So would I ; 

But that I know, the answer to my 

prayer 
Would be, the curse to look on thee no 
more. 
Leon. Not if thou beest an honest gentle- 
man. 



Fern. Honest I know not, for this love 
might ^eem 

To my stern father, subtle and deceitful; 

But so far honest, I would rather give 

These limbs up, to be torn by wild horses. 

Than ever do thee wrong. Sweet Le- 
onor, 

Know, if I seek thy sire, he will demand 
me 

My father's name; whereat I needs must 
speak 

Such hateful syllables, as will turn his 
heart 

As by a fiendish magic, into coals; 

And if he do not kill me (as, indeed 

The sudden pang of rage may urge him 
to) 

At least, he '11 drive me from thy face 
forever. 

I am the son of his worst enemy. 
Leon. Alas, he has no enemies. I ne'er 
heard him 

Speak of an enemy. 
Fern. The fiercest rage 

Hides, like the wolf, from daylight; the 
rough vulture 

Asleep upon his perch, doth seem as 
harmless 

As the poor innocent dove that 's nested 
by. 

And Febro, brooding o'er a secret hate, 

Maj^ veil his anger with a face of peace. 

Why should he speak of enemies to thee ? 
Leon. Art thou indeed his enemy? 
Fern. No, not I. 

I did forget the rage my father taught me 

Soon as I looked on thee. — Wed Balta- 
sar? 

Leon. I will not marry Baltasar. 
Fern. But lo, 

Thy sire will have thee forced. 
Leon. ^ What shall I do ? 

Some maids would be so silly, they would 

fly 

If much persuaded. 
Fern. If thou look'st upon me 

Howe'er my fearful thoughts may start 
at folly 

I will persuade thee. 
Leon. Not unless he force me! 

He '11 ne'er forgive me. 
Fern. thou simple sweet, 

If thy sire foam, mine o^ti will anger 
more. 

But we '11 forget them. 
Leon. Come to me again, 

And then perhaps I will — And if I do. 

My father will be so lonely. But then 
indeed 



228 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



He will forgive my brother: and, with 

my brother, 
He will be happy! yes, indeed, more 

happy 
Than with poor me. 
Fern. ^ Thou dost persuade thyself; 

And, in thy arguments, I am resolved. 
We will fly. 
Leox. Not till he force me ! 
Fern. Shall I wait? 

Till thou art married? Get thyself pre- 
pared : 
And see thou have not store of bags and 

boxes, 
As will overload a caravan of mules — 
Tonight I '11 come for thee. 
Leon. No, not so soon. 

Get thee away. There comes my brother 

Francisco ! — 
But come to me again, — yes, come again ! 
^ (Exeunt.) > 

< Scene 3. A room in Febro's house. 
(Enter Febro and Silvano, with books.) 

Feb. That money lent to Tomas Cata- 
lan, — 

Four thousand marks, — is it not due to- 
day? 

I' faith, 't was yesterday. Where is 
Francisco ? 

Doth he so slur my books? Why this 
way was 

With Ramon, when he 'gan to change 
and fall, — 

Four thousand marks — Threatened with 
prison too ! — 

A good, safe man. — His mother ne'er 
dreamed this, — 

Threatened with prison — penniless — for- 
sook. 

Why then perhaps the penance is too 
sore; 

His excellency says it is too heavy: 

He is a good man^ and a wise man too. 

And it may be, if I deny him more, 

Necessity may force him to such guilt. 

As will his ancient follies make seem vir- 
tues. 

Poverty has an angel's voice, to plead 

Excuse of sin. — The town doth talk of 
me, 

They call me overharsh; and Cabarero 

Says, it is I myself that ruin him. 

He '11 lose his bride too. Think'st thou 
not, Silvano, 

I might to Pablo's go, and no man see 
me? 
SiLV. To Pablo's, senor? 



Feb. No, let him come to me. I will do 

naught to make men stare at me. 
SiLv. The saints forbid!— I think he has 
not his mind. 
Rob him! and go to Pablo's! or have 

Pablo, 
That low, base, scurvy rascal, come to 
him I 
Feb. Say he be jailed, the lesson then is 
ended ; 
The foul familiar parts from him; and 

he 
Repents him in his bonds. But that dis- 
grace 
May break his heart : I have known men 

die of shame. 
For that, to lofty spirits, is such an air 
As kills the lusty miner in the rift; 
A breath is fatal. 
SiLV. Talk you of killing, master? 

Feb. foolish fellow, why dost thou stare 
at me? 
Methinks Francisco tarries overlong. 
SiLV. He comes, sir. 

(Enter Francisco, hearing gold.) 

Feb. Get thee hence — look to the door. 
Thy duty. (Exit Silvano.) 

Fran. Father, I have brought the gold: 
An excellent sum too. Shall I to the 
vaults? 
Feb. Look, boy, where are thy wits? I 
find me here 
Four thousand marks that yesterday were 

due. 
And not yet rendered. 
Fran. From Tomas Catalan? 

Father, I saw him yesterday indeed, 
And he desired me fetch it home today. 
Feb. Why that was well. But wherefore 
spoke you not? 
Will you do all and with no word from 
me? 
Fran. Father, I told you, and you did 

consent. 
Feb. Did I so, boy? Ay, now I recollect 
me, — 
This plague o' the heart doth dull the 

wit. 'T was well. 
And Joseph Lucas^ have you heard of 

him? 
Is 't true his mine is flooded ? 
Fran. Deluged, father. 

Utterly lost. 
Feb. And he hath nothing left 

To pay me back that mine (I think I am 

mad 
To lend such sum to any mortal man) 
That mine of pesos I did lend to him? 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



Fran. No, nothing, father; he is wholly 

ruined. 
Feb. I shall be ruined too ! Why 't was a 
fortune 
For any man, a rich and princely for- 
tune : 
I slaved out years to win it. I shall be 

ruined. 

I may live to see you brought to want. 

Fkan. "^ No, father. 

Lose twice as much, enough remains for 

us. 

Feb. You will have enough with Ramon's 

portion ! 
Fran. Father, 

Forgive my brother, give my portion to 

him. — 
1 will live happy in a monastery. 
To know he is content and you with 
him. 
Feb. Thou art my loving boy! — Get thee 
to Catalan; 
Bring me that money; and when thou 

hast marked it, 
And also that his excellency gave thee, 
Store me both in the vault. 
Fran. Shall I not have 

The masons to wall up the garden door*? 
The match-key, father, of the outer 

door, — 
Some rogue may find it. 
Feb. It is about the house; 

I did myself mislay it ; and I will find it, 
Soon as these troubles vex my mind no 

more. 
But ne'ertheless, we '11 wall the door to- 
morrow. 
Get thee away; be swift; and after that 
Make haste to mark the coin and store it 
safely. 
Fran. Father? 

Feb. What wilt thou? 

Fran. Father, when I am come 

To Catalan's door, I shall be nigh to 
Pablo's. 
Feb. Ay ! 
Fran. If I might but speak then with my 

brother — 
Feb. Get thee to Catalan; speak to none 
but Catalan; 
And think of none but Catalan. Or in- 
deed. 
If thou must think of Ramon, let thy 

dreams 
Bring thee instruction, and inform thy 

heart 
What is the end of disobedience — sor- 
row, 
Abasement, shame, neglect, abandonment. 



Think of thy brother, but be far from 
him.> {Exeunt.) 



Scene 4. The street before Febro's house. 
(Enter Mendoza and SiLVAro.) 

Men. It is very strange. 

SiLV. He grieves, sir, much for his son; 
and I think that sorrow is e'en setting 
him crazy. 

Men. He talked with that debauched fel- 
low, Cabarero? 

SiLV. Ay, sefior ; with the decayed and dis- 
reputable hidalgo, Cabarero — about 
Spain, and Carthagena, and a ship, and 
five thousand ducats. Seilor, would a 
wise man invite another to rob him? 

Men. To rob him? 

SiLV. Pie said, there was money in his 
vaults. He might have told him, he 
could break in from the garden, and the 
cellar. To be sure he said he would 
hang him, when it should come to be dis- 
covered. 

Men. I have seen in him no sign of do- 
tage, nor of madness; but this savors of 
both. 

SiLV. And what should make him think of 
Pablo? He asked me, might he not go 
to Pablo, and no one see him ! 

Men. This is still as strange; for Pablo 
is notoriously suspected to be a rogue. 

SiLV. He talked of killing too ; <and with 
poisons as deadly as the foul air of a 
mine.> Now had he thought of killing 
Pablo, I should not esteem him so mad; 
but to think of going to Pablo ! That is 
most lunatic-like. 

Men. He shall not need that; for, see, 
here comes the knave Pablo to him. 

(Enter Pablo.) 

Pab. God save your worship, Senor Men- 
doza. Good e'en, honest Silvano. Is 

your master at home? 
SiLV. Why if he be at home, what is that 

to you? 
Pab. So much that I must even beg of 

your friendship to be admitted to speak 

with him. 
SiLV. <To be dinged over the head with 

an old ledger, or a bundle of ingots? 

Why thou graceless, besotted vagabond! 

what puts it into thy mind to think he 

would lend thee anything? 
Pab. Why if I have good security, why 

not? I am as honest a man as another, 



230 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



I care not who knows it. I have busi- 
ness with Senor Febro, your master; and 
you were best tell him so, for it concerns 
him to know. 

Men. If thou wert not beyond the belief 
of an honest man, thy impudence would 
utterly ruin the fame of an honest man,> 
How canst thou have the folly to think 
that Febro will speak with thee? 
Pr'ythee g'et thee gone, ere he come out 
and do thee some violence. 

Pab. Who knows? I am here on mine 
own business ; and I will have the law of 
any one that hinders me. 

SiLV. If thou wilt have the law, it must 
come to thee in shape of a halter. Go, 
you rogue, get you gone. — Law! were 
there any law in Bogota, thou shouldst 
have been the first chapter of its execu- 
tion. 

Pab. I will not go till I see Seiior Febro ; 
and if you cease not reviling me, you 
rascal crumb-eater! you door-hinge! you 
cloak-thumper ! you hook for an old hat ! 
I '11 beat your bones into brickdust. 
You rascal ! You will have me in a pas- 
sion? You will deny me to see your 
master? You will call me scurvy 
names ? — 

Men. Out, sirrah! will you brawl before 
Febro's door? See, your insolence has 
drawn him forth, and now you will an- 
swer it. 

(Enter Febro.) 

SiLV. Ay, now look, you rascal; now you 
will be talked to. 

Pab. Good, your worship, Seiior Febro! 
I have ^ message from your son. 

Feb. From Ramon? 

Pab. From Ramon, seiior; and this noisy, 
idle, lick-mouthed platter-monger — 

SiLV. Please, your worship, I said you 
would speak with no such base fellow. 

Feb. You were overf orward, sirrah ! 

Men. What, Febro ! it is not creditable to 
notice such a man. 

Feb. Good friend, you shall pardon me — 
I will be mine own adviser. Senor Men- 
doza, you are welcome. If you fear the 
taint of his presence, you can walk by. 

Men. {Apart to Silvano.) We will ob- 
serve tliis interview from a distance. 

{Exit, with Silvano.) 

Feb. Now, sirrah, what message sends 
Ramon by such a messenger? 

Pab. I hope your favor will pardon me — 

I have h?irbored the young m\ox long, 



Feb. Speak the message, and no more. 
He sends thee to me for money? 

Pab. Hoping your excellent mercy will 
pity his misery, which is greater than he 
can bear, and my poverty, which en- 
forces me to pray your goodness for 
some relief. 

Feb. Why, what care I for thy poverty? 

Pab. My friendship for the young man 
has brought me into great necessity; and 
here he acknowledges, unless I am paid, 
I may justly throw him into prison. 
But I hope your worship will not compel 
me. 

Feb. <A thousand ducats! Thou art a 
lying knave: where got'st thou a thou- 
sand ducats to lend him ? 

Pab. 0, there is much of that that was 
the cost of his food and lodging; and 
then for the rest, I borrowed ii, to help 
him open his mine. But 'twas opened' 
without profit, the money was swallowed, 
my creditor is enraged ; and now the end 
is this — I must send Seiior Ramon to 
prison, or go myself which he here con- 
fesses, and prays your bounty to protect 
us both. 

Feb. And hast thou the impudence to 
suppose I will give thee a penny to save 
thee from this fate? 

Pab. No, seiior, but I think you will do 
this much to save Ramon — whereby I 
shall be saved myself.> 

Feb. Do as thou wilt; thou shalt have no 
money. Put him in prison — I am con- 
tent. He shall have nothing to keep him 
from the fangs of thee and thy compan- 
ions, whom he has chosen his friends. 

Pab. Truly, sir, misfortune is no elector 
of friendships, as, by mine honesty, I 
know full well. I am myself forced by^ 
my necessities to love men I hate; and 
surely, I think, Seiior Ramon would not, 
unless obliged by his misfortunes will- 
ingly consort with men of my degree. 

<Feb. Dost thou speak this in honesty 
and humility? or is it a lure to deceive 
me? 

Pab. Oh, sir, I have known better days; 
and therefore do I pity Seiior Ramon, 
because I see him treading the same path 
of folly, which led me into my present 
baseness. 

Feb. I have mistaken thee!> 

Pab. I have counselled him, too, against 
his gambling and his drinking; for, be- 
sides that I saw how such courses would 
utterly ruin him, I liad no hopes of ever 
being paid for the cost of supplying him, 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



231 



Feb. Oh, then, if thy interest run the 
same way with thy humanity, I have 
much reason to believe thee honest. 

Pab. Truly, it is a sad sight to see a 
young man led astray by evil compan- 
ions — a young man, and good. 

Feb. Young, and once good! 

Pab. I cautioned him that Cabarero was 
a most dangerous companion; it was no 
honor to be friends with such a hidalgo. 

Feb. Thou didst ! 

Pab. In faith, I told him, Don Antonio 
had been the ruin of every young man 
he had sworn love to; and he might see 
what good had come of his friendship, 
when he looked on his own wretchedness. 

Feb. <Is it possible I have wronged thee 
so much?> Thou didst tell him this? 
Well, what said he? 

Pab. He wept, and said, his father's se- 
verity had left him no other choice — 

Feb. Ah ! 

Pab. And swore if thou wouldst forgive 
him, he would never more speak with 
Cabarero. But, he knew, thou wouldst 
not. 

Feb. Tell me the truth, Pablo, and thou 
shalt not be sorry. Did Ramon say this? 
What! never more speak with Cabarero. 

Pab. I were but an infidel to belie him — 
he said this, with many tears — 

Feb. With tears? 

Pab. Crying, in his despair, it was no 
matter, thou hadst forsaken him and the 
sooner his ruin was accomplished, the 
better ; thou wouldst have no more shame, 
when he was in his grave. 

Feb. In his grave? Is he reduced to this 
despair ? 

Pab. Despair indeed! All last night 
while Cabarero was drinking, he did 
nothing but kiss an old rosary, that he 
wears round his neck, with a devout pas- 
sion <that nothing but great misery 
could breed up in a young man.> 

Feb. That rosary did I give him, in his 
youth. 
It is enough — he is not all depraved. 
Pablo! mine own eyes shall be witness 
Of his contrition; and haply, if I find 
What thou hast spoken is to them con- 
firmed, 
Thou shalt have all that he does rightly 

owe thee, 
And more, to mark my favor. 

Pab. Please your worship, 'tis very true 
— A thousand ducats, seiior. 

Feb. Till I am satisfied thou ghalt have 
nothing. 



Tonight, I '11 come to thee, and suddenly 
Appear before him; <when, indeed, if 

sorrow 
Be working at his heart, it needs must 

out 
Into a bursting penitence. > 
Pab. God bless your worship. 

I '11 have Antonio set aside. 
Feb. That villain! 

I have had sinful dreams, and sometimes, 

almost 
Have thought to buy some rogue to take 

his life. 
<I fear me, Ramon cannot be my 

Ramon, 
While Cabarero lives to tempt him.> 
Pab. 0, your worship, 

There are men, who for a recompense 

would put him 
Out of the way — Perhaps a thousand 

ducats — 
At most two thousand — yes, in faith, two 

thousand. 
With some few charges to escape the law. 
Might have him cared for. 
Feb. Nay, leave him to heaven: 

I '11 buy no Ramon at the price of blood. 
<After the nightfall, I will come to 

thee.> 
Be sure thou dost not speak of mine in- 
tent— 
<Thou shalt have nothing else:, speak 

not a word.> 
Expect me — Now, away. 
Pab. Alack, your worship 

Will give me no rehef? Some little 

money 
To buy the boy a supper — w^e are very 

wretched ! 
Feb. What, wanting food? 0, heaven, 

my strictness runs 
Into a wicked, barbarous cruelty! 
Here 's gold — Buy food ; but say not 

whence it comes. 
I '11 bear enough to free him from thy 

hands. 
After the vespers — Mark me, after ves- 
pers. 
<Away now, thou shalt see me after 

vespers !> (Exeunt.) 

end of act second. 

ACT THIRD. 

Scene 1. A room in Pablo's Inn. 
(Enter Cabarero and Pablo.) 
Cab. After the vespers ? he will come him- 
self? Every way, this is extravagaat 



232 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



good fortune. He will bring gold too? 
Better still! That gold, were lie an an- 
gel, shall witness him out of heaven. 
He shall call me rogue and cur, and such 
vile names, and not be remembered? he 
shall gibe me when I offer to ennoble 
his dowdy daughter? Oh, I have often 
dreamed how he should repent him! 

Pab. Come, 'slife, this will be too improb- 
able, and dangerous. 

Cab. He would hire thee to assassinate me 
too? 

Par. Ay, never believe me else : he offered 
me two thousand ducats to slay thee. 
But I told him thou wert my true friend 
and I would not kill thee for so little. 

Cab. a rope for a dagger! a gibbet for a 
ditch! Oh, I see him, as in a picture, 
with the priest at his side, the hangman 
at his neck, and the multitude hooting 
him to the scaffold, and all the while, I 
am rattling his dollars in my pocket! 

Pab. <I tell thee, I liks not this plan. 
Here are two others: — First — we will 
take Ramon into our counsel, reconcile 
liim with his father and use him for our 
banker. 

Cab. Hang him, no: his milk and water 
cowardice will keep us beggars. If his 
father forgive him, he will repent and 
forsake us. 

Par. Why, then — as the old man will 
bring a thousand ducats with him — we 
may help him to a ditch, and so make 
sure of that: for otherwise, he will see 
I am cheating him, and give me notliing. 

Cab. No killing! — except by the laws. 
Every way, I assure thee, this plan is 
the best. It is easiest, it veils us from 
suspicion, and it makes us most profit. 
If we are in danger, it is our only 
safety.> 

Pab. Well, I understand all— But if the 
viceroy should hang me? 

Cab. Thou art the king's witness, thy life 
is secure ; 't is but a week in prison, and 
thou comest out purified with a pardon. 

Par. a week in prison ! Before the week 
is over, they may sift out the truth and 
give me to Satan. 

Car. Why, then, we will bribe thee out 
of the jailer's hands, though it should 
cost a thousand pesos. 

Par. That's too much! I will get a man 
out for half that. 

Cab. Wouldst thou be economical with 
tliine own neck? Thy share shall not be 
the less, whatsoever be the cost. 

I^AB, Th^ story will be too incredible. 



Cab. Is not Ramon a good witness? 
Who shall resist his testimony? 

Par. But will he appear? 

Car. As surely as thou shalt; for he has 
that baseness of cowardice, he will sell 
the lives of all his friends, to save the 
worthlessness of his own. 

Par. I must have a full third. 

Car. a full half! Methinks that were 
but scurvy generosity to share our gains 
with this whining, unnatural rogue, who 
is but the cipher of the triumvirate! 

Par. I think so too! <'T is but honest 
to cheat him who cheats his father.> 

Cab. Remember th^at every coin carries 
the private mark of the broker; where- 
fore we must bury it till the hue and cry 
be over, and then melt it into ingots, as 
if it came from a mine. Harkee! — we 
will bury it in two portions, in one a 
thousand pesos or so; tliis shalt thou 
show the officers. But the other thou 
must swear was hidden from thee. 

Par. <I warrant me; but if you deceive 
me, I will impeach you, by St. Geron- 
imo, I will! 

Cab. Fear not; I can do nothing without 
thee. We will to Spain together. 

Pab. With all my heart, and without 
Ramon? 

Cab. Oh, he will marry Mendoza's daugh- 
ter ; and in the rapture of his matrimony, 
what will be the loss of a little money to 
liim?> 

Pab. Well, I am agreed: I long for the 
vesper bell. But remember, I say, Caba- 
rero, no roguery! 

Cab. Not a little, I tell thee: we w^ill rob 
and cheat like honest gentlemen and 
friends, <and enjoy our good fortune to- 
gether.> Come, I left Ramon at the 
bottle, and now he will be brave enough 
to lead to the vaults of darkness, or — 
his father. (Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. A room in Febro's house. 

{Enter Leonor and Fernando.) 

Leon. Pray you, begone; I did not prom- 
ise you; 
And if my father hear you, oh, dear 

saints, 
I shall have no more peace to stay with 
him. 
FeRxN^. Wilt thiou then stay and marry 
Baltasar? 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



233 



Now, wert thou half as wise as other 
maids, 

Thou wouldst not fright at this brave 
opportunity. 

But chain me on the instant. Silly love ! 

Though I am mad enough to fly tonight. 

Tomorrow may my father's strength pre- 
vail, 

And bond me to another. 
Leon. Indeed, indeed! 

And is there fear your sire will be so 
cruel? 
Fern. Nay, very certain. The anger of 
your father 

Is but a matchlight, kindling on the in- 
stant. 

And, on the instant, with a sigh put out ; 

But my sire's rage will be a conflagra- 
tion. 

<Lit in a mine, and roaring on forever. 

Oh, I could tell the stories of my sire, 

And of myself, if so I durst, would make 
thee 

Instant and resolute. For know, thou 
doubter, 

Whate'er his worth, my father loves me 
well: 

And know I not how long I might have 
courage 

To act the sin will lose me all that love. 

And gain me all that fury.> Where- 
fore, quick! 

While our fates smile on us, let us be- 
gone. 
Leon. In sooth, 'tis wrong. 
Fern. Why, here 's a delicate bundle 

Might grace the shoulder of a soldier's 
spouse, 

As sister to a knapsack. 
Leon. Alack, for pity! 

'T will break my father's heart. 
Fern. <It shall be mended. 

Now, with my life> I '11 warrant liis 
forgiveness : 

Would I could hope my father's! A 
rogue am I. — 

Thou know'st not at how rich a cost I 
buy thee. 

Come, do not weep: I swear, this flight 
will bring thee 

Nothing but happiness. 'T is I alone 

Will feel the punishment. 
Leon. And wilt thou feel it? 

I am determined then I will not fly, — 

Thus to bring trouble to thee. 
Fern. <Why, liere 's a wind, 

Fooling the compass! and yet so sweet 
and pleasant. 

Breathing the gentle odors of true love. 



That I'll forgive it. Fear not thou for 

me;> ' 
Whate'er of state and men's considera- 
tion, 
Whate'er of hope, or what of certainty. 
To rise to greatness, I give up for thee, 
<I give up with good will — at first, with 

fear 
And strong reluctance, but, at this goou 

hour 
With joy and pride ;> for now I know 

that fate 
May hide more happiness in a lowlj' 

cot, 
Than e'er the thrones in great men's pal- 
aces. 
<So to a cot we '11 hie us, in some nook 
Of a delicious valley, where the moun- 
tains. 
Walling us in with azure, up to heaven, 
Shut out all things but heaven. > 
Leon. 0, heaven be with me! 

I fear to fly. Come thou some other 

time : 
Let me think more of this. Come back 

tomorrow — 
Let me think more ; and, as I think, once 

more 
Look on my father's face. 
Fern. A thousand times, 

After tonight, for he will soon forgive 

thee. — ■ 
Nay, look not back. 
Leon. Ah! hark! we are discovered! — 
Another time — He is stirring in the 
vault ! 
Fern. Pause not, the door is open. 
Leon. It is too late : 

I hear my brother's step! Awaj^, Ro- 
lando ! 
Fern. This comes of trembling! 
Leon. Tomorrow night — 

Fern. Tomorrow ! 

Farewell, and dream of me. (Exit.) 

Leon. He '11 see the bundle ! — 
{Enter Juana.) 
My friend and Ramon's love! She saw 
Rolando ! 
Juan. Whv, Leonor, does no one watch 
the door? 
This might invite a robbery. 
Leon. Odd's heart, a robbery! 

Juan. And how you tremble ! 
Leon. I am not af eard ! 

My father is in the vaults; and so I am 

not 
Afeard of him or any other man. 
Juan. Afeard of him! Oh! you are 
much confused. 



234 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



Afraid of him! Why, sure it was no 

rogue, 
Although, good sooth, he mufifled up his 

face, 
As he brushed by me — Tell me, Leonor — 
I thought 'twas Ramon! 
Leon. And perhaps it was — 

Juan. Was it indeed! and did he see his 

father? 
And will his father pardon him? — Oh, 

for pity ! 
How could it be so, when so timorously 
He stole away, and stole away from me? 
<Why shouldst thou hide it from me?> 
Leon. Did you see anybody? 

Why Ramon was not here. 
Juan. Who could it be? 

Sure you are not ignorant, some man — 

some stranger, 
Cloaked to the eyes, was stealing through 

the house? 
Indeed you should call your father. 
Leon. He would be angry — 

Frightened, I mean — 
Juan. Oho ! a bundle nicely tied 

In a fair Eastern kerchief! and a man 
Stealing away! and then these thousand 

blushes, 
And contradictions! — 
Leon. Oh, my dear Juana! 

You '11 not betray me ! 
Juan. Shall I laugh at thee? 

I will not frown; I am not one of those 
That step between true hearts, and break 

them — Go ; 
Think what thou doest, before thou art 

resolved ; 
Think what thou doest, before thou leav- 

est thy father; 
Think of him well; think of thy brothers 

too; 
Think of thy lover, is he good and 

worthy ; 
<Think of thyself, thy maiden reputa- 
tion — > 
Think of thyself; then, if thy heart con- 
firms thee, 
Follow the guidance of thy love, and go, 
<With heaven to comfort thee — I will 

not stay thee. 
I would have no heart suffer, save my 

own.> 
But be not rash, be not precipitate : 
Methinks your flight would break your 

father's heart. 
Leon. I will not leave him, for I know 

indeed, 
(Heaven pardon me that e'er I should 

forget it!) 



He is wo enough for Ramon. 
Juan. Is he indeed? 

If that be so, then have I happier hopes 

To charm his anger into loving pardon. 

I came to be his suitor. 
Leon. Shall I call him? 

And yet I fear to have you pray him 
now. 

He has been vexed a thousand times to- 
day. 

And was a little strange and irritable. 

These crosses move him deeper than of 

old- 
Tomorrow will be better. 
Juan. Think not so. 

The happiness, almost the life of Ra- 
mon 

Rests on a speedy pardon. 
Leon. He is in the vault 

About some project. If you '11 wait 
awhile, 

Francisco will come back, and call him 
forth— 

Nay, there 's my brother ! 

{Enter Mendoza and Silvano.) 

Men. I tell thee, good Silvano, 

It is impossible. 
SiLV. Ask my mistress else. 

Juan. Father ! 

Leon. What is the senor's will? 

Men. By heaven! 

There 's roguery afoot ! Where is your 

father? 
There are knaves a-robbing him. 

{Exit Silvano.) 

Leon. Good sir, for pity, 

What do you mean? My father, these 

two hours, 
Has been i' the vaults. 
Men. I say it cannot bel 

There are ruffians in the garden : by this 

hand, 
I saw a lantern twice flash through the 

trees. 
Heard voices murmuring and — 

{Re-enter Silvano.) 

SiLV. The vault is locked: 

Heaven guard him well, my master is 
not there! 

I '11 to the garden. {Exit.) 

Leon. He did not come out! 

Perhaps they have murdered him! 
Men. What, help! ho, help! 

Here 's villainy ! foul, bloody villainy ! 

{Enter Francisco.) 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



235 



0, wretched boy, your father's vaults 

are robbed, 
And he perhaps is murdered! 

{Exit Francisco.) 
Leon. Give him help: 

He is old and feeble. 
Juan. <Do not be dismayed. > 

(Ee-enter SilvanO; hearing a cloak.) 

SiLV. Thieves! thieves! we are robbed! 
the garden gate is open, 
The cellar wall broke through, the vault 
exposed. 

{Re-enter Francisco.) 

This found I hanging on a cactus bush; 

This morn I noted it on Pablo's back. 

I know the robber! 
Fran. Run thou for alguazils, 

And follow me to Pablo's — Sister, fear 
not: 

The door is locked, my father is not 
there — 

It is no murder, but a robbery. 

Seiior Mendoza, will you go with me, 

Or tarry here, and break this to my 
father? 
Men. Nay, I will go with you — Stay with 
the girl. (To Juana.) 

my life, the strangest marvel! 
Robbed by Pablo ! 

We must be quick — A most strange vil- 
lainy! {Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. A room in Pablo's Inn. 

{Enter Pablo, Ramon, and Cabarero 
each hearing a hag of coin.) 

Cab. Victoria! Thou art revenged, en- 
riched and beatified; the mine is found, 
and Juana is thine own! We will melt 
these dollars into ingots, show them to 
Mendoza, and, tomorrow, thou wilt be 
in paradise. 

Ram. In hell, I think; for what devil is 
blacker than I? But he forced me to 
it! 

Cab. Ay, he forced thee to it. 

Ram. We are followed too; I hear the 
hue and cry! Let us escape — Do you 
not hear? 

Cab. I hear the beating of thy silly heart. 
Why what a cowardly poor-spirited 
knave hath vile liquor made thee! — Pa- 
blo, thou art the king of cheats — Wine, 
and a crucible, and a roaring hot fire — 



Hark! 



I tell thee, thou art mad! All is safe. 

Ram. Hark,* hark, Antonio! 

Cab. 'T is the rumbling of a cart. Fy 
upon thy white gizzard! Wilt thou 
never make a rascal of spirit? 

{A knocking.) 

Ram. \ 

Pab. J 

Ram. We are lost ! we are lost ! 

Cab. {To Pablo.) Down with thee to 
the door, and be wise. 

{Exit Pablo [Cabarero hides the gold].) 

Ram. We are undone! 

Cab. I will stab thee, if thou goest on with 
this clamor. 

Ram. Antonio ! 

Cab. Art thou not now a rascal? and why 
shouldst thou not have the wit and cour- 
age of a rascal? Put on a face of iron, 
and harden thy nerves into the same 
metal. — This is a friend — Lo, he comes 
to spy on thee! 

{Ee-enter Pablo, conducting Febro 
[Febro hearing a hag of coin.]) 

He can never forgive thee now^ remem- 
ber that. — Good even, Seilor Febro, j^ou 
are very welcome. 
Feb. Away, bad man! I'll have no 

words with thee. 
My office here is full of love and peace. 
And hath no part in thee, except to steal 
A victim from thee. Hark thee, Ramon, 

boy; 
Thou once wert good, and dutiful and 

loving — 
Loving, I say, and then, besides, thou 

wert 
The first life of thy mother. What thou 

wert 
To mine own old affections, I '11 not 

speak. 
Thou hast acted many follies; yet, be- 
cause 
<0f mine own weakness, and because I 

know> 
They have weighed thee down with heavy 

misery, 
I am willing to forgive them. 
Ram. Hah ! 

Feb. <Forgive them!> 

One thing alone — and if thy heart yet 

holds 
A grain of love, it will not start at that; 
<One thing alone will bear thee back 

again 
Into my house — perhaps my heart too.> 

Bid 



236 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



Farewell unto this man, who loves thee 

not; 
Know him no more; and here am I to 

free thee 
From his bad thraldom — Look, I have 
gold with me. 

{Displaying a hag.) 
Enough to ransom thee. 
Ram. What, gold! 
Feb. . I heard 

How far thy miseries had carried thee. 
Ram. What gold"/ hah! gold for me? 
Feb. Thou seest ! enough 

Perhaps o' the present, to discharge thy 

debts. 
And make thee good and happy once 
again. 
Ram. Ha! ha! 

Thou couldst relent then? Why thou 

art gone mad — 
Thou bring'st me money! It is too late. 
<Cab. {Apart to Ra:\ion.) Well said! 
Thou art a man. He waited his pleas- 
ure. What has he made thee?> 
Feb. Ramon, my son ! 
Ram. Oho! thy son! 

Why what a father had that son? a 

father 
Who, while forgiveness would have 

wrought the son 
Into a hol}^ penitent, gave him wrath. 
And turned him to perdition — What a 

father ! 
To do this mischief to his child; and 

when 
He saw his child i' the gulf of hell, to 

taunt him 
With words of pardon ! 
Cab. Bravo ! a proper spirit ! 

Thou seest, old man! thou wouldst not 

hearken to me. 
Oho, I begged you; but you called me 

rogue — 
Villain, and rogue. — 
Feb. Ramon, thou knowst not what thou 
sayest. Perhaps 
I was too hard witli thee ; but I repent me, 
Wilt thou have pardon? love and par- 
don? 
Ram. Yea; 

Curses for pardon, and a knife for love ! 
I am not thy son ; the thing that was thy 

Ramon 
Is perislied ! lost, forever lost ! no atom 
That once was his, left breathing, — all 

destroyed, 
And made the elements of fiends — Oh, 

hence! 
Away! old maniac, hence! 



Feb. Do I live 

And listen to my boy? 
Pab. Hark! 

Voices within. Thieves! 

Feb. 0, heaven, 

Thou judgest sorely! Is it so indeed? 
Would I had died or ere I heard these 

w^ords, 
These worse than death! Well, God be 

with thee, Ramon : 
Thou hast killed thy father. 
Voices. Thieves! thieves! thieves! 

{Enter Francisco, Silvano, Mendoza, 
with Alguazils. As they enter, 
Cabarero seizes upon Febro.) 

Cab. Stand fast! 

Old rogue, dost think to 'scape! The 

laws will have thee. 
The laws, I say, hah! 
Fran. Father ! 

Cab. Off, thou cub! 

Touch not the rogue. Your prisoner, of- 
ficers ! 
Febro, the robber of Febro! 
Fran. Villain and fiend! 

{He is held.) 
Feb. What is the matter, son? Will no 
man drag 
This fellow from me? 
Cab. Your prisoner, officers! 

A felon knave. 
Fran. 0, father! f ather !— Brother ! 
Why don't you speak? Why don't you 
kill the villain? 
Cab. {Apart to Ramon.) Away with 
thee! {Exit ^a-mo^.) 

Your prisoner, officers! 
Whom I do here accuse, with witnesses 
More perfect than myself, of robbery 
And fraud upon his trust. And here 

you have 
In his own hands, part ^f his felony; 
And, there i' the corner, more of his 
vile crime. 
Feb. Thou raving ruffian! 
Men. What, Antonio? 

Chargest thou Febro with self-robbery? 
Feb. Why, who is robbed? 
Fran. 0, father! 

Cab. It shall be proved. 

Pab. I claim the royal mercy. 
Men. Shake off this stare, 

Art thou insane? They do accuse thee, 

Febro, 
Of robbing thine own vaults. 
Febro. Do I not dream? 

Men. <!Thy doors are broke. 
Feb. I am ruined! 



[ 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



237 



Cab. Hark! he owns it! 

It shall be proved before his excellency, 

Perfectly proved, with witnesses enough. 

Here 's Pablo, his accomplice, has con- 
fessed. > 
Fran. 0, father! 
Feb. Robbed? 

Cab. <Take him before the viceroy — 

Feb. I'll have the villain for ten thou- 
sand ducats: 

I '11 have it proclaimed. 
Fran. 0, father! 
Feb. Robbed? 

Cab. Away?> 

— He apes amaze. Carry him to the vice- 
roy. 

It shall be proved before his excellency. 
[All. Away! Away! Away!] 
{Exeunt [Omnes. Febro in the hands of 
the AlguazW].) 

END OF act third. 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene 1. A room in the vice-regal palace. 

{Enter the Viceroy, attended.) 

Palm. They are insane that say't — the 

broker robbed ! 
And Febro turned a rogue ! Now surely 

madness 
May sweep o'er nations like a pestilence, 
And folly, like a corporal epidemic. 
Fever the minds of all. What is't but 

madness, 
Could fill the city with this riotous cry, 
Febro is robbed. Febro hath done a 

fraud? 
<I know the man — sure of all men most 

honest, 
And — I did think — most cautious. Yet 

it may be. 
As my fear whispers me, he has been 

robbed. 
And those — I know, I feel, how that may 

be— 
Those who have suffered in his losses, 

raise, 
From grief and rage, the cry of vil- 
lainy — > 
What! do they bring their fury to the 

palace? 
1st Officer. Even so, your excellency; 

they have dragged 
The broker to the gates, and cry for justice. 



Palm. Justice for all! Set them before 

us straight. 
That he who needs it most, this poor old 

man. 
May be protected from the accusers' 

rage, 
And they be taught how foolishly they 

wrong him. 

{Enter Cabarero, Ramon, Mendoza, 

Francisco, with officers bringing 
Febro and Pablo. Cabarero, and 
some others, crying Justice! jus- 
tice!) 

Palm. What now, ye violent and thought- 
less men. 

What crime you are committing, know 
you not. 

Thus, with rude hands, dishonoring the 
body, 

And, with rude tongues, the name and 
reputation, 

Of a most honest worthy citizen? 
Cab. Your excellency is deceived; this 
man 

Is a most subtle and confirmed rogue, 

<As will be witnessed to your excel- 
lency. 
Palm. What, Febro! dost thou hear? 
What means this charge? 

Why do I find thee thus?> 
Fran. Oh, noble viceroy, 

Punish these men, that, with such slan- 
derous hate. 

Destroy my father. 
Cab. The prisoner, please your highness, 

Has been discovered in a knavish fraud. 
Palm. Hold thy peace, yet. — What, Fe- 
bro! 
Feb. I will speak — 

Thou rogue, I '11 have thee howl ! Ay, 
by my troth. 

And every man of them. Are they all 
crazed ? 

<0h, I am glad to see your excel- 
lency — 

These rogues ! these rogues ! 0, but that 
I have lost 

My faculties in wonder, I could speak 

Till they were struck with shame. What 
is the matter ?> 

Their cry is, I am robbed. I know not 
that; 

<Pray you discharge me, let me see to 
it. 

I cannot think 't ; and yet it may be so. 

I may be robbed (heaven pity mine old 
age!) 



238 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



And many wronged with me — But 't is 
not that.'^ 

What do they mean? I pray, your high- 
ness, mark them. 

They charge me with dishonest prac- 
tices. 

Dishonest practices! If there be law, 

I will have vengeance on them. 
Palm. So thou shalt. 

To the extreme of justice — Good Men- 
doza — 

Thou art the calmest here; speak what 
thou knowst 

Of this same robbery. Is there a rob- 
bery? 

<Hath any man been spoiled of prop- 
erty ?> 

Have Febro's chests been broken? 
Men. Please, your highness, 

'T is even too true; and true it is (I 
say it 

With shame and sorrow, and with much 
amazement) 

There are particulars of damning mo- 
ment, 

That show connivance where one would 
not think it. 
Feb. By heaven! 'tis false! "Who is 
there could connive 

Of all my house? Will any say 'twas 
I? 

<Ay, they do say it; they do charge it 
on me!> 

Pray, good j'our excellency, search this 
well; 

<Pray you, be quick, and let me know it 
all. 

There is some plot against me; I am 
robbed. 

Well, is not that enough? I am then 
ruined — 

If robbed, why ruined; for, of all still 
left, 

There 's not enough to cover o'er that 
loss. 

That will bring many into need. Search 
well;> 

Find me the rogues, and give me back my 
gold; 

I can with that pay all, and more than 
all. 
Palm. Febro, I pity thee. — this looks not 
well — 

Say'st thou, connivance? <In some 
hour of madness. 

Spirits of virtue have themselves for- 
got, 

And, in one deed, turned villains. > 
Speak, Mendozaj 



Utter the charge, if charge thou hast to 
make; 

<Tell me thy tale, if any wrong thou 
know'st;> 

And, in my quality of arbiter, 

I will forget who is the man accused, 

And judge him as a stranger. 
Feb. Let him speak; 

I do defy him; let him speak; let all. 

All men, my foemen and my friends 
alike, 

I do defy to speak a wrong of me ! 
<Men. Until today, I dreamed no wrong 
of Febro; 

Nor, please your highness, could I dream 
it now. 

But that I think he has not his proper 
mind. 
Feb. Why that may be; you keep me still 
bewildered. 

Knowing myself all ruined, but not how ; 

Traduced, maligned, but wherefore ig- 
norant. 

Despatch, Mendoza, for I have no fear. 

You will be sorry to have thought this 
wrong. 

Not in my mind! In sooth, j^ou do dis- 
tract me.> 
Men. Please, your excellency, 

Pablo, the innkeeper, here throws him- 
self 

On the king's mercy; and, himself avow- 
ing 

Accomplice in the act, Baptista charges 

To have been his leader. 
Fran. Oh, your noble highness, 

This is an open villainy. That Pablo 

Is a notorious rogue, <a thief and 
liar,> 

Not to be hearkened to by honest men. 
Palm. Silence, Francisco; be not over-^ 
rash ; 

Thy father shall have justice. 
Men. Noble sir, 

What the youth says of Pablo is most 
true; 

No honest man should hearken to his 
speech ; 

Yet Febro spoke with him, and I my- 
self 

Witnessed the conference. 
Feb. Why, so I did; 

I spoke with him. 
Palm. Peace, Febro, Heaven 

be with thee! 

<This is a cloud that gathers to a 
storm !> 

He spoke with Pablo? 
Men. Yes, and gave him money. 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



239 



His man Silvano there stood at my side, 
And watched him with me. <At my 

words of wonder, 
(For truth 'twas wonderful to see the 

broker 
In earnest speech with such a man as 

Pablo) 
Silvano> [and] told me how, short time 

before, 
Febro demanded, if he might not steal 
To Pablo unobserved; and did assure me 
He feared his master was not in his 

mind; 
Wherefore, in proof, he told me how, 

before, 
Febro had talked with sefior Cabarero, 
Inviting him to robbery and flight, 
And such wild things as surely proved 
him mad. 
Cab. Put me on oath, and let me swear 

this true. 
Feb. Why this is true. 
Fran. O, father! father! 

Palm. Febro ! 

Feb. I say ^t is true ; where is the need to 

swear it? 
Palm. Febro, be wise; — I pity thee. 
Feb. I never 

Thought to conceal it. Without fear, I 

own it; 
I talked with Cabarero, and did urge him 
To rob me. — 
Cab. He confesses! 

Fran. Pray you, stop him: 

He knows not what he says — 0, father! 
Feb. Boy, 

Did I e'er teach thee then to lie ? — I own 

it' 
I bade him rob me, <at the evil urgings 

Of my bad fancy ;> for I hoped that 

act 
Might bring him to the scaffold; and I 

thought. 
If he were dead, Ramon, my outcast 

Ramon, 
Might be mine own again. 
Cab. Now by my faith, 

That Ramon, whom he seems to love so 

well. 
He kept in want and misery, and knew 

it. 
For Ramon I besought him, he denied 

me. 
He owns the urging — ay, he urged me 

sore. 
I will not say with what rich tempting 

offers. 
In sooth, I thought him mad; for where- 
fore should he. 



In his old age, invent so wild a fraud? 

'Tis true, he had had losses — and per- 
haps 

These same had turned his brains ; where- 
fore I hope 

Your excellency will be merciful. 

Sure he was mad; though subtle and dis- 
creet 

In the vile plan he showed me. 
Feb. 0, thou villain! 

I am sorry I did spare thee. For a little 

I could have bought thy life. — Your 
highness 

Hears him! 
Cab. Your highness hears him! Pablo 
will confess 

He would have bought him to assassinate 
me. 

It was not safe for him to have me live; 

But nevertheless I bring not that against 
him. 
Feb. It is not true; and Pablo knows I 
told him. 

We would this bad man leave to heaven. 
Palm. Still Pablo ! 

And wilt thou still, unhappy, Febro, 
darken 

Thy hope by such admissions? What, 
indeed ! 

Hold speech with Pablo? and on such 
black subjects? 

Talk with a wretch about another's mur- 
der? 
Feb. I talked with Pablo; will your high- 
ness blame me? 

It was of Ramon, and his miseries; 

I gave him money too — ^it was for Ra- 
mon! 

I sought his house, but it was still for 
Ramon ! 
Cab. And Ramon should have been his 
accessory ! 

(Apart to Ramon.) Peace, <on thy 
life!> There is good proof of this ; 

Wilt not your excellency list to Pablo? 

The bark was ready on the river; seek 
it; 

It waits for Febro — Pablo can speak all. 
Palm. He shall be heard. Speak thou 

again, Mendoza. 

I am amazed and shocked. What 
know'st thou more, 

To make this madness yet more prob- 
able ? 
Men. My terrace roof overlooks Bap- 
tista's garden. 

I sat above, to breathe the vesper air; 

And twice or thrice, I marked a glim- 
mering lamp 



240 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



Among the shrubs, and, in the end, a 

light 
Flashing as from an open door, where 

was 
No door, save one ne'er opened. <This 

thing moved me; 
And giving all my faculties to watch, 
Forthwith I heard low murmurs as of 

voices, 
And, once or twice, the crashing of 

men's feet 
Along the pebbled alleys.> Straight I 

ran 
To give the alarm. Febro was in the 

vault. 
And all the evening had been; so I 

learned 
From his affrighted daughter, who was 

sure 
(And so Silvano) he had not passed out. 
Judge my surprise to find the door well 

locked, 
And Febro vanished! how, but through 

the door 
That opened on the garden? and with 

what, 
Save the rich treasures which were there 

no more? 
Fran. Alas, the key that oped that gar- 
den door. 
Was lost a month ago; and my poor 

father 
Tomorrow would have walled it up. 
Palm. Tomorrow ? 

For a whole month he left his vaults ex- 
posed? 
This — Leave the substance of confiding 

men 
To a month's accidents and knaveries! — 
This looks but darkly. Speak; what 

more, Mendoza? 
Men. Some wild words dropped from 

mine own daughter's lips: 
She had abruptly visited the house, 
And stumbled on a man close muffled up. 
Who brushed by her, and fled; and, in 

addition, 
Found Leonor confounded and per- 
turbed. 
Her mantle in her hand, and at her side 
A bundle, seemingly prepared for 

flight.— 
Feb. My daughter! If thou beest a man 

and father. 
Discharge me straight, and let me save 

my cliild. 
That slave Rolando! 0, I see it now; 
He is the rogue ! 't is he has broke my 

vaults, 



And steals my girl away! — Let me be- 
gone. 
My Leonor! — I'll give you up my life. 
If you seek that; but let me save my 
child! 
Palm. Stay. My heart bleeds for theCo 
I cannot free thee. 
This charge is heavy, and most like to 
truth. 
Feb. You have no heart! — Francisco, you 
are free; 
Tou have not robbed, nobody calls you 

rogue — 
Get thee to home, and to thy sister. 
Fran. Father ! 

Feb. Save me thy sister, or I '11 live to 
curse thee! — {Exit Francisco.) 
I thought your excellency was a man! 
You gave me friendship too. 
Palm. I did, Baptista, 

And will — disprove this fearful charge. 

Feb. My child! 

You keep me here, to set me mad with 

charges 
That make me seem a rogue; and all the 

while 
Dishonor seeks my child — A step might 
save her! 
Men. Let him be satisfied; his girl is 
safe; 
I left Juana with her. 
Feb. Heaven reward thee ! 

I will forgive thee all thou hast said 

against me. 
She has not fled! How could I think 

she would? 
Fly from me in my wretchedness! and 

with 
The man that robbed me ! 
Cab. Is not this well carried? — 

(Apart to Ramon.) Hold up thy hea^ 
— Thou seest how fortune helps us. 
Palm. Hast thou still more, Mendoza? 
Men. Silvano here 

Picked up the cloak of Pablo. 
Pab. I am guilty, 

I lost it in the garden. 
Men. But little more 

Have I to say, but, haply, that most 

fatal. 
With officers, we followed to the inn ; 
And there, in the hands of Cabarero, 

stood 
Unhappy Febro. 
Feb. Ay, most miserable! 

<Ramon, why didst thou say those 

things to- me? 
I think they have turned my brain! 
Men, Wretched Baptista ;> 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



241 



With still, even in his frightened grasp, 

a bag 
Of the same coin that had that moment 
vanished. 
Feb. I took it there — Why look ye thus 
upon me? y 

I bore it with me to redeem my soq^ 
Cab. Ay, sooth, with three bags more! 
{Apart to Ramon.) Think of 
Juana ! 
<This thing is for a time.> Seiior 

Mendoza 
Will say he found them : faith, 't w^as 

Pablo brought them. 
I can attest how this was all discovered. 
Palm. Mendoza, is this true? 
Men. Indeed most true; 

Here is the gold. 
Palm. What fiend possessed thee, Febro? 
Feb. Well, do you judge it true? How 
got it there? 
I do not know; I took but one bag with 

me. 
To save my boy. 
Palm. Whom didst thou counsel with? 
Alas, all weighs against thee. Hadst 

thou spoke 
But to thy daughter, or thy man, of 
this. 
Feb. I spoke with none: and wherefore 
should I speak? 
Will Pablo charge me? Pablo did de- 
ceive me; 
He told me lies of Ramon. 
Cab. There again! 

He told some truths — ^he told where they 

had hid 
Their ruffian spoils. 
Feb. He did ! and are they found ? 

All will be well again ! Confess all, Pa- 
blo, 
Where didst thou hide the gold? 
Palm. <Now, but that I 

Here see the wanderings of a dotish man, 
I should pronounce this folly innocence. 
Febro, attend: thy star is darkening 

fast; 
And the old trunk, whose wealthy 

branches hid 
The secret rot that hollowed at its heart. 
Is trembling in the tempest: lo, the 

bolt 
Comes to the earth, and hisses at thy 

front 
A moment, ere it fells thee.> Speak no 

more, 
If not more wisely — Thou, Mendoza, art. 
In all thou hast said, confirmed? 
Men. I am. 



Palm. And thou, Antonio, on thy hopes 

of heaven, 
Speak'st but the truth? 
Cab. I do. < {Apart 

to Ramon.) Shudder no more. — > 
And Pablo will swear all as I have said. 
If they do find the gold he swore they 

buried, 
'T will show his truth. 
Men. They have already found it; 

Yet a small part alone — some thousand 

ducats. 
Palm. Thou swear'st this, Pablo? 
Pab. Yes, your highness, yes : 

I hope for mercy! 
Palm. Tell mine officers 

Where lie the greater profits of thy 

crime. 
Pab. I know no more ; I left the bags with 

Febro, 
And him i' the garden, that I might 

straight bury 
Mine own share in the place whereof 

I told them. 
As for the rest, good faith, I know no 

more; 
Febro had charge of that. 
Feb. Now, were heaven just, 

Thou shouldst die with this slander in 

thy throat. 
Monster of falsehood! Has it come to 

this? 
Is 't true ? is 't possible ? a man like me, 
Old, — in the twilight of my years, and 

looking 
Into the dusky midnight of my grave, — 
An old man that has lived a life, whereon 
No man hath found a stain <0h! you 

are mad. 
To think this thing of me.> A fraud? 

a fraud! 
What! I commit it? with these gray 

hairs too? 
And without aim, — save to enrich this 

rogue. 
That swears away my life? 
Palm. Aimless, indeed. 

Unnatural, and most incredible; 
And therefore easily disproved, hadst 

thou 
One proof beyond its wonder. <Give 

me proof; 
Discredit not this knave, I know him 

well; 
But show thou wert not with him, — or 

for what; 
And hadst no gold with thee — or where- 
fore hadst it; 
Or do what will be better for thy soul, — 



242 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



Rouse from this dotisli fit tliat has trans- 
formed thee,> 

Repent, confess, deliver up the sj^oils 

<0f thy unhallowed avarice; and, in 
memory 

Of thy once stainless fame (no more un- 
sullied )> 

And in regard of years that should be 
reverend, 

In pity and in peace, we will discharge 
thee. 
Feb. I do repent me — of my miseries; 

I do confess — that I am wronged and 
lost, 

Robbed, and traduced, and by collusion 
slain. 

Trapped by false witnesses, and by an 
unjust judge 

Unrighteously condemned. 
Palm. Say'st thou, Baptista ! 

^An unjust judge?' 'unrighteously con- 
demned f 

What say the witnesses? thy friend, 
Mendoza ? 

Will he traduce thee? What Antonio 
here? 

Does he gain aught to harm thee ? What 
this Pablo? 

Who prates his own life into jeopardy? 

And what — By heaven, I would have 
spared thee that! — 

What says thy son? 
Feb. My son! my Ramon! Ky, let Ra- 
mon speak. — 

Hah! what! does Ramon charge me? 
Palm. Hear'st thou, Ramon? 

Cab. < {Apart to Ramon.) Wilt thou be 

ruined ?> 
Feb. Ramon? 

Palm. Dost thou see ! 

Horror hath made him dumb. Had he 
a word 

To aid thy misery, he had spoken it. 
Feb. Dost thou accuse me, boy? I do 
defy thee! 

What! swear against thy father? Ope 
thy lips; 

< Speak what thou canst. Oh, now I 
have been mad! — > 

Thou know'st full well for what I sought 
thee out. 

Why art thou silent? <Lo, a w^ord of 
thine 

Would clear up all; speak thou that 
word. AcQuse me? 

My son accuse me?> By the curse, not 
yet 

Uttered nor thought of — by the father's 
curse. 



That wilt convert thy bosom to a hell. 
Ne'er to be quenched by penitence and 

prayers. 
Speak, and speak truly. 
Palm. Stand aside. 

Feb. Ha, ha! 

One word clears all; and he will speak 

it. Hark! 
(Ramon, endeavoring to speak, falls 

into a swoon.) 
My son ! my son ! oh, you have killed my 

Ramon ! 
Palm. 'Tis thou hast done it. <What! 

though thou wert so cruel. 
Though thou hadst driven him from thy 

roof and love, 
He could not speak the word that should 

destro}^ thee.> 
Bear him away; his silence speaks 

enough, 
I will not force him to unlock his lips. 
In the unnatural charge. 

(Ramon is led out.) 
Art thou content? 
All speaks thy guilt. Confess; repair 

thy fault; 
Disgorge thy spoils. 
Feb, Do with me what you will, 

You have robbed and ruined me among 

you all, 
<What care I now how soon you take 

my life?> 
You make me out a felon, and have 

turned, — 
Heaven plague you all — ^have turned my 

children 'gainst me. 
Palm. Obstinate still? Confess, and take 

our mercy. 
Feb. The mercy of oppressors! Heaven 

confound you! 
I know why you condemn me, ay, full,^ 

well: 
<I could have paid you all — I have 

claims yet;> 
You kill me for your losses. — When you 

will: 
The grave is quiet, and Heaven will yet 

avenge me. 
Palm. Amazed and sorrowing, we pro- 
nounce thee guilty 
Of a most mad, most base, and wicked 

fraud, 
For which our laws of Spain demand 

thy life. 
Yet, in respect of thy augmented 

years. 
We spare thee that. Depart; live and 

repent thee. 
What property still openly is thine 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



243 



We seize for benefit of the man}' 

wronged. 
We give thee life, but judge thee igno- 
minious. 
And to remain in ward of officers, 
In thine own house, till all be satis- 
fied. 
Feb. Why you were better take my life 
at once; 
< You leave me naught to feed me ! and> 

the air 
You grant me leave to breathe, is but the 

poison 
Of a corrupted reputation. Kill me; 
What matters it? Your mercy is a 

name 
For a new rack, wherewith you will tor- 
ment me — 
The rack of shame and pitiless degrada- 
tion. 
A rogue! — a felon! — 

(Febro is led out.) 
Palm. <Poor wretch! I'll think of 
thee; 
I have a dream — and though all seem to 

speak thee 
Dotard and knave, it shows me other 

things 
But hide them yet. 
Cab. May it please your excellency, 
Permit me to depart, and look to Ra- 
mon, 
A very unhappy man. 
Palm. Away ! 

{Exit Cabarero.) 
Palm Thou, Pablo, 

We do adjudge to prison, to resolve 
More fitly of thy fate. 
Pab. i claim the royal pardon. 

Palm. I '11 find if thou hast won it. 

(Pablo is led out.) 
Look to it, officers : this man, Antonio 
Watch strictly; have him ever in your 

eyes; 
Give him no passage from the gates. 

For Pablo, 
Fright him with words of death, and find 

what secrets 
May drop from terror. Watch me Ra- 
mon too. 
I have strange fancies, — but these hints 

will serve you. 
Mendoza, have thine eye upon Baptista; 
What misery may come to him thou 

know'st ; 
Let him not want, nor 'let his children 

suffer. 
What cost soever thou art at to help 
them. 



I will requite thee; look to them to- 
night;. 
Tomorrow come to me again; I have 
A thought to hold discourse on — but not 
now.> {Exeunt.) 



< Scene 2. The street before the Palace. 
{Enter Cabarero and Ramon.) 

Ram. The Viceroy has given him his life? 
Well, I am glad of that.— Else should I 
have confessed all. His freedom too! 

Cab. Ay, I tell thee, — his life and free- 
dom, — all which is contrary to law. — 
Such a fraud is a matter for hanging. 

Ram. And thou thought'st, when thou 
persuadest me to witness against him, 
that he should die! 

Cab. By my faith, no: — I knew his life 
was in no danger. I told thee the vice- 
roy was too much his friend. 

Ram. He will come to want, Antonio! 
We will send him money. 

Cab. 'Slife, this is superfluous — and full 
of risk. 

Ram. I tell thee, he shall have money and 
relief, though it bring me to the gal- 
lows. 

Cab.^ Wilt thou be wise? 

Ram*. He was coming to me with pardon ! 
With money to relieve me! and with 
that money did I witness him to destruc- 
tion. 

Cab. Foh! thou said'st not a word. 

Ram. Hah ! that 's true : no man can ac- 
cuse me — I said nothing against him. — 
But my silence — my silence damned him, 
and it damns me. There is no fiend like 
to me. Witness against my father ! Kill 
my father! — Cain killed his brother, and 
his forehead was marked with the finger 
of God.— I— I— What is justice? I 
have no mark, who have killed my 
father ! 

Cab. Faith, not a jot — there is no mark 
about thee. — 

Ram. Thou liest, — it is here, — my soul is 
sealed with horror — black, black, — the 
leprosy of an Ethiop — the gangrene of a 
demon — all darkness — darkness — of hor- 
ror. 

Cab. Why, thou madman, wilt thou be- 
tray thyself? Think of Juana. 

Ram. Have I not bought her, even with 
my soul's perdition? How shall I look 
her in the face? 

Cab. Hark 'ee ! I am tired of thy whin- 



244 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



ing. If thou wilt be a man, I am tliy 
friend still; — if thou wilt endanger thy- 
self, and me too, by thy puling, boyish 
fright, I will leave thee to manage thine 
own affairs. — By my faith, 1 will. 

Ram. Desert me not, or I have lost Juana. 
— Give me thy advice; I will follow thy 
bidding. 

Cab. Let us depart. — Thy father is com- 
ing. — They are turning him from the 
pahice. 

Ram. Horror! — I cannot look on him. 
Away! away! — (Exeunt.)'^ 



< Scene 3. A room in Febro's house. 
(Enter Francisco and Leonor.) 

Fran. Ask me not a word, not now, — 
not now, — I will tell thee anon. — Our 
father is alive, I tell thee, — alive and 
well: — Is not that enough? It will 
break her heart, — Is not that enough? 
At the palace, I tell thee, sister. 

Leon. I am glad of that. — He is safe with 
the Viceroy. And the robbers, Fran- 
cisco ? 

Fran. Yes, yes! — heaven will discover 
them. — The robbers! the robbers! Sis- 
ter, you have done wrong to entertain a 
lover in secret. My father accuses laim 
of the robbery. 

Leon. Him! brother! Rolando! what, 
Rolando ! Oh, he was with me. He is 
a gentleman. My father does him a 
great wrong. — 

Fran. It may be so. Heaven protect 
thee. — Receive him no more. Tarry 
here; I will to the vault a moment, — I 
will be near thee. (Exit Francisco.) 

(Enter Fernando.) 

Leon. Oh, Rolando, Rolando, my brother, 
my father — 

Pern. Peace, Leonor, I overheard thy 
brotlier, — Dost thou think me a robber'? 

Leon. What, tJwuf You must forgive 
my poor father. — This robbery has per- 
plexed him sorely. But what disturbs 
thee? Thou art very pale, Rolando! 

Fern. Listen: this moment is the last I 
can look upon thee — 

Leon. Rolando ! 

Fern. If thou wilt fly with me, I will give 
up my father — my hopes — my station — 
everything, for thee; if tliou wilt not, I 
can never look upon thee more. 

Leon. You are jesting with me, Rolando! 



Oh, I can never leave my father. 
Fern. Heaven bless thee, Farewell. 
Leon. Rolando ! 
Fern. We must forget one another — I 

could tell thee a reason — but thou wilt 

hear it from others. 
Leon. O, my father! my father! 
Fern. I will love thee better, and forever 

— Thou Shalt be happier too. Thou fliest 

from misery. (Exeunt.) 

(Re-enter Francisco, with a Rosary.) 

Fran. This is enough to sear mine eyes 
forever, 

And turn my heart to ashes. — Wretched 
brother ! 

Thrice wretched father! Leonor, ho! 
Leonor ! 

Sister! Sister! Gone! oh, vanished! — 
Heaven, 

Thou art awroth with us! What, sis- 
ter! sister! (Exit.)> 



Scene 4. The street before Mendoza's 
house. 

(Enter Juana and Ramon.) 

Juan. Prosperity, — wealth, — happiness ! — 
They come too late. 
Oh, Ramon, Ramon! talk'st thou thus to 

me? 
Witness against thy father! say no more 
Of happy fortune ; but disprove this tale, 
That racks my heart with horror. — 

Happy indeed! 
Thou art awroth with us! What, dis- 
prove it: 
Witness against thy father! Didst thou,. 

Ramon ! 
Say no, and make me happy. 
Ram. They deceived thee — 

I spake no word against him, — not a 

word, . 
No man can charge me that. 
Juan. JSTo, not a word! — 

They charge not that. But thou wert 

there against him! 
Thy presence was enough! 
Ram. Reproach no more: 

I chose not to be with his enemies — 
They dragged me with them. Speak of 
this no more. 
Juan. Of this forever, till thou clear up 
all! 
Ramon, thou know'st me not. — Be thou 
the man 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



245 



My heart has pictured thee, oppressed 

but worthy, 
Sore tempted, but with yet a noble spirit, 
That tlirones its nakedness on a rock of 

honor ; 
And poor and wretched though thou be, 

deserted. 
Contemned and hated — nay, by all men 

cursed — 
Still do I rest thy friend and advocate — 
Thy more than friend, thy loving wife 

forever ! 
RAii. I am what thou behold'st — thy long 

betrothed. 
Once faith-preserved, and ever faithful 

Ramon — 
One and the same. 
Juan. Ah, no, no more the same — 

Thy father, Ramon ! — 
Ram. Who, for thy love, have borne 

Sorrow and wrath, and dreamed they 

were not ills, 
Locked hands with shame, and deemed 

me undefiled, 
Councilled with villainy, and thought it 

virtue. 
Because it pointed out a path to thee. 
Jtjan. a word 

And I have done with thee. — Then for 

what fate 
Heaven has in store, the altar or the 

grave — 
I shall not care'. — This do they charge 

thee, Ramon — 
Thy father was accused by noted 

knaves — 
His son — no, no — his son did not accuse 

him; 
But when adjured — (thou tremblest!) 

When adjured 
By the poor father, j^ea, besought, to 

speak 
Against the charge vhicli he did know 

was false. 
Condemned his father "with accusing 

looks — 
With a dumb lip assented, and with that 

silence 
Sealed him to shame and death! 
Ram. What could I more? 

I did all this for thee. 
Juan. For me ! for me ! 

Thou might'st have stabbed thy brother 

in the dark. 
Bartered thy sister for a villain's 

gold. 
Done an3i;hing unnatural and base, 
And told me, 't was for me ! for me ! for 

me! 



Ram. Thou art unjust. — In this is grief 
enough,' 
Without thy keen reproaches. — What 

could I more? 
I held my peace. — Wouldst thou have 
had me charge him? 
Juan. Didst thou then know him guilty? 
Speak me that. 
Upon thy soul's eternal welfare speak. 
Speak me the truth. — What, dost thou 

know him guilty? 
Know him a felon? 
Ram. This is then thy fear : — 

Thou scom'st the felon's son? 
Juan. Hah! if I do? 

What, trap him to't?— Wo's me! 
Ram. Juana, time will show 

Who is the guilty wretch — 
Juan. Oh, Time will show! 

Give it not up to time ! By all the grief 
That stains thy sire's gray hairs — by all 

the pure 
And solemn magic round thy mother's 

grave, 
I charge thee speak the truth. — ^Thou 

dost not think 
Thy father's guilty? 
Ram. Nay, Juana! 

Juan. Speak, 

Or never speak me more. — Tremble not 

— speak — 
Thou dost not think him guilty? — 
Ram. No, — no,— 

Juan. Wretch ! — 

Thy lips were dumb, and thou didst 

know him innocent! 
You heard him slandered, and stood si- 
lent by! 
You saw him perish, and held back the 

truth 
That would have saved him ! 
Ram. Is it come to this? 

Is this the guerdon to reward my 
love? 
Juan. Love! Did I love thee! What, 
this spirit, that, in 
A case of flesh, was all of adamant — 
A disguised devil! Is it come, to this? 
Thou say'st that well. — For now I know 

thee well, 
And hate thee — yes, abhor thee! 
Ram. Still unjust, 

Thou kill'st me for my faith. 
Juan. Now do I know 

They spoke the truth, who called thee 

base and vile — 
This fiendish act is warranty enough 
For any depth of lowness. — Oh, how 
fallen 



246 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



Thou art now, Ramon ! A year, a month 

ago !— 
But tliat no more. — I could have died for 

thee, 
Hadst thou held fast to thine integrity — 
Now, though it break my heart, I cast 

thee from me 
Forever, forever — I '11 never see thee 

more. 
Ram. Thou mak'st me mad. — The wrongs 

that I have done 
I did for thee. — I had no other hope. 
No other way to win thee. Dost thou 

leave me? — 
Then I am lost, — and nothing left with 

me 
But the sharp goadings of a vain re- 
pentance. 
False hearted maid! 'tis thou hast led 

me on 
Into this gulf of crime: What but a 

hope 
To win thee, could have made me what 

I am 
A thief and parricide! 
Juan. Oh, heaven, that opest 

Mine ej^es upon this horror, still sup- 
port me — 
A thief! a thief! 
Ram. I said not that. 

Juan. A demon 

Blacker than all! Confess thy crime 

and die. 
Confess, for all shall know thee! — 0, 

away, 
And perish in the desert, — I denounce 

thee — 
What ho, my father — ho! 
Ram. Juana ! 

Juan. Father ! 

Justice! there shall be justice done to 

all,— 
Justice, I tell thee, monster, though I 

die — 
Justice, ho, father! 

{Enter Mendoza — Ramon flies.) 

Men. What's the matter, girl? 

That wretched Ramon! — 
Juan. ' To the palace, father — 

Quick, lead me to the Viceroy. 
Men. Art thou raving? 
Juan. Oh, father, I've a story for his 
highness. 

Will make all rave. — And let me speak 
it now, 

While I have strength. 
Men, Come in, compose thyself — 



<Thou art disturbed, and know'st not 

what thou say'st. 
The palace, indeed — Thou art fitter for 

thy couch — 
So wan and ghastly. — > 
Juan. The palace, father, the palace! 

{He leads her in.) 

END OF ACT FOURTH. 



ACT FIFTH. 

Scene 1. A room in Febro's house. 

{Enter Silvano and Febro.) 

Feb. a rogue! a felon! convicted and 
condemned ! 
No wretch upon the street more given to 

scorn — 
No mine-slave, fretting under blows and 

lashes. 
Held to more shame. — Robbed, and for 

reparation 
Despoiled of all — even of my children's 

bread — 
And a good honest name too. — Well, in- 
deed. 
Heaven looks upon the sparrow's un- 
fledged brood. 
When murderers kill the dam — And Ra- 
mon too! 
Well, I 've two children yet ; — < where 

is Francisco? 
And Leonor? my children ?> It is true, 
Their sire brings shame upon them — But 

I think 
They will not turn upon me — Dost thou 

hear me? 
Where is Francisco? 
SiL. Oh, alas, dear master. 

The house is empty. 
Feb. Ah! 

SiL. The doors all open — 

No living creatures present but ourselves. 

Feb. <My children, I tell thee! 

SiL. Master !> 

Feb. 0, blest heaven, 

Strike me to death, for I am desperate — 

My children leave me: — Turn my heart 

to earth. 
Ere I do curse them! 
SiL. I think, I ho]>e 

My mistress now is with Mendoza's 
dauiihter. 
Feb. Why, so she is! I should have 
tliousrht of that — 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



247 



I dare be sworn she is — Francisco too — 
Where should he be, but with his sister? 

—Go- 
Fetch them to me. And tell them not to 

fear 
I '11 weigh upon them long — this wrong 

will end 
Ere many daj^s, and then men will forget 
To charge them with the shame of their 
dead father. 
SiLV. Francisco, sir! 

{Enter Francisco.) 

Feb. My daughter, boy, — my Leonor! 

Where did you leave your sister? 
Fran. <0, dear father, 

You '11 curse me when I tell you ! 
Feb. Fled, boy, fled!— 

Ha! ha! eloped! — dishonored! 
Fran. Father, dear father! 

Feb. Drugged to the bottom! — No gall 
and venom now, 
But I must drink them! With a villain 

fled! 
From shame to deeper shame — And in 

mine hour 
Of misery too! Oh, curse her! curse 
her! 
Fran. Father — 

Be not so rash — she may be yet recov- 
ered — 
Feb. I gave her to thy charge !> 
Fran. Oh, dear my father, 

I left her but an instant — but an instant 
Looked through the vault — and in that 

instant she 
Was stolen away — Father, I followed 

her — 
Saw her, at distance, with the ravisher — 
He bore her to the palace. 
Feb. To the palace! 

A ruffian of the guard — a Spanish ruf- 
fian 
Shall steal my child, and have the 

Court's protection — 
I '11 have her back though the proud 

viceroy's self 
Should bar against me with his villains 
all— 
Fran. Father, I followed to the door — 
the guards 
Denied me entrance, though I prayed it 

of them — 
Struck me back with their staves, and 

with rude voices 
Taunted and menaced me. 
Feb. Why back again! 

Thou wert the felon's son — that was the 
reason 



They jeered thee with thine infamy — 
Thou seest! 

'T is infamy to bear the name of Febro. 

Struck thee back with their staves! be- 
cause thou sought'st 

To save thy sister! They shall strike 
me too — 

The blows that bruise the body are not 
much, 

When that the heart is crushed — Come 
thou with me — 

A felon though I be, I will have en- 
trance — 

Though infamous and lost, I will have 
justice. (Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. A room in the palace. 
(Palmera and others discovered.) 

Palm. Frighted with death, and will not 

make confession? 
I know not why — all circumstances bring 
New confirmation of the broker's guilt, 
And yet, witliin my breast, some gentle 

spirit 
Whispers me doubt, and plays the advo- 
cate. 
That Pablo leave not yet — Hark to. me, 

officer; 
Carry him to the rack, but harm him 

not — 
<Place him before the engine, let his 

fancy 
Work on its terrors, till it paints his 

joints 
Crackling and sundering, his sinews 

bursting. 
His strong bones crashing in the or- 
deal — 
Nay, for an instant bind him to the 

wheel,> 
Make him believe that ye will torture 

him, — 
(Yet torture not, ye shall not harm a 

hair — ) 
Thus far put on the executioner, 
<And, in his terror, if no words of 

guilt 
Burst from his lips, my conscience 

doubts no more. 
And the poor mad old man is lost for- 
ever.> (Exit Officer,) 

Febro. (Within.) I will have entrance! 

Villains, stand aside! 
I'll see the Viceroy, and I'll have my 

daughter ! 



248 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



Palm. What now! the broker! At this 
midnight hour, 
Madding before the palace! 

{Re-enter Officer.) 

Off. Please, your excellency, 
Febro is struggling with the guards for 

entrance, 
He will not be driven back, — he calls 

your highness, 
And raves about his daughter. 
Palm. He is distracted: — 

Let him come in — Poor wretch, I pity 
him. 

(Enter Febro, Francisco, and Silvano.) 

<What now, old man? What is the 

matter with thee?> 
Feb. You bar your doors against me, 

and you put 
Armed rogues therein to thrust me back 

with staves. 
And keep my daughter from me. 
Palm. What would you, Febro? 

My doors are shut against the ignomini- 
ous. 
Feb. Ay, ignominious ! But I '11 have 

my child — 
<I '11 have my daughter ; fetch her to 

me straight,> 
Were you a crowned king, I '11 have her ! 
Palm. Now 

What fiend hath seized thee, Febro? If 

thy child 
Have fled from thee, heaven pity thy 

gray hairs, 
Why shouldst thou seek her here? 
Feb. Why, she is here! 

Your rogue has stolen her; you know 

that well — 
And you protect him. <0h, heaven 

visit you 
With pangs and misery>. Give me 

back my child — 
Give me my daughter, and I will for- 
give you 
The other mischiefs you have done me. 
Palm. Alas, 

'T is madness fills thee with this fantasy : 
<How should thy child be here! 
Feb. Will you not yield her?> 

I do beseech you, give me back my 

child— 
My loving Leonor! Oh, now, for pity, 

{He kneels.) 
Be just to me. Look on me, noble sir. 
You have broke my heart, but give me 

back my daughter. 



Palm. Rise up, thou old and miserable 
man, 

I pity thee, but know not of thy child. 
Feb. {Arising.) I do demand her; keep 
her, if you dare! 

What if I be a miserable man, 

A gray, old, broken, miserable man, 

A most dishonest and convicted felon. 

Ashes upon my head, and, in my heart. 

Anguish that 's measureless — a man de- 
spised. 

Stained, shunned, shut out from all 
men's sympathies? 

I have my rights, and, though so friend- 
less, seek them; 

I have my rights, and, though so poor, 
will speak them; 

<I have my rights, and, though so weak, 
will have them.> 

I ask my child, and, by my life, I '11 have 
her. 

I say I '11 have her. — Some ruffian of 
your guard 

Ravished her from me, while you kept 
me here — 

Rolando — 
Palm. Again art thou deceived, 

I have no villains in my keeping, Febro, 

And know, — of all my household, there 
is none 

So named Rolando. 
Feb. 'Tis a false name, then, 

The wretch is here — he has my daughter 
too — 

Francisco followed him, and saw him 
enter, 

My daughter with him. 
Palm. Say'st thou this, Francisco? 
Fran. I do, my lord; I followed him, and 
saw him 

Pass, with my sister, through the private 
gate— 
Palm. What ho, my guard! — the axeman 
with, his block! 

Let every man o' the court appear be- 
fore me. 

Thou shalt have justice, Febro, on the 
head 

Of him that wrongs thee. 

(All come in.) 

If thou know'st the man. 
Point me him out among this multitude. 
Dishonored though thou be, by all the 

saints, 
There is no man so noble, that shall 

WTong thee. 
And pay no reckoning to thy miseries. 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



249 



Feb. Hah! no, no, tliou art not Rolando 
—No- 
Dost thou not see him, boy? <Is he not 
here? 

Mine eyes are dimming.> Let the vil- 
lain speak, 

If he will straightway give me up my 
child, 

I will forgive him; — yea — and will pur- 
sue 

This thing no further. 
Fran. Rolando is not here. 

Palm. Thou seest, thou wert mistaken, 

boy. 
Fran. Your highness, no — 

I saw them well, Rolando and my sis- 
ter — 

She turned her face, when I did call to 
her; 

Rolando dragged her on. — 
Palm. Are all men here ? 

This moves me much. Search thou the 
palace o'er. {To an Officer.) 

Every man's lodge, even to mine own 
apartments. 

Let no man stay thee. (Exit Officer.) 
Hath any of the guard 

Fled from the palace? The ruffian shall 
be found ; 

I '11 search the city for him. 

(Enter Fernando.) 

Feb. Hah! 

Fran. Rolando ! 

Feb. Ha! ha! the rogue! the villain! I 
have him fast! 
Give up my child! 
Palm. How! Febro! 

Feb. This is the man! 

Palm. <My son! my son! Down from 
my seat of pomp. 
Into the earth of shame; I am as mis- 
erable. 
As T\Tetched now as Febro. Dost thou 

charge him? 
What him, Baptista?> This is my son, 
Fernando ! 
Feb. Thy son? Thy son shall ruin my 
poor girl. 
And break my heart! Oh, wretch, 

where is my daughter? 
<Thou didst delude her from me! 

Ruined, ruined! 
Howl thou in hell for this ! yes, howl, f or- 

ever!> 
Thou hast stolen the dearest daughter of 

the earth. 
And given her up to shame; oh, heaven 
distract thee. 



Make thy heart mad, but not thy brain, 

that thou 
May'st rot within, and have a sense of it ! 
<F£RN. Oh, saints, avert this curse, so 
undeserved. 
Most rash old man.> 
Palm. Didst thou ensnare the girl? 

<0h, wretched boy!> 
Fern. Dear father! Father, pardon! 

(Kneeling.) 
Feb. You hear him? He confesses. <0 

bitter wretch !> 
Palm. Stand up before me as a criminal, 
What — to his chambers! Bring the 

maiden forth. 
Old man, thou shalt have justice, though 

the gift 
Leave me all childless. 

(Some officers go out.) 
Fern. Father ! 

Palm. Peace, false wretch — 

Thy judge — no more thy father. (A 
noise.) More woes to mad us! 
{Cries of "Fehro is innocent F') 
What cry is this? 

(Ramon and Cabarero are brought 
in, and Juana a^id Mendoza.) 
Juan. Justice, your excellency! 

Justice for Febro! Villains have en- 
trapped him! 
False witnesses have sworn his life away, 
And there thou seest the falsest ! 
Feb. <0h, the villain! 

Give me my daughter, and then judge 
the rogues. > 
Palm. Speak, maiden, speak — if heaven 
have left me now 
One satisfaction greater than the grave, 
'T will be to right this wronged man. 

Which is he 
Thou call'st the falsest witness? 
Juan. Look — 'tis Ramon — 

Feb. Ramon, my son! 
Juan. He did confess to me, 

He knew his father innocent. 
Feb. Oho, you hear! 

I knew my boy would right me. 

(Going toward Ramon.) 

Juan. Hence, stand back. 

Touch not corruption — look on him no 

more. 
I do denounce him to your excellency. 
As one conspiring 'gainst his father's 
life. 
Palm. Oh, most unnatural — 
Feb. Hearken not to her — 

My Ramon ne'er conspired against 
me. 
Juan, Hear me. 



250 



THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 



He was my betrothed spouse, and well 

I loved him: — 
I give him up to justice, and accuse him, 
Even on his own admission, that he is — 
I live to say 't — a false witness and a 

robber ! 
<Palm. Can this be so?> 

Feb. Oh, thou unnatural girl! 

Hearken no more, your highness — she 

belies him. — 

{Re-enter 1st Officer.) 

Ramon is wronged, and very innocent. 
1st Off. Please, your excellency, 

Pablo, in terror of the rack, confesses, — 
Feb. Pablo 's the rogue and robber. 
1st Off. He confesses 

Himself participant in the robbery — 
Cab. He lies, base knave! 
1st Off. And charges, with his oath, 

This man, Antonio, and the broker's son 

Ramon, to be his principals. 
Palm. Just heaven ! 

And I have wronged thee, Febro? 
Feb. Pablo 's a rogue ! 

<What, Ramon f Ramon rob me? Ra- 
mon, my son !> 

I warn your highness, Pablo is a rogue, 

Not to be trusted. 
Cab. An atrocious rogue — 

A rogue foresworn — and moved to this 
invention 

By terror of the wheel. 
Fran. Brother, confess — 

Ram. Away — 

Fran. Confess, and save thy father's 
life- 
Repair the wrongs which thou hast done 
him. 
Feb. Sirrah, 

What dost thou mean? 
Fran. What, not a word? Oh, heaven. 

Look down with pity on my father now! 

Oh, now, your highness, spare my broth- 
er's life. 

For he is guilty of the robbery. 
<Cab. Hark to the cub I — next he accuses 

me.> 
Feb. Why, thou base boy, dost thou ac- 
cuse thy brother? 

Thy brother, wretch? 
Fran. Father, I do; forgive me. 

Feb. I curse thee, devil! 
Fran. Oh, curse me not, my father — 

I charge him to save thee— Hear me, my 
father — 

Thou know'st this rosary — 
Feb. 'T is Ramon's — ay — 

It was his mother's, and to keep her ever 



Before his eyes — his pure and holy 

mother — 
With mine own hands I hung it round 

his neck. 
To be tlie talisman of his memory. 
Fran. Father, this found I in the vault. 
Feb. The vault! 

Ramon! my son! My Ramon! — 
Ram. Guilty! guilty! 

Give me to death — for I have killed my 

father ! 
I am the robber and the parricide — 
The doomed and lost — the lost — oh, lost 
forever! {Rushes out.) 

Palm. Secure young Ramon: — This vile 
Antonio too — 
This devil-born destroyer of men's sons: 
I '11 make him an example. Look to 

them — 
Have them in waiting. 

(Cabarero is taken out. Mendoza 
goes with them.) 
Fy, how now, Baptista? 
We have done thee wrong? 
Feb. Well, boy, w^e will go home — 

Confess and pray — Call Leonor! 
Fran. Oh, father! 

Palm. His wits are fled — oh, fate, these 
thunderpeals 
So flashing through the heart, have done 

their work. 
And the mind's temple tumbles into ruin. 
Arouse thee, Febro ! Thy wealth shall be 

restored — 
Lucas, the miner, hath his pit recovered. 
And paj^s thee back a golden recom- 
pense. 
Fran. He thinks no more of that. 
Palm. Thy daughter, Febro! 

Feb. I '11 have you moan for this ! 
Palm. Thou shalt have justice. 

(Leonor is brought in.) 
Behold thy daughter! Thou shalt have 
justice full. 
Feb. My child! my child! 
Leon. Dear father! {Kneels.) 

Feb. man of stone! 

Was I not wo enough, but you must steal 
My seraph from me? 
Palm. Name thou his punishment. 
If it be death, the knave shall die. 
Fern. {Kneeling.) Forgive me! 

I could not speak while Febro seemed a 

felon ; 
Punish me now, since he is innocent. 
I stole thy daughter, but I wronged her 

not; 
Sire, I deceived thee, but I am no vil- 
lain — 



ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 



251 



Revoke thy curse; and, father, bless my 
wife! 
Feb. Is it even so? thy wife? 
Palm. Naught else is left 

For reparation — I the rites acknowledge 
And as my daughter here do welcome 
her. 
Feb. Thy wife! thy honored wife! — You 
do receive her? 
Why, now we shall be happy — Heaven 

be thanked! 
Ha, ha ! a noble husband for my daugh- 
ter! 
<A virtuous, honorable gentleman !> 
I '11 make thee rich ! She 's worthy of a 

king. — 
Happy! happy! {A cry.) 

(Re-enter Mendoza, with an officer.) 
Men. Alas, your highness, Ramon — 
Feb. Hah, Ramon! — Oh, thy white and 
quivering lips 
Speak a new horror! 



Mex. Pitying his grief, 

And agony gf mind, we led him forth 
On the balcony, where, confessing 

straight 
In what dark corner he had hid the 

gold, 
0' the sudden, with a shriek of despera- 
tion, 
He flung him from the height — and — 
Palm. Heaven ! 

Men. So perished. 

[Feb. God, God, God!] (Yebro falls.) 
<Palm. What, Febro? Hast this last 
blow cracked thy heart? 
There comes no sin without its sequent 

wo; — 
No folly but begets its punishment; 
And heaven, that strikes the malefactor 

down. 
Even with the greater culprits smites the 

less — 
The rigid sire and disobedient son. > 



TORTESA THE USURER 

BY 

Nathaniel Parker Willis 



TORTESA THE USURER 

Tortesa the Usurer is a representative of the romantic comedy in verse. 
While not nearly so frequently written as the verse tragedy, this form of play 
had some notable examples, such as Boker's Betrothal. The author of Tortesa, 
Nathaniel Parker Willis, was born in Portland, Maine, January 20, 1806, of 
Puritan ancestry. He was educated at the Boston Latin School and graduated 
from Yale College in 1827. While in college he wrote verse, much of it of a 
religious character, which represented a phase of his development out of which 
he later passed entirely. In 1831 he went to New York City and with George 
R. ]\Iorris and Theodore S. Fay published the New York Mirror. The next five 
years he spent in Europe and the East, meeting everywhere interesting people 
and reflecting his experiences in letters to the Mirror which were published in his 
Pencillings hy the Way (1835). After his return to this country in 1836 he 
spent some time in Washington and lived for five years at Glenmary, a spot near 
the head-waters of the Susquehanna River, where he wrote his Letters from 
Under a Bridge (1839), probably the best of his prose work, and it was during 
this most significant period of Willis's life that his plays were written. Financial 
necessity compelled him to return to New York, however. In 1843 he became 
editor of the New Mirror and in 1846 of the Home Journal. The last years of 
his life were spent in a heroic effort to keep the Journal going, despite the draw- 
back of ill health. One of the most appealing phases of our literary history 
reflects his generosity toward the other writers of the time, especially toward 
Poe. His defense of Poe which he published in the Home Journal as an answer 
to Griswold's attack, is a fine example of true sympathy and understanding 
combined with rare delicacy of expression. Willis died January 20, 1867. 

His first play, Bianca Visconti, was written in competition for a prize offered 
by Josephine Clifton for the best play suited to her talents. It was first played 
at the Park Theatre, New York, August 25, 1837, and was performed afterward 
in Boston and Philadelphia. It was played as late as May, 1852, by Miss M. 
Davenport in Philadelphia. It is a verse tragedy, laid in Milan in the fourteenth 
century, and is based on the history of the real Francesco Sforza w^ho married 
the natural daughter of Philip Visconti and later became Duke of Milan. In 
the same year, November 29, 1837, Miss Clifton produced a comedy by Willis, 
called The Kentiichy Heiress, which w^as not successful. 

Tortesa the Usurer was written for James W. Wallack, who produced it at 
the National Theatre in New York, April 8, 1839, playing ''Tortesa." It was 

255 



256 INTRODUCTION 



very successful and was considered by Wallack to contain one of his best parts. 
When after the burning of the National Theatre in 1839 the elder Wallack re- 
turned for a time to England, he produced Tortesa at the Surrey Theatre, 
London, in August, 1839. He afterward played "Tortesa" frequently, and the 
first professional appearance of Lester Wallack, his son, was in the character 
of "Angelo" when he supported his father in this English tour. In this country 
the play was acted as far south as IMobile, Alabama, where E. S. Connor played 
*'Angelo" in 1845, the part he had acted with Wallack in 1839. 

In character delineation, in the use of practical stage devices, and in the 
manner in which the playwright has, without making the language stilted, placed 
such excellent poetry in the mouths of the characters, Tortesa the Usurer is note- 
worthy. The influence of Romeo and Juliet and of The Winter's Tale is probably 
sufficiently evident. The direct source of the play goes back to the Florentine 
story of Genevra degli Amieri, who was married to Francesco Agolanti while in 
love with Antonio Rondinelli, and who apparently died and was buried.^ Coming 
to life during the night she escaped from the vault and was refused admittance 
by her husband, her father and her uncle, all of whom thought she was a spirit. 
She then went to Antonio 's house and w^as tenderly and considerately treated by 
him. They were afterwards married, the former marriage being annulled. The 
story, which suggested merely the main outlines of one incident in the play, is to 
be found in the story of La Sepolta Viva, by Domenico Maria ]\Ianni, translated 
by Thomas Roscoe in his Italian Novelists, London, 1825, vol. 4. Eugene Scribe 
wrote an opera on the theme with the title of Guido et Genevra ou La Teste de 
Florence, played and published in 1838. This is so different from Willis's play 
that it is unlikely that he used it as a source, unless he took the idea of Genevra 
rising from the tomb from it instead of from the Italian. Scribe made Guido a 
sculptor, but his art plays no part in the play as in Angelo's case. Shelley 
also used the theme in his fragment, Genevra. 

Tortesa the Usurer and Bianca Yisconti were published in 1839 in New York^ 
and also in London. They are now hard to obtain. For references to the plays, 
see Ireland, Records of the Neiv York Stage, Vol. 2, p. 283; Lester Wallack, 
Memories of Fifty Years, New York, 1889, p. 35. For the Life of Willis, see 
Henry H. Beers, Nathaniel Parker Willis, American Men of Letters Series, Bos- 
ton, 1893, and for an interesting criticism of Tortesa, see Poe's articles in Bur- 
ton's Gentleman's Magazine, August, 1839, later expanded and incorporated in a 
discussion of The American Drama, in the American Whig Eevieiv, August, 1845. 
They are to be found in vol. 10, p. 27, and vol. 13, p. 33, of the Virginia edition 
of Poe's works. 



TORTESA THE USURER 



A FHsiy, 



BY N. P. NA^ILLIS. 



NEW-YORKs 

PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL COLMAN, 

BROADWAY 

1839. 



DRAMATIS PERSONAE 

[National Theatre, New York City, April 8, 1839.] 

Duke of Florence j\Ir. Rogers 

Count Falcone Mr. T. Matthews 

ToRTESA, — a usurer ]\Ir. AA^allack 

Angelo, — a young painter Mr. Conner 

ToMASO, — his servant Mr. Lambert 

Isabella De Falcone Miss Monier 

ZiPPA, — a Glover 's daughter Mrs. W. Sef ton 

Other characters — a Counsellor, a page, the Count's Secretary, a Tradesman, 
a Monk, Lords, Ladies, Officer, Soldiers, etc. 



TORTESA THE USURER 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1. (A drawing-room in Tortesa's 
house. Servant discovered reading the 
bill of a tradesman, who is in attend- 
ance.) 

Servant (reading). "Silk hose, doublet 
of white satin, twelve shirts of lawn." 
He '11 not pay it to-day, good mercer ! 

Tradesman. How, master Gaspar*? When 
I was assured of the gold on delivery *? 
If it be a credit account, look you, there 
must be a new bill. The charge is for 
ready money. 

Servant. Tut — tut — man, you know not 
w4iom you serve. My master is as likely 
to overpay you if you are civil, as to 
keep you a year out of your money if 
you push him when he is cross'd. 

Tradesman. Why, this is the humor of a 
spendthrift, not the careful way of a 
usurer. 

Servant. Usurer! humph. Well, it may 
be he is — to the rich ! But the heart of 
the Signor Tortesa, let me tell you, is 
like the bird's wing — the dark side is 
turned upwards. To those who look up 
to him he shows neither spot nor stain. 
Hark! I hear his wheels in the court. 
Step to the ante-room — for he has 
that on his hands to-day which may 
make him impatient. Quick! Give 
way ! I '11 bring you to him if I can 
find a time. 

Tortesa {speaking without). What ho! 
Gaspar ! 

Servant. Signor ! 

Tortesa. My keys ! Bring me my keys ! 

{Enter Tortesa, followed hy Count 
Falcone. ) 

Come in. Count. 
Falcone. You 're well lodged. 

Tortesa. The Duke waits for you 

To get to horse. So, briefly, there 's the 

deed! 
You have your lands back, and your 

daughter 's mine — 
So ran the bargain ! 
Falcone {coldly), SWshetrotWd^^iv, 
to you! 



Tortesa. Not a half hour since, and you 

hold the parchment ! 
A free transaction, see you ! — for you 're 

paid, 
And I 'm but promised! 
Falcone {aside). (What a slave is this, 
To give my daughter to! My daughter? 

Psha! 
I '11 think but of my lands, my precious 

lands!) 
Sir, the Duke sets forth — 
Tortesa. Use no ceremony! 

Yet stay! A word! Our nuptials fol- 
low quick 
On your return? 
Falcone. That hour, if it so please you ! 
Tortesa. And what 's the bargain if her 

humor change? 
Falcone. The lands are yours again— 't is 

understood so. 
Tortesa. Yet, still a word! You leave 

her with her maids. 
I have a right in her by this betrothal. 
Seal your door up till you come back 

again ! 
I 'd have no f oplings tampering with my 

wife ! 
None of your painted jackdaws from the 

court. 
Sneering and pitying her! My lord 

Falcone ! 
Shall she be private? 
Falcone {aside). (Patience! for my 

lands!) 
You shall control my door, sir, and my 

daughter ! 
Farewell now! {Exit Falcone.) 

Tortesa. Oh, omnipotence of money! 

Ha ! ha ! Why, there 's the haughtiest 

nobleman 
That walks in Florence. Re! — whom I 

have bearded — 
Checked— made conditions to — shut up 

his daughter — 
And all with money! They should pull 

down churches 
And worship it! Had I been poor, that 

man 
Would see me rot ere give his hand to me^ 
I — as I stand here — dress' d thus — look- 
thus — ■■ 



259 



mg 

The same in 
purse—; 



All — save money in my 



260 



TORTESA THE USURER 



He would have scorn 'd to let me come so 
near 

That I could breathe on him! Yet, that 
were little — 

For pride sometimes outdoes humility, 

And your great man will please to be 
familiar, 

To show how he can stoop. But halt you 
there ! 

He has a jewel that you may not name! 

His wife 's above you ! You 're no com- 
pany 

For his most noble daughter! You are 
brave — 

'T is nothing! comely — nothing! honor- 
able — 

You are a phoenix of all human virtues — 

But, while your blood's mean, there's a 
frozen bar 

Betwixt you and a lady, that will melt — 

Not with religion — scarcely with the 
grave — 

But like a mist, with money! 

{Enter a Servant.) 

Servant, Please you, sir! 

A tradesman waits to see you ! 
ToRTESA. Let him in ! 

{Exit Servant.) 
What need have I of forty generations 
To build my name up? I have bought 

with money 
The fairest daughter of their haughtiest 

line! 
Bought her! Falcone's daughter for so 

much! 
No wooing in't! Ha! ha! I harp'd on 

that 
Till my lord winced! "My bargain!" 

still "my bargain." 
Nought of my hride! Ha! ha! 'T was 

excellent ! 

{Enter Tradesman.) 

What's thy demand? 
Tradesman. Ten ducats, please your 

lordship ! 
ToRTESA. Out on "your lordship !" There 
are twelve for ten! 
Does a lord pay like that? Learn some 

name sweeter 
To my ears than "Your lordship !" I 'm 

no lord! 
Give me thy quittance! Now, begone! 
Who waits? 
Servant. The Glover's daughter, please 
you, sir ! 

{Enter Zippa.) 



ToRTESA. Come in, 

My pretty neighbor! What! my bridal 

gloves ! 
Are they brought home? 
Zippa. The signor pays so well, 

He 's well served. 
ToRTESA. Um ! why, pertinently answered ! 
And yet, my pretty one, the words were 

sweeter 
In any mouth than yours ! 
Zippa. That's easy true! 

ToRTESA. I would 'twere liking that had 
spurr'd your service — 
Not money, Zippa, sweet ! 

{She presents her parcel to him, with 
a meaning air.) 
Zippa. Your bridal gloves, sir! 

ToRTESA {aside). (What a fair shrew it 
is!) My gloves are paid for! 
And will be thrown aside when worn a 
little. 
Zippa. What then, sir! 
ToRTESA. Why, the bride is paid for, too ! 
And may be thrown aside, when worn a 
little! 
Zippa. You mock me now ! 
ToRTESA. You know Falcone's palace. 

And lands, here, by Fiesole? I bought 

them 
For so much money of his creditors. 
And gave them to him, in a plain, round 

bargain. 
For his proud daughter! What think 
you of that? 
Zippa. What else but that you loved her! 
ToRTESA. As 1 love 

The thing I give my money for — no more ! 
Zippa. You mean to love her? 
ToRTESA. 'T was not in the bargain ! 

Zippa. Why, what a monster do you make 
yourself ! 
Have you no heart ? ^ 

Tortesa. a loving one, for you ! 

Nay, never frown! I marry this lord's 

daughter 
To please a devil that inhabits me ! 
But there's an angel in me — not so 

strong — 
And this last loves you ! 
Zippa. ' Thanks for your weak angel I 

I 'd sooner 't w^ere the devil ! 
Tortesa. Both were yours ! 

But for the burning fever that I have 
To pluck at their proud blood. 
Zippa. Why, this poor lady 

Cannot have harm'd you ! 
Tortesa. Forty thousand times ! 

She 's noble-born — there 's one wrong in 
her cradle! 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



261 



She 's proud — why, that makes every 
pulse an insult — 

Sixty a minute ! She 's profuse in smiles 

On those who are, to me, as stars to glow- 
worms — 

So I 'm disparaged ! I have pass'd her 

by, 

Summer and winter, and she ne'er looked 
on me! 

Her youth has been one tissue of eon- 
tempt ! 

Her lovers, and her tutors, and her heart, 

Taught her to scorn the low-born — that 
am I! 

Would you have more ? 
ZiPPA. Why, this is moon-struck 

madness. 
ToRTESA. I 'd have her mine, for all this — 
jewell'd, perfumed — 

Just as they 've w^orshipped her at court 
— my slave ! 

They 've mewed her breath up in their 
silken beds — 

Blanch'd her wdth baths — fed her on deli- 
cate food — 

Guarded the unsunn'd dew upon her 
skin— 

For some lord's pleasure ! If I could not 
get her. 

There 's a contempt in that, would make 
my forehead 

Hot in my grave ! 
ZiPPA. {Aside.) (Now Heaven forbid 

mi I fingers 

Should make your bridal gloves!) For- 
give me, Signer ! 

I '11 take these back, so please you ! 

{Takes up the parcel again.) 
TORTESA. {Not listening to her.) But 

for this — 

This devil at my heart, thou should'st 
have wedded 

The richest commoner in Florence, Zippa ! 

Tell me thou wouldst ! 
ZiPPA. {Aside.) (Stay! stay! A 

thought ! If I 

Could feign to love him, and so work on 
him 

To put this match oif . and at last to break 
it— 

'T is possible — and so befriend this lady, 

Whom, from my soul, I pity! Nay, I 
will!) 

Signor Tortesa! 
ToRTESA. You 've been dreaming now, 

How you would brave it in your lady- 
gear ; 

Was't not so"? 



/4PPA. 



No. 



Tortesa. What then"? 

Zippa. ^ I had a thought, 

If I dare speak it. 
Tortesa. Nay, nay, speak it out ! 

Zippa. I had forgot your riches, and I 
thought 
How lost you were ! 
Tortesa. How lost? 

Zippa. Your qualities. 

Which far outweigh your treasure, 

thrown away 
On one who does not love you ! 
Tortesa. Thrown away*? 

Zippa. Is it not so to have a gallant shape. 
And no eye to be proud on 't — to be 

full 
Of all that makes men dangerous to 

women. 
And marry where you 're scorn'd ? 
Tortesa. There 's reason there ! 

Zippa. You 're wise in meaner riches ! 
You have gold, 
'T is out at interest ! — lands, palaces. 
They bring in rent. The gifts of nature 

only, 
Worth to you, Signor, more than all your 

gold, 
Lie profitless and idle. Your fine stat- 
ure — 
Tortesa. Why — so, so ! 
Zippa. Speaking eyes — 

Tortesa. Ay— passable ! 

Zippa. Your voice, uncommon musical — 
Tortesa. Nay, there, 

I think you may be honest ! 
Zippa. And your look. 

In all points lofty, like a gentleman ! 
{Aside.) (That last must choke him !) 
Tortesa. You 've a judgment, 

Zippa, 
That makes me wonder at you ! We are 

both 
Above our breeding — I have often 

thought so — 
And lov'd you — but to-day so more than 

ever. 
That my revenge must have drunk up my 

life, 
To still sweep over it. But w4ien I think 
Upon that proud lord and his scornful 

daughter — 
I say not you 're forgot — myself am 

lost — 
And love and memory with me ! I must 

go 
And visit her ! I '11 see you to the door — 
Come, Zippa, come ! 
Zippa. {Aside.) (I, too, will visit 

her! 



^ 



262 



TORTESA THE USURER 



You 're a brave Signer, but against two 

women 
You '11 find your wits all wanted ! ) 
ToRTESA. Come away! 

I must look on my bargain ! my good bar- 



gam i 
Ha ! ha ! my bargain! 



(Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. {The Painter's Studio. Angelo 
painting. Tomaso in the foreground, ar- 
ranging a meagre repast.) 

Tomaso. A thriee-pick'd bone, a stale 
crust, and — excellent water ! Will you to 
breakfast. Master Angelo 1 

Angelo. Look on this touch, good Tomaso, 
if it be not life itself— [Draws him before 
his easel.) Now, what think'st thou? 

Tomaso. Um — fair! fair enough! 

Angelo. No more"? 

Tomaso. Till it mend my breakfast, I will 
never praise it! Fill me up that out- 
line, Master Angelo! {Takes up the 
naked bone.) Color me that water! To 
what end dost thou dabble there? 

Angelo. I am weary of telling thee to 
what end. Have patience, Tomaso ! 

Tomaso. {C oaxingly .) Would'st thou but 
paint the goldsmith a sign, now, in good 
fair letters ! 

Angelo. Have I no genius for the art, 
think'stthou? 

Tomaso. - T/iowf ha!ha! 

Angelo. By thy laughing, thou wouldst 
say no ! 

Tomaso. Thou a genius! Look! Master 
Angelo ! Have I not seen thee every day 
since thou wert no bigger than thy pencil ? 

Angelo. And if thou hast? 

Tomaso. Do I not know thee from crown 
to heel?. Dost thou not come in at that 
door as I do? — sit down in that chair as I 
do? — eat, drink, and sleep, as I do? 
Dost thou not call me Tomaso, and I thee 
Angelo ? 

Angelo. Well? 

Tomaso. Then how canst thou have 
genius? Are there no marks? Would I 
clap thee on the back, and say good mor- 
row? Nay, look thee ! would I stand here 
telling thee in my wisdom what thou art, 
if thou wert a genius? Go to. Master 
Angelo! I love thee well, but thou art 
comprehensible ! 

Angelo. But think'st thou never of my 
works, Tomaso? 

Tomaso. Thy works ! Do I not grind thy 
paints'? Do I not see thee take up thy 



palette, place thy foot thus, and dab 
here, dab there? I tell thee thou hast 
never done stroke yet, I could not take 
the same brush and do after thee. Thy 
works, truly ! 

Angelo. How think'st thou would Dona-< 
tello paint, if he were here? 

Tomaso. Donatello! I will endeavor to 
show thee! {Takes the palette and 
brush with a mysterious air.) The pic- 
ture should be there! His pencil, 
{Throws down Angelo's pencil, and 
seizes a broom.) his pencil should be as 
long as this broom! He should raise it 
thus — with his eyes rolling thus — and 
with his body thrown back thus ! 

Angelo. What then? 

Tomaso. Then he should see something in 
the air — a sort of a hm-ha-r-r-rrrr-(you 
understand.) And he first strides off 
here and looks at it — then he strides off 
there and looks at it — then he looks at his 
long brush — then he makes a dab! dash! 
flash! {Makes three strokes across 
Angelo's picture.) 

Angelo. Villain, my picture! Tomaso! 
{Seizes his sword.) With thy accursed 
broom thou hast spoiled a picture Dona- 
tello could ne'er have painted! Say thy 
prayers, for, by the Virgin ! — 

Tomaso. Murder ! murder ! help ! Oh, my 
good master ! Oh, my kind master ! 

Angelo. Wilt say thy prayers, or die a 
sinner? Quick! or thou 'rt dead ere 'tis 
thought on ! 

Tomaso. Help ! help ! mercy ! oh mercy ! 

{Enter the Duke hastily, followed by 
Falcone and attendants.) 

Duke. Who calls so loudly? What! 

drawn swords at mid-day? 

Disarm him ! Now, what mad-cap youth 

art thou ? ( To Angelo. ) 

To fright this peaceful artist from his 

toil? 
Rise up, sir ! ( To Tomaso. ) 

Angelo. (Aside.) (Could my luckless 

star have brought 
The Duke here at no other time!) 
Duke. (Looking round on the pictures.) 

Why, here 's 
Matter worth stumbling on ! By Jove, a 

picture 
Of admirable work! Look here, Fal« 

cone ! 
Did'st think there was a hand unknpwn in 

Florence 
Could lay o» color with a skill like this? 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



263 



ToMASO. {Aside to Angelo.) Did'st 

thou hear that? 
(Duke and Falcone admire the pic- 
tures in dumb show.) 
Angelo. {Aside to Tomaso.) (The 

palette 's on thy thumb — 
Swear 't is thy work ! ) 
ToiiASO. Mine, master'? 

Angelo. Seest thou not 

The shadow of my fault will fall upon it 
While I stand here a culprit *? The Duke 

loves thee 
As one whom he has chanc'd to serve at 

need, 
And kindness mends the light upon a pic- 
ture, 
I know that well ! 
Falcoxe. {To Tomaso.) The Duke 

would know your name. Sir ! 
Tomaso. {As Angelo pulls him hy the 
sleeve. ) Tom — Angelo, my lord ! 

Duke. ( To Falcone.) We 've fallen 

here 
Upon a treasure ! 
Falcone. 'Twai a lucky chance 

That led you in, my lord ? 
Duke. I blush to think 

That I might ne'er have found such ex- 
cellence 
But for a chance cry, thus! Yet now 

't is found 
I '11 cherish it, believe me. 
Falcone. 'T is a duty 

Your Grace is never slow to. 
Duke. I 've a thought — 

If you '11 consent to it *? 
Falcone. Before 't is spoken. 

My gracious liege ! 
Duke. You know^ how well my 

duchess 
Loves your fair daughter. Not as maid 

of honor 
Lost to our service, but as parting child. 
We grieve to lose her. 
Falcone. My good lord ! 

Duke. Nay, nay — 

She is betroth'd now, and you needs must 

wed her ! 
My thought was, to surprise my grieving 

duchess 
With a resemblance of your daughter, 

done 
By this rare hand, here. 'T is a thought 

well found, 
You '11 say it is ! 
Falcone. {Hesitating.) Your Grace is 
bound away 
On a brief journey. Were 't not best put 
oft 



Till our return? 
Duke. {Laughing.) I see you fear to 

let 
The sun shine on your rose-bud till she 

bloom 
Fairly in wedlock. But this painter, see 

you, 

Is an old man, of a poor, timid bearing, 
And may be trusted to look close upon 

her. 
Come, come ! I '11 have my way ! Good 
Angelo, {To Tomaso.) 

A pen and ink! And you, my lord Fal- 
cone! 
Write a brief missive to your gentle 

daughter 
T' admit him privately. 
Falcone. I will, Duke. 

{Writes.) 

Angelo. {Aside.) (Now 

Shall I go back or forwards'? If he 

writes 
Admit this Angelo, why, I ^m he, 
And that rare phoenix, hidden from the 

world. 
Sits to my burning pencil. She's a 

beauty 
Without a parallel, they say in Florence. 
Her picture '11 be remembered ! Let the 

Duke 
Rend me with horses, it shall ne'er be said 
I dared not pluck at Fortune ! ) 
Tomaso. {Aside to At^GEhO.) Signor! 
Angelo. (Hush! 

Betray me, and I '11 kill thee !) 
Duke. Angelo ! 

Angelo. {Aside to Tomaso.) Speak, or 

thou diest ! 
Tomaso. {To the Duke.) My lord! 
Duke. Thou hast grown old 

In the attainment of an excellence 
Well worth thy time and study. The 

clear touch, 
Won only by the patient toil of years. 
Is on. your fair works yonder. 
Tomaso. {Astonished.) Those, my 

lord? 
Duke. I shame I never saw them until 
now, 
But here 's a new beginning. Take this 

missive 
From Count Falcone to his peerless 

daughter. 
I 'd have a picture of her for my palace. 
Paint me her beauty as I know you can, 
And as you do it well, my favor to you 
Shall make up for the past. 
Tomaso. (As Angelo pulls his sleeve.) 
Your Grace i? kind ! 



264 



TORTESA THE USURER 



Duke. For this rude youth, name you his 

punishment! ( Twrws io Angelo.) 

His sword was drawn upon an unarm'd 

man. 
He shall be fined, or, as you please, im- 
prisoned. 
Speak! 
TOMASO. If your Grace would bid him 

pay— 
Duke. What sum? 

ToMASO. Some twenty flasks of wine, my 
gracious liege. 
If it so please you. 'T is a thriftless 

servant 
I keep for love I bore to his dead father. 
But all his faults are nothing to a thirst 
That sucks my cellar drv ! 
Duke. "^He 's well let off ! 

Write out a bond to pay of your first 

gains 
The twenty flasks ! 
AxGELO. Most willingly, my 

liege. ( Writes. ) 

Duke. (To Tomaso.) Are you content '? 
ToiiASO. Your Grace, I am ! 

Duke. Come then ! 

Once more to horse! Nay, nay, man, 

look not black ! 
Unless your daughter were a wine-flask, 

trust me 
There 's no fear of the painter ! 
Falcone. So I think, 

And you shall rule me. 'T is the rough- 
est shell 
Hides the good pearl. Adieu, Sir ! 

{To TOMASO.) 

{Exeunt Duke and Falcone. Ax- 
gelo seizes the missive from Tomaso, 
and strides up and down the stage, 
reading it exultingly. After looking 
at him a moment, Tomaso does the 
same with the bond for the twenty 
flasks. ) 
Axgelo. Give the letter ! 

Oh, here is golden opportunity — . 

The ladder at my foot, the prize above, 

And angels beckoning upwards. I will 
paint 

A picture now, that in the eyes of men 

Shall live like loving daylight. They 
shall cease 

To praise it for the ' constant glory of 
it. 

There's not a stone built in the palace 
wall 

But shall let thro' the light of it, and 
Florence 

Shall be a place of pilgrimage for ever 

To see the work of low-born Angelo. 



Oh, that the world were made without a 

night, 
That I could toil while in my fingers play 
This dexterous lightning, wasted so in 

sleep. 
I '11 out, and muse how I shall paint this 

beauty, 
So, wile the night away. {Exit.) 

Tomaso. {Coming forward with his bond.) 
Prejudice aside, that is a pleasant-looking 
piece of paper! {Holds it off, and re- 
gards it with a pleased air.) Your bond 
to pay, now, is an ill-visaged rascal — you 
would know him across a church — nay — 
with the wind fair, smell him a good 
league! But this has, in some sort, a 
smile. It is not like other paper. It 
reads mellifluously. Your name is in the 
right end of it for music. Let me dwell 
upon it! {Unfolds it, and reads.) "I, 
Tomaso, promise to pay" — stay! "I, 
Tomaso, — I, Tomaso, promise to pay to 
Angelo, my master, twenty flasks of 
wine!" {Rubs his eyes, and turns the 
note over and over.) There 's a damnable 
twist in it that spoils all. ^' I, Tomaso," 
— why, that 's I. And "I promise to 
13ay" — Now, I promise no such thing! 
{Turns it upside down, and after trying 
in vain to alter the reading, tears it in 
two.) There are some men that cannot 
write ten words in their own language 
without a blunder. Out, filthy scraps. 
If the Glover's daughter have not com- 
passion upon me, I die of thirst ! I '11 
seek her out ! A pest on ignorance ! 
{Pulls his hat sulkily over his eyes, and 

walks off.) 



Scene 3. An Apartment in the Falcone 
Palace. 

(Angelo discovered listening.) 

Angelo. Did I hear footsteps'? {He lis- 
tens.) Fancy plays me tricks 

In my impatience for this lovely wonder ! 

That window 's to the north. The light 
falls cool. 

I '11 set my easel here, and sketch her — 
Stay! 

How shall I do thaf? Is she proud or 
sweet ? 

Will she sit silent, or converse and smile? 

Will she be vexed or pleased to have a 
stranger 

Pry through her beauty for the soul 
that 'sin it? 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



265 



Nay, then I hear a footstep — she is here ! 

{Enter Isabella, reading her father's 
missive.) 

Isabella. ''The Duke would have your pic- 
ture for the duchess 
Done by this rude man, Angelo! Re- 
ceive him 
With modest privacy, and let your kind- 
ness 
Be measured by his merit, not his garb." 
Angelo. Fair lady ! 
Isabella. Who speaks? 
Angelo. Angelo ! 

Isabella. You 've come, Sir, 

To paint a dull face, trust me ! 
Angelo. (Aside.) (Beautiful, 

Beyond all dreaming!) 
Isabella. I 've no smiles to show you. 

Not ev'n a mock one ! Shall I sit ? 
Angelo. No, lady! 

I '11 steal your beauty while you move, as 

well! 
So you but breathe, the air still brings to 

me 
That which outdoes all pencilling. 
Isabella. {Walking apart.) His voice 
Is not a rude one. What a fate is mine, 
When ev'n the chance words on a poor 

youth's tongue, 
Contrasted with the voice which I should 

love, 
Seems rich and musical ! 
Angelo. {To himself, as he draws.) How 
like a swan. 
Drooping his small head to a lily-cup, 
She curves that neck of pliant ivory ! 
I '11 paint her thus I 
Isabella. {Aside.) Forgetful where 

he is, 
He thinks aloud. This is, perhaps, the 

rudeness 
My father fear'd might anger me. 
Angelo. What color 

Can match the clear red of those glorious 

lips'? 
Say it were possible to trace the arches. 
Shaped like the drawn bow of the god of 

love- 
How tint them, after"? 
Isabella. Still, he thinks not of me. 

But murmurs to his picture. 'T were 

sweet praise. 
Were it a lover whispering it. I '11 listen. 
As I walk, still. 
A.NGELO. They say, a cloudy veil 

Hangs ever at the crystal-gate of heaven. 
To bar the issue of its blinding glory. 
So droop those silken lashes to an eye 



Mortal could never paint ! 
Isabella. " There 's flattery, 

Would draw down angels ! 
Angelo. Now, what alchymy 

Can mock the rose and lily of her cheek ! 
I must look closer on 't ! {Advancing.) 

Fair lady, please you, 
I '11 venture to your side. 
Isabella. Sir ! 

Angelo. {Examining her cheek.) There's 
a mixture 
Of white and red here, that defeats my 

skill. 
If you '11 forgive me, I '11 observe an in- 
stant. 
How the bright blood and the transparent 

pearl 
Melt to each other ! 
Isabella. {Receding from him.) You're 

too free, Sir ! 
Angelo. {With surprise.) Madam! 

Isabella. {Aside.) And yet, I think not 
so. He must look on it. 
To paint it well, 
Angelo. Lady ! the daylight 's precious ! 
Pray you, turn to me! In my studj'-, 

here, 
I 've tried to fancy how that ivory shoul- 
der 
Leads the white light off from your arch- 
ing neck. 
But cannot, for the envious sleeve that 

hides it. 
Please you, displace it ! 

{Raises his hand to the sleeve.) 
Isabella. Sir, you are too bold ! 

Angelo. Pardon me, lady ! Nature's mas- 
terpiece 
Should be beyond your hiding, or my 

, praise ! 
Were you less marvellous, I were too 

bold; 
But there 's a pure divinity in beauty, 
Which the true eye of art looks on with 

reverence. 
Though, like the angels, it were all un- 
clad! 
You have no right to hide it ! 
Isabella. How? No right? 

Angelo. 'T is the religion of our art, fair 
madam ! 
That, by oft looking on the type divine 
In which we first were moulded, men re- 
member 
The heav'n they 're born to ! You 've an 

errand here. 
To show how look the angels. But, as 

Vestals 
Cherish the sacred fire, yet let the priest 



266 



TORTESA THE USURER 



Light bis lamp at it for a thousand altars, 
So is your beauty uiiassoiled. though I 
Ravish a copy for the shut-out world! 
Isabella. {Aside.) Here is the wooing 

that should win a maid! 
Bold, yet respectful — free, yet full of 

honor ! 
I never saw a youth with gentler eyes ; 
I never heard a voice that pleased me 

more; 
Let me look on him? 

{Enter ToRTESA, unperceived.) 

Angelo. In a form like yours, 

All parts are perfect, madam! yet, un- 
seen. 
Impossible to fancy. With your leave 
I '11 see your hand unglov'd. 
Isabella. {Removing her glove.) I 

have no heart 
To keep it from you, signor ! There it is ! 
Angelo. {Taking it in his own.) Oh, 

God! how beautiful thy works may 

be! 
Inimitably perfect ! Let me look 
Close on the tracery of these azure veins ! 
With what a delicate and fragile thread 
They weave their subtle mesh beneath the 

skin. 
And meet, all blushing, in these rosy 

nails ! 
How soft the texture of these tapering 

fingers ! 
How exquisite the wrist! How perfect 

all! {ToRTESA rushes forward.) 

ToRTESA. Now have I heard enough! 

Why, what are you. 
To palm the hand of my betrothed bride 
With this licentious freedom? (Angelo 

turns composedly to his work.) And 

you, madam ! 
With a first troth scares cold upon your 

lips- - 
Is this your chastity ? 
Isabella. My father's roof 

Is over me ! I 'm not your wife ! 
ToRTESA. Bought ! paid for ! 

The wedding toward — have I no right in 

you? 
Your father, at my wish, bade you be 

private ; 
Is this obedience ? 
Isabella. Count Falcone's will 

Has, to his daughter, ever been a law; 
This, in prosperity — and now, when 

chance 
Frowns on his broken fortunes, I were 

dead 
To love and pity, were not soul and body 



Spent for his smallest need! I did eon- 
sent 
To wed his ruthless creditor for this ! 
I would have sprung into the sea, the 

grave. 
As questionless and soon! My troth is 

yours ! 
But I 'm not wedded yet, and till I am. 
The hallowed honor that protects a maid 
Is round me, like a circle of bright 

fire! 
A savage would not cross it — nor shall 

you! 
I ^m mistress of my presence. Leave me, 

Sir! 
ToRTESA. There 's a possession of some 

lordly acres 
Sold to Falcone for that lily hand ! 
The deed ^s delivered, and the hand 's my 

own! 
I '11 see that no man looks on 't. 
Isabella. Shall a lady 

Bid you begone twice? 
Tortesa, Twenty times, if 't please 

you! 
{She looks at Angelo, icho continues 

tranquilly painting.) 
Isabella. Does he not wear a sword? Is 

he a coward. 
That he can hear this man heap insult 

on me. 
And ne'er fall on him? 
Tortesa. Lady ! to your chamber ! 

I have a touch to give this picture, here, 
But want no model for 't. Come, come. 
{Offers to take her by the arm.) 
Isabella. Stand back! 

Now, will he see this wretch lay hands on 

me, 
And never speak? He cannot be a cow- 
ard! 
No, no ! some other reason — not a coward ! 
I could not love a coward ! 
Tortesa. If you will. 

Stay where you 're better miss'd — 't is at 

your pleasure; 
I '11 hew your kisses from the saucy lips 
Of this bold painter — look on 't, if you 

will! 
And first, to mar his picture ! 

{He strikes at the canvas, when An- 
gelo suddenly draws, attacks, and 

disarms him.) 
Angelo. Hold! What wouldst 

thou? 
Pool! madman! dog! What wouldst 

thou with my pictare? 
Speak! — But thy life would not bring 

back a ray 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



267 



Of precious daylight, and I cannot waste 
it! 

Begone! begone! {Throws Tortesa's 
sword from the window, and returns 
to his picture.) I'll back to para- 
dise! 

'T was this touch that he marr'd ! So ! 
fair again ! 
TORTESA. {Going out.) I'll find you, Sir, 
when I 'm in cooler blood ! 

And, madam, you! or Count Falcone for 
you. 

Shall rue this scorn! {Exit.) 

Isabella. {Looking at AngeijO.) Lost 

in his work once more! 

I shall be jealous of my very picture ! 

Yet one who can forget his passions so — 

Peril his life, and, losing scarce a breath, 

Turn to his high, ambitious toil again — 

Must have a heart for whose belated wak- 
ing 

Queens might keep vigil! 
Angelo. Twilight falls, fair lady! 

I must give o'er! Pray heaven, the 
downy wing 

Of its most loving angel guard your 
beauty ! 

Good night ! 
Isabella. Good night! 

{She looks after him a moment, and 
then walks thoughtfully of the 
stage. ) 

END OP THE FIRST ACT. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. (Tomaso discovered sitting at his 
supper, ivith a bottle of water before 
him. ) 

Tomaso. Water! {Sips a little with a 
grimace.) I think, since the world was 
drowned in it, it has tasted of sinners. 
The pious throat refuses it. Other habits 
grow pleasant with use — but the drinking 
of water lessens the liking of it. Now, 
why should not some rivers run wme"? 
There are varieties in the eatables — will 
any wise man tell me why there should 
be but one drinkable in nature — and that 
water? My mind's made up — it's the 
curse of transgression. {A rap at the 
door. ) Come in ! 

{Enter Zippa, with a basket and 
bottle.) 

Zippa. Good even, Tomaso ! 



Tomaso. Zippa! I had a presentiment — 

Zippa. What! of my coming? 

Tomaso. No— of thy bottle! Look! I 
was stinting myself in water to leave 
room ! 

Zippa. The reason is superfluous. There 
would be room in thee for wine, if thou 
wert drowned in the sea. 

Tomaso. God forbid! 

Zippa. What — that thou shouldst be 
drowned ? 

Tomaso. No — but that bemg drowned, I 
should have room for wine. 

Zippa. Why, now ?— why ? 

Tomaso. If I had room for wine, I should 
w^ant it — and to want wine in the bottom 
of the sea, were a plague of Sodom. 

Zippa. Where 's Angelo ? 

Tomaso. What's in thy bottle? Show! 
Show ! 

Zippa. Tell me where he is — ^what he has 
done since yesterday — what thought on — 
what said — how he has looked, and if he 
still loves me; and when thou art thirsty 
with truth-telling — (dry work for such a 
liar as thou art,) — thou shalt learn what 
is in my bottle ! 

Tomaso. Nay — learning be hanged ! 

Zippa. So says the fool ! 

Tomaso. Speak advisedly! Was not 
Adam blest till he knew good and evil? 

Zippa. Right for once. 

Tomaso. Then he lost Paradise by too 
much learning. 

Zippa. Ha! ha! Hadst thou been con- 
sulted, we should still be there ! 

Tomaso. Snug ! I would have had my in- 
heritance in a small vineyard ! 

Zippa. Tell me what I ask of thee, 

Tomaso. Thou shalt have a piece of news 
for a cup of wine — pay and take — till thy 
bottle be dry! 

Zippa. Come on, then! and if thou must 
lie, let it be flattery. That 's soonest for- 
given. 

Tomaso. And last forgotten! Pour out! 
{She pours a cup full, and gives him.) 
The Duke was here yesterday. — 

Zippa. Lie the first ! 

Tomaso. And made much of my master's 
pictures. 

Zippa. Nay — that would have made two 
good lies. Thou 'rt prodigal of stuff ! 

Tomaso. Pay two glasses, then, and square 
the reckoning! 

Zippa. Come ! Lie the third ! 

Tomaso. What wilt thou wager it 's a lie, 
that Angelo is painting a court lady for 
the duchess? 



268 



TORTESA THE USURER 



ZIPPA. Oh, Lord ! Take the bottle ! They 
say there 's truth in wine — but as truth is 
impossible to thee, drink thyself, at least, 
down to probabilities! 

ToMASO. Look you there ! When was vir- 
tue encouraged f Here have I been tell- 
ing- God's truth, and it goes for a lie. 
Hang virtue ! Produce thy cold chicken, 
and I '11 tell thee a lie for the wings and 
two for the side-bones and breast. {Of- 
fers to take the chicken.) 

ZiPPA. Stay ! stay ! It 's for thy master, 
thou glutton! 

ToMASO. Who 's ill a-bed, and forbid meat. 
(Angelo enters.) I would have told thee 
so before, but feared to grieve thee. 
(She would have a lie!) 

ZiPPA. {Starting up.) 111! Angelo ill! 
Is he very ill, good Tomaso'? 

ToMASO. Very! {Seizes the chicken, as 
Angelo claps him on the shoulder.) 

Angelo. Will thy tricks never end*? 

ToMASO. Ehem! ehem! {Thrusts the 
chicken into his pocket.) 

Angelo. How art thou, Zippa? 

ZiPPA. Well, dear Angelo! {Giving him 
her hand.) And thou wert not ill, in- 
deed? 

Angelo. Never better, by the test of a 
true hand! I have done work to-day, I 
trust will be remembered ! 

ZiPPA. Is it true it 's a fair lady *? 

Angelo. A lady with a face so angelical, 
Zippa, that — 

ZiPPA. That thou didst forget mine? 

Angelo. In truth, I forgot there was such 
a thing as a world, and so forgot all in it. 
I was in heaven ! 

ToMASO. {Aside, as he picks the leg of 
the chicken.) (Prosperity is excellent 
whitewash, and her love is an old 
score ! ) 

Zippa. {Bitterly.) 1 am glad thou wert 
pleased, Angelo ! — very glad ! 

ToMASO. {Aside.) (Glad as an eel to be 
fried.) 

Zippa. {Aside.) ("In Heaven," was he! 
If I pay him not that, may my brains rot ! 
By what right, loving me, is he "in 
Heaven" with another?) 

ToMASO. {Aside.) (No more wine and 
cold chicken from that quarter!) 

Zippa. {Aside.) (Tortesa loves me, and 
my false game may be played true. If 
he wed not Falcone's daughter, he will 
wed me, and so I am revenged on this 
fickle Angelo! I have the heart to do 
it!) 

Angelo. What dost thou muse on, Zippa ? 



Zippa. On one I love better than thee, Sig- 



nor 



Angelo. What, angry? {Seizes his pen- 
cil.) Hold there till I sketch thee! By 
Jove, thou 'rt not half so pretty when 
thou 'rt pleased ! 

Zippa. Adieu, Signor! your mockery will 
have an end! {Goes out with an angry 
air. ) 

Angelo. What! gone? Nay, I'll come 
with thee, if thou 'rt in earnest! What 
whim's this? {Takes up his hat.) Ho, 
Zippa! {Follows in pursuit.) 

ToMASO. {Pulls the chicken from his 
pocket.) Come forth, last of the chick- 
ens! She will ne'er forgive him, and so 
ends the succession of cold fowl! One 
glass to its memory, and then to bed! 
{Drinks, and takes up the candle.) A 
woman is generally unsafe — but a jealous 
one spoils all confidence in drink. 

{Exit, muttering.) 



Scene 2. {An Apartment in the Falcone 
Palace. Enter Servant, shewing in 
Zippa.) 

Servant. Wait here, if 't please you! 
Zippa. Thanks! {Exit Servant.) 

My heart misgives me! 
'T is a bold errand I am come upon — 
And I a stranger to her! Yet, per- 
chance 
She needs a friend — the proudest do 

sometimes — 
And mean ones may be welcome. Look! 
she comes ! 
Isabella. You wished to speak with me ? 
Zippa. I did — but now 

My memory is crept into my eyes ; 
I cannot think for gazing on your beauty ! 
Pardon me, lady ! 
Isabella. You 're too fair yourself 

To find my face a wonder. Speak! 
Who are you? 
Zippa. Zippa, the Glover's daughter, and 

your friend ! 
Isabella. My' friend ? 
Zippa. I said so. You 're a noble lady 

And I a low-born maid — yet I have come 
To offer you my friendship. 
Isabella. This seems strange ! 

Zippa. I '11 make it less so, if you '11 give 

me leave. 
Isabella. You '11 please me ! 
Zippa. Briefly — for the time is precious 
To me as well as you — I have a lover. 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



269 



A true one, as I think, who yet finds bold- 
ness 
To seek your hand in marriage. 
Isabella. How *? We 're rivals ! 

ZiPPA. Tortesa loves me, and for that I 'd 
wed him. 
Yet I 'm not sure I love him more than 

you— 
And you must hate him. 
Isabella. So far freely spoken — 

What was your thought in coming to me 
now? 
Zippa. To mar your match with him, and 

so make mine ! 
Isabella. Why, free again! Yet, as you 
love him not 
'T is strange you seek to wed him! 
Zippa. Oh, no, madam ! 

Woman loves once unthinkingly. The 

heart 
Is born with her first love, and, new to 

Breathes to the first wind its delicious 

sweetness. 
But gets none hack! So comes its bitter 

wisdom ! 
When next we think of love, 't is who 

loves us! 
I said Tortesa loved me ! 
Isabella. You shall have him 

With all my heart! See — I'm your 

friend already ! 
And friends are equals. So approach, 

and tell me. 
What was this first love like, that you 

discourse 
So prettily upon? 
Zippa. {Aside.) (Dear Angelo! 

'T will be a happiness to talk of him!) 
I loved a youth, kind madam ! far beneath 
The notice of your eyes, unknown and 

poor. 
Isabella. A handsome youth? 
Zippa. Indeed, I thought him so ! 

But you would not. I loved him out of 

pity; 

No one cared for him. 
Isabella. Was he so forlorn ? 

Zippa. He was our neighbor, and I knew 
his toil 
Was almost profitless ; and 't was a pleas- 
ure 
To fill my basket from our wasteful 

table, 
And steal, at eve, to sup with him. 
Isabella. {Smiling.) Why, that 

Was charity, indeed! He loved you for 

it- 
Was 't not so ? 



Zippa. He was like a brother to me — 

The kindest Jbrother sister ever had. 
I built my hopes upon his gentleness : 
He had no other quality to love. 
Th' ambitious change — so do the fiery- 
hearted : 
The lowly are more constant. 
Isabella. And yet, he 

Was, after all, a false one? 
Zippa. Nay, dear lady ! 

I '11 check my story there ! 'T would end 

in anger. 
Perhaps in tears. If I am not too bold, 
Tell me, in turn, of all your worship- 
pers — 
Was there ne'er one that pleased you ? 
Isabella. {Aside.) (Now could I 

Prate to this humble maid, of Angelo, 
Till matins rang again!) My gentle 

Zippa ! 
I have found all men prompt to talk of 

love. 
Save only one. I will confess to you. 
For that one could I die ! Yet, so unlike 
Your faithless lover must I draw his pic- 
ture. 
That you will wonder how such opposites 
Could both be loved of women. 
Zippa. Was he fair, 

Or brown? 
Isabella. In truth, I marked not his com- 
plexion. 
Zippa. Tall? 

Isabella. That I know not. 

Zippa. Well — robust, or slight? 

Isabella. I cannot tell, indeed! I heard 
him speak — 
Looked in his eyes, and saw him calm and 

angered — 
And see him now, in fancy, standing 

there — 
Yet know not limb or feature ! 
Zippa. You but saw 

A shadow, lady ! 
Isabella. Nay — I saw a soul! 

His eyes were light with it. The fore- 
head lay 
Above their fires in calm tranquillity, 
As the sky sleeps o'er thunder-clouds. 

His look 
Was mixed of these — earnest, and yet 

subdued — 
Gentle, yet passionate — sometimes half 

god-like 
In its command, then mild and sweet 

again, 
Like a stern angel taught humility ! 
Oh ! when he spoke, my heart stole out to 
him! 



270 



TORTESA THE USURER 



There was a spirit-echo in his voice — 
A sound of thought — of under-j:)laying 

music — 
As if, before it ceased in human ears, 
The echo was caught up in fairy-land ! 
ZiPPA. Was he a courtier, madam"? 
Isabella. He 's as lowly 

In birth and fortunes, as your false one, 

Zippa ! 
Yet rich in genius, and of that ambition, 
That he '11 outlast nobility with fame. 
Have you seen such a man? 
Zippa. Alas ! sweet lady ! 

My life is humble, and such wondrous 

men 
Are far above my knowing. I could wish 
To see one ere I died ! 
Isabella. You shall, believe me ! 

But while we talk of lovers, we forget 
In how brief time you are to win a hus- 
band. 
Come to my chamber, Zippa, and I '11 see 
How with your little net you '11 snare a 

bird 
Fierce as this rude Tortesa! 
Zippa. We will find 

A way, dear lady, if we die for it ! 
Isabella. Shall we'? Come with me, 
then! {Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. {An apartment in the Falcone 
Palace. Tortesa alone waiting the re- 
turn of the Count.) 

Tortesa. {Musing.) There are some lux- 
uries too rich for purchase. 

Your soul, 't is said, will buy them, of the 
devil — 

Money 's too poor ! What would I not 
give, now. 

That I could scorn what I can hate and 
ruin! 

Scorn is the priceless luxury ! In heaven, 

The angels pity. They are blest to do so ; 

For, pitying, they look down. We do 't 
by scorn! 

There lies the privilege of noble birth ! — 

The jewel of that bloated toad is scorn! 

You may take all else from him. You — 
being mean — 

May get his palaces — may wed his daugh- 
ter — 

Sleep in his bed — have all his peacock 
menials 

Watching your least glance, as they did 
"my lord's"; 



And, well-possess'd thus, you may pass 
him by 

On his own horse; and while the vulgar 
crowd 

Gape at your trappings, and scarce look 
on him — 

He, in his rags, and starving for a crust — 

You '11 feel his scorn, through twenty 
coats of mail, 

Hot as a sun-stroke ! Yet there 's some- 
thing for us ! 

Til' archangel fiend, when driven forth 
from heaven, 

Put on the serpent, and found sweet re- 
venge 

Trailing his slime through Eden! So 
Willi! 

{Enter Falcone, booted and spurred.) 

Falcone. Good morrow, signor. 
Tortesa. Well-arrived, my lord! 

How sped your riding"? 
Falcone. Fairly ! Has my daughter 

Left you alone"? 
Tortesa. She knows that I am here. 

Nay — she '11 come presently ! A word in 
private. 

Since we 're alone, my lord ! 
Falcone. I listen, signor! 

Tortesa. Your honor, as I think, out- 
weighs a bond"? 
Falcone. 'T was never questioned. 
Tortesa. On your simple word. 

And such more weight as hangs upon the 
troth 

Of a capricious woman, I gave up 

A deed of lands to you. 
Falcone. You did, 

Tortesa. To be 

Forfeit, and mine again— the match nqt 
made"? 
Falcone. How if you marr'd it"? 
Tortesa. I? I 'm not a boy ! 

What I would yesterday, I will to-day! 

I 'm not a lover — 
Falcone. How "? So near your bridal, 

And not a lover"? Shame, sir! 
Tortesa. My lord count. 

You take me for a fool ! 
Falcone. Is 't like a fool 

To love a high-born lady, and your bride"? 
Tortesa, Yes; a thrice-sodden fool — if it 
were I ! 

I 'm not a mate for her — you know I am 
not! 

You knoAv that, in her heart, your 
haughty daughter 

Scorns me — ineffably! 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



Falcone. You seek occasion 

To slight her, signor? 
ToRTESA. No ! I '11 maiTy her 

If all the pride that cast down Lucifer 

Lie in her bridal-ring! But, mark me 
still! 

I 'm not one of your humble citizens. 

To bring my money-bags and make you 
rich — 

That, when we walk together, I may take 

Your shadow for my own ! These limbs 
are clay — 

Poor, common clay, my lord! And she 
that weds me. 

Comes down to my estate. 
Falcone. By this you mean not 

To shut her from her friends'? 
ToRTESA. You '11 see your daughter 

By coming to my house — not else ! D' ye 
think 

I '11 have a carriage to convey my wife 

Where she will hear me laughed at? — 
buy fine horses 

To prance a measure to the mocking jeers 

Of fools that ride with her*? Nay — keep 
a table 

Where I 'm the skeleton that mars the 
feast? 

No, no — no, no! 
Falcone. {Aside.) (With half the prov- 
ocation, 

I w^ould, ere now, have struck an em- 
peror ! 

But baser pangs make this endurable. 

I'm poor — so patience!) What was it 
beside 

You would have said to me? 
ToRTESA. But this: Your daughter 

Has, in your absence, covered me with 
scorn ! 

We'll not talk of it — if the match goes 
on, 

I care not to remember it! {Aside.) 
{She shall— 

And bitterly!) 
Falcone. {Aside.) (My poor, poor Isa- 
bella ! 

The task was too much !) 
Tortesa. There 's a cost of feeling— 

You may not think it much — I reckon it 

A thousand pounds per day — in playing 
thus 

The suitor to a lady cramm'd with pride ! 

I 've writ you out a bond to pay me for it ! 

See here ! — to pay me for my shame and 
pains, 

If I should lose your daughter for a wife, 

A thousand pounds per day — dog cheap 
at that! 



Sign it, my lord, or give me back my 

deeds, ^ 
And traffic cease between us ! 
Falcone. Is this earnest. 

Or are you mad or trifling? Do I not 
Give you my daughter with an open 

hand? 
Are you betroth'd, or no ? 

{Enter a Servant.) 

Who's this? 
Servant. A page 

Sent from the Duke. 
Falcone. Admit him ! 

{Enter Page, with a letter.) 

Page. For my lord, 

The Count Falcone. 
Tortesa. {Aside.) (In a moment more 
I would have made a bond of such as- 
surance 
Her father on his knees should bid me 
take her. 
{Looking at Falcone, who smiles as he 
reads. ) 
What glads him now?) 
Falcone. You shall not have the bond ! 
Tortesa. No? {Aside.) (Here 's a change! 
What hint from Duke or devil 
Stirs him to this ? ) My lord, 't were best 

the bridal 
Took place upon the instant. Is your 

daughter 
Ready within? 
Falcone. You '11 never wed my daughter ! 

{Enter Isabella.) 

Tortesa. My lord ! 

Falcone. She 's fitlier mated ! Here she 
comes ! 
My lofty Isabella ! My fair child ! 
How dost thou, sweet ? 
Isabella. {Embracing him.) Come home, 
and I not know it! 
Art well? I see thou art! Hast ridden 

hard? 
My dear, dear father! 
Falcone. Give me breath to tell thee 

Some better news, my lov'd one ! 
Isabella. Nay, the joy 

To see you back again 's enough for now. 
There can be no news better, and for this 
Let 's keep a holiday twixt this and sun- 
set! 
Shut up your letter, and come see my 
flowers, 



272 



TORTESA THE USURER 



And hear my birds sing, will you"? 

Falcone. Look, my darling, 

Upon this first! (Holds up the letter.) 

Isabella. No ! you shall tell me all 

You and the Duke did — where you slept, 

where ate, 
Whether you dream'd of me — and, now I 

think on 't. 
Found you no wild-flowers as you cross'd 
the mountains'? 
Falcoxe. My own bright child! (Looks 

fondly upon her.) 
Tortesa. (Aside.) ('T will mar your 

joy, my lord! 
To see the Glover's daughter in your 

palace, 
And your proud daughter houseless !) 
Falcone. (To Isabella.) You '11 not 

hear 
The news I have for you? 
Tortesa. (Advancing.) Before you tell it, 

I '11 take my own again! 
Isabella. (Aside.) (Tortesa here!) 

(Curtseys.) 

1 crave your pardon, sir ; I saw you not ! 

(Oh, hateful monster!) (Aside.) 

Falcone. Listen to my news, 

Signor Tortesa! It concerns you, trust 

me! 

Isabella. (Aside.) (More of this hateful 

marriage ! ) 
Tortesa. Tell it briefly. 

My time is precious ! 
Falcone. Sir, I '11 sum it up 

In twenty words. The Duke has infor- 
mation. 
By what means yet I know not, that my 

need 
Spurs me to marry an unwilling daugh- 
ter. 
He bars the match! — redeems my lands 

and palace, 
And has enrich'd the yomig Count 

Julian, 
For whom he bids me keep my daughter's 

hand ! 
Kind, royal master! (Reads the note to 
himself. ) 
Isabella. (Aside.) (Never.) 

Tortesa. (Aside, with suppressed rage.) 

('Tis a lie! 
He 's mad, or plays some trick to gain the 

time — 
Or there 's a woman hatching deviltry ! 
We'll see.) (Looks at Isabella.) 

Isabella. (Aside.) (I '11 die first! Sold 
and taken back, 
Then thrust upon a husband paid to take 
me I 



To save my father I have weigh'd my- 
self, 
Heart, hand, and honor, against so much 

land!— 
I — Isabella ! I 'm not hawk nor hound, 
And, if I change my master, I will choose 
him! 
Tortesa. (Aside.) She seems not over- 
pleased ! 
Page. Your pardon. Count ! 

I wait your answer to the Duke ! 
Falcone. My daughter 

Shall give it you herself. W^hat sweet 

phrase have you, 
Grateful and eloquent, to bear your 

thanks? 
Speak, Isabella ! 
Isabella. (Aside.) (There's but one way 
left! 
Courage, poor heart, and think on An- 
gelo ! ) 

(Advances suddenly to Tortesa.) 
Signor Tortesa ! 
Tortesa. Madam ! 

Isabella. There 's my hand ! 

Is 't yours, or no? 
Tortesa. There was a troth between us ! 
Isabella. Is 't broke? 
Tortesa. I have not broke it ! 

Isabella. Then w4iy stand you 

Mute as a statue, when 't is struck asun- 
der 
Without our wish or knowledge? Would 

you be 
Half so indifferent had you lost a horse? 
Am I worth having? 
Tortesa. Is my life worth having? 

Isabella. Then are you robb'd ! Look to 

it! 
Falcone. Is she mad? 
Tortesa. You '11 marry me? 
Isabella. I will! 

Falcone. By heaven you shall not ! 

What, shall my daughter wed a leprosy — 
A bloated money-canker? Leave her 

hand! 
Stand from him, Isabella ! 
Isabella. Sir! you gave me 

This "leper" for a husband, three days 

gone; 
I did not ask my heart if I could love 

him! 
I took him with the meekness of a child. 
Trusting my father! I was shut up for 

him — 
Forc'd to receive no other company — 
My wedding-clothes made, and the match 

proclaim'd 
Through Florence! 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



273 



Falcone. Do you love him? — tell me 

quickly ! 
Isabella. You never ask'd me that when 

I was bid 
To wed him! 
Falcone. I am dumb ! 

ToRTESA. Ha ! ha ! well put ! 

At him again, ^Bel! Well! I've had 

misgivings 
That there was food in me for ladies' 

liking. 
I 've been too modest ! 
Isabella (aside). (Monster of disgust !) 
Falcone. My daughter! I would speak 

with you in private! 

Signor! you'll pardon me. 

Isabella. Go you, dear father! 

I'll follow straight. {Exit Falcone.) 

ToRTESA {aside). . (She loiters for a kiss! 

They 're all alike ! The same trick woos 

them all!) 
Come to me, 'Bel! 
Isabella {coldly). Tomorrow at this hour 
You '11 find the priest here, and the brides- 
maids waiting. 
Till then, adieu! (Exit.) 

ToRTESA. Hola! what, gone? Why, 

Bella ! 
Sweetheart ! I say ! So ! She would 

coy it with me ! 
Well, well, to-morrow ! 'T is not long, 

and kisses 
Pay interest by seconds ! There's a leg! 
As she stood there, the calf shewed hand- 
somely. 
Faith, 't is a shapely one ! I wonder 

now, 
Which of my points she finds most ad- 
mirable ! 
Something I never thought on, like as 

not. 
We do not see ourselves as others see 

us. 
'T would not surprise me now, if 't were 

my beard — 
My forehead ! I 've a hand indifferent 

white ! 
Nay, I 've been told my waist was neatly 

turn'd. 
We do not see ourselves as others see us ! 
How goes the hour? I'll home and fit 

my hose 
To tie trim for the morrow. {Going 

out.) Hem! the door's 
Lofty. I like that! I will have mine 

raised. 
Your low door makes one stoop ! {Exit.) 

END OF THE SECOND ACT. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene 1. 

(Angelo discovered in his studio, painting 
upon the picture of Isabella.) 

Angelo. My soul is drunk with gazing on 

this face. 
I reel and faint with it. In what sweet 

world 
Have I traced all its lineaments before? 
I know them. Like a troop of long-lost 

friends. 
My pencil wakes them with its eager 

touch. 
And they spring up, rejoicing. Oh, I '11 

gem 
The heaven of Fame with my irradiate 

pictures, 
Like kindling planets — but this glorious 

one 
Shall be their herald, like the evening 

star, 
First-lit, and lending of its fire to all. 
The day fades — but the lamp burns on 

within me. 
My bosom has no dark, no sleep, no 

change 
To dream or calm oblivion. I work on 
When my hand stops. The light tints 

fade. Good night. 
Fair image of the fairest thing on earth, 
Bright Isabella ! 

{Leans on the rod with which he guides 

his hand, and remains looking at his 

picture.) 

(Enter Tomaso, with two hags of money.) 

ToMASO. For the most excellent painter, 
Angelo, two hundred ducats ! The genius 
of my master flashes upon me. The 
duke's greeting and two hundred ducats! 
If I should not have died in my blind- 
ness but for this eye-water, may I be 
hanged. {Looks at Angelo.) He is 
studying his picture. What an air there 
is about him — lofty, unlike the vulgar! 
Two hundred ducats! (Observes An- 
GELo's hat on the table.) It strikes me 
now that I can see genius in that hat. 
It is not like a common hat. Not like 
a bought hat. The rim turns to the 
crown with an intelligence. {Weighs the 
ducats in his hand.) Good heavy ducats. 
What it is to refresh the vision ! I have 
looked round, ere now, in this very 
chamber, and fancied that the furniture 
expressed a melancholy dulness. When 



274 



TORTESA THE USURER 



he bath talked to me of his pictures, I 
have seen the chairs smile. Nay, as if 
shamed to listen, the very table has looked 
foolish. Now, all about me expresseth 
a choice peculiarity — as you would say, 
how like a genius to have such chairs! 
What a painter-like table! Two hun- 
dred ducats! 

AxGELO. What hast thou for supper"? 

ToMASO. Two hundred ducats, my great 
master. 

Angelo (absently). A cup of wine! 
Wine, Tomaso! (Sits down.) 

ToMASO. (So would the great Donatello 
have sat upon his chair! His legs thus! 
His hand falling thus!) (Aloud.) 
There is nought in die cellar but stale 
beer, my illustrious master! (Now, it 
strikes me that his shadow is unlike an- 
other man's — of a pink tinge, somehow — 
yet that may be fancy.) 

Angelo. Hast thou no money? Get wine, 
I say! 

Tomaso. I saw the duke in the market- 
place, who called me Angelo (we shall 
rue that trick yet), and with a gracious 
smile asked me if thou hadst paid the 
twenty flasks. 

Angelo [not listening). Is there no wine"? 

Tomaso. I said to his grace, no! Pray 
mark the sequel: In pity of my thirst, 
the duke sends me two — ahem! one hun- 
dred ducats. Here they are ! 

Angelo. Didst thou say the wine was on 
the lees? 

Tomaso. With these fifty ducats we shall 
buy nothing but wine. (He will be rich 
with fifty.) 

Angelo. What saidst thou? 

Tomaso. I spoke of twenty ducats sent 
thee by the duke. Wilt thou finger them 
ere one is spent? 

Angelo. I asked thee for wine — I am 
parched. 

Tomaso. Of these ten ducats, think'st 
thou we might spend one for a flask of 
better quality? 

Angelo. Lend me a ducat, if thou hast 
one, and buy wine presently. Go! 

Tomaso. I'll lend it thee, willingly, my 
illustrious master. It is my last, but as 
much mine as thine. 

Angelo. Go! Go! 

Tomaso. Yet wait ! There 's a scrap of 
news. Falcone's daughter marries Tor- 
tesa, the usurer. To-morrow is the 
bridal. 

Angelo. How ? 

Tomaso. I learned it in the market-place! 



There will be rare doings! 
Angelo. Dog! Villain! Thou hast lied? 

Thou dar'st not say it ! 
Tomaso. Hey! Art thou mad? Nay — 
borrow thy ducat where thou canst ! I '11 
spend that's my own. Adieu, master! 
{Exit Tomaso, and enter Tortesa with 
a complacent smile.) 
Angelo. Ha ! — well arrived ! 

(Draws his sword.) 
Tortesa. Good eve, good Signor Painter. 
Angelo. You struck me yesterday. 
Tortesa. I harmed your picture — ' 

For which I 'm truly sorry — but not you I 
Angelo. Myself! myself! My picture is 
myself ! 
What are my bones that rot ? Is this my 

hand?— 
Is this my eye ? 
Tortesa. I think so. 

Angelo. No, I say ! 

The hand and eye of Angelo are there ! 
There — there — (Points to his pictures.) 
— immortal ! Wound me in the flesh, 
I will forgive you upon fair excuse. 
'T is the earth round me — 't is my shell — 

my house; 
But in my picture lie my brain and 

heart — 
My soul — my fancy. For a blow at these 
There 's no cold reparation. Draw, and 

quickly ! 
I 'm in the mood to fight it to the death. 
Stand on your guard! 
Tortesa. I will not fight with you. 

Angelo. Coward ! 
Tortesa. I'm deaf. 

Angelo. Feel then ! 

(Tortesa catches the blow as he strikes 
him, and coldly flings back his hand.) 
Tortesa. Nay, strike me not ! 

I '11 call the guard, and cry out like a 
woman. 
Angelo (turning from him contemptu- 
ously). What scent of dog's meat 
brought me such a cur! 
It is a whip I want, and not a sword. 
Tortesa (folding his arms). I have a use 
for life so far above 
The stake you quarrel for, that you may 

choose 
Your words to please yourself. They'll 

please me, too. 
Yet you 're in luck. I killed a man on 

Monday 
For spitting on my shadow. Thursday's 

sun 
Will dry the insult, though it light on me! 
Angelo. Oh, subtle coward ! 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



275 



ToRTESA. I am what you will, 

So I'm alive to marry on the morrow! 
'T is well, by Jupiter! Shall you have 

power 
With half a breath to pluck from me a 

wife ! 
Shall I, against a life as poor as yours — 
Mine being precious as the keys of 

Heaven — 
Set all upon a throw, and no odds 

neither? 
I know what honor is as well as you ! " 
I know the weight and measure of an 

insult — 
What it is worth to take or fling it back. 
I have the hand to fight if I've a mind; 
And I 've a heart to shut my sunshine in, 
And lock it from the scowling of the 

world, 
Though all mankind cry "Coward !" 
Angelo. Mouthing braggart! 

ToRTESA. I came to see my bride, my Isa- 
bella ! 
Show me her picture ! 

{Advances to look for it.) 
Angelo. Do but look upon 't, 

By heaven's fair light, I '11 kill you ! 

(Draics.) 

ToRTESA. Soft, she 's mine ! 

She loves me ! and with that to make life 

precious, 
I have the nerve to beat back Hercules, 
If you were he ! 
Angelo {attacking him). Out! Out! 

thou shameless liar! 
ToRTESA {retreating on the defence). Thy 
blows and words fall pointless! 
Nay, thou 'rt mad ! 
But I '11 not harm thee for her picture's 
sake! 
Angelo. Liar! she hates thee! 

{Beats him off the stage and returns, 
closing the door violentlj/.) 

So! once more alone! 

{Takes Isabella's picture from the 

easel, and replaces it with Zippa's.) 

Back to the wall, deceitful loveliness! 

And come forth, Zippa, fair in honest 

truth ! 
I '11 make thee beautiful ! 

{Takes his pencil and palette to paint. 
A knock is heard.) 

Who knocks ? Come in ! 

{Enter Isabella, disguised as a monk.) 

Isabella. Good morrow, signor! 
Angelo {turning sharphj to the monk). 

There 's a face, old monk, 



Might stir your blood — ha 1 You shall 

tell me, i;ow, 
Which of these heavenly features hides 

the soul! 
There is one! I have worked upon the 

picture 
Till my brain 's thick — I cannot see like 

you. 
Where is 't? 
Isabella {aside). (A picture of the 
Glover's daughter! 
What does he, painting her!) Is 't for 

its beauty 
You paint that face, sir? 
Angelo. Yes — th' immortal beauty ! 

Look here! What see you in that face? 
The skin— 
Isabella. Brown as a vintage-girl's I 
Angelo. The mouth — 

Isabella. A good one 

To eat and drink withal! 
Angelo. The eye is — 

Isabella. Grey I 

You '11 buy a hundred like it for a penny ! 
Angelo. A hundred eyes? 
Isabella. No. Hazel-nuts ! 

Angelo. The forehead- 

How find you that? 
Isabella. Why, made to match the rest ! 
I '11 cut as good a face out of an apple — 
For all that 's fair in it ! 
Angelo. Oh, heaven, how dim 

Were God's most blessed image did all 

eyes 
Look on 't like thine ! Is 't by the red 

and white — 
Is 't by the grain and tincture of the 

skin — 
Is 't by the hair's gloss, or the forehead's 

arching. 
You know the bright inhabitant? I tell 

thee 
The spark of their divinity in some 
Lights up an inward face — so radiant. 
The outward lineaments are like a veil 
Floating before the sanctuary — forgot 
In glimpses of the glory streaming 
through ! 
Isabella {mournfully). Is Zippa's face so 

radiant ? 
Angelo. Look upon it ! 

You see thro' all the countenance she 's 
true! 
Isabella. True to you, signor! 
Angelo. To herself, old man I 

Yet once, to me, too! {Dejectedly.) 

Isabella (asi<^e). (Once to him! Caxi 

Zippa 
Have dared to love a man like Angelo I 



276 



TORTESA THE USURER 



I think she dare not. Yet if he, indeed, 
Were the inconstant lover that she told 

of— 
The youth who was "her neighbor!") 

Please you, signor! 
Was that fair maid your neighbor? 
Angelo. Ay — the best ! 

A loving sister weie not half so kind! 
I never supp'd without her company. 
Yet she was modest as an unsunn'd lily. 
And bounteous as the constant perfume 

of it. 
Isabella (aside). ('Twas he, indeed! 

Oh ! what a fair outside 
Has falsehood there! Yet stay! If it 

were I 
Who made him false to her? Alas, for 

honor, 
I must forgive him — tho' my lips are 

w^eary 
With telling Zippa how I thought him 

perjured! 
I cannot trust her more — I '11 plot 

alone!) 
[Turns, and takes her own picture from 

the wall.) 
Isabella. What picture's this, turned to 

the wall, good signor? 
AxGELO. A painted lie ! 
Isabella. A lie! — nay — pardon me! 

I spoke in haste. Methought 'twas like 

a lady 
I 'd somewhere seen ! — a lady — Isabella ! 
But she was true! 
Angelo. Then 't is not she I 've drawn. 

For that 's a likeness of as false a face 
As ever devil did his mischief under. 
Isabella. And yet methinks 't is done 

most lovingly! 
You must have thought it fair to dwell 

so on it. 
Angelo. Your convent has the picture of 

a saint 
Tempted, while praying, by the shape of 

woman. 
The painter knew that woman was the 

devil, 
Yet drew her like an angel! 
Isabella (aside). (It is true 

He praised my beauty as a painter may — 
No more — in words. He praised me as 

he drew — 
Feature l^y feature. But who calls the 

lip 
To answer for a perjured oath in love? 
How should love breathe — how not die, 

choked for utterance. 
If words were all. He loved me with his 

eyes. 



He breathed it. Upon every word he 

spoke 
Hung an unuttered Avorship that his 

tongue 
Would spend a life to make articulate. 
Did he not take my hand into his own? 
And, as his heart sprang o'er that bridge 

of veins. 
Did he not call to mine to pass him on 

it- 
Each to the other's bosom ! I have sworn 
To love him — wed him — die with him — 

and yet 
He never heard me — but he knows it well. 
And, in his heart holds me to answer 

for it. 
I '11 try once more to find this anger out. 
If it be jealousy — why — then, indeed, 
He '11 call me black, and I '11 forgive it 

him! 
For then my errand 's done, and I '11 

away 
To play the cheat out that shall make 

him mine.) 
(Turns to Angelo.) Fair signor, by 

your leave, I 've heard it said 
That in the beauty of a human face 
The God of Nature never writ a lie. 
Angelo. 'T is likely true ! 
Isabella. That howsoe'er the features 

Seem fair at first, a blemish on the soul 
Has its betraying speck that warns you 

of it. 
Angelo. It should be so, indeed ! 
Isabella. Nay — here 's a face 

Will show at once if it be true or no. 
At the first glance 't is fair ! 
Angelo. Most heavenly fair! 

Isabella. Yet, in the lip, methinks, there 

lurks a shadow — 
Something — I know not what — but in it^ 

lies 
The devil you spoke of ! 
Angelo. Ay — but 'tis not there! 

Not in her lip ! Oh, no ! Look else- 
where for it. 
'T is passionately bright — but lip more 

pure 
Ne'er passed unchallenged through the 

gate of heaven. 
Believe me, 't is not there ! 
Isabella. How falls the light? 

I see a gleam not quite angelical 
About the eye. Maybe the light falls 

wrong — 
Angelo (drawing her to another position). 

Stand here! D 'ye see it now? 
Isabella. 'T is just so here ! 

Angelo (sweeps the air with his brush).. 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



277 



There 's some curst cobweb hanging- from 

the wall 
That blurs your sight. Now, look again ! 
Isabella. I see it 

Just as before. 
Angelo. What ! still '? You 've turn'd an 
eyelash 
Under the lid. Try how it feels w^ith 

winking. 
Is 't clear? 
Isabella. 'T was never clearer ! 
AxGELO. Then, old man ! 

You 'd best betake you to your prayers 



apace 



For you 've a failing sight, death's sure 

forerunner — 
And cannot pray long. Why, that eye 's 

a star. 
Sky-lit as Hesperus, and burns as clear. 
If you e'er marked the zenith at high 

noon. 
Or midnight, when the blue lifts up to 

God— 
Her eye 's of that far darkness ! 
Isabella {smiling aside). 

Stay — 'tis gone! 
A blur was on my sight, which, passing 

from it, 
I see as you do. Yes — the eye is clear. 
The forehead only, now I see so well. 
Has in its arch a mark infallible 
Of a false heart beneath it. 
Angelo. Show it to me! 

Isabella. Between the eyebrows there ! 
Axgelo. I see a tablet 

Whereon the Saviour's finger might have 

writ 
The new commandment. When I painted 

it 
I plucked a just-blown lotus from the 

shade, 
And shamed the white leaf till it seemed 

a spot — 
The brow was so much fairer! Go! old 

man, 
Thy sight fails fast. Go ! Go ! 
Isabella. The nostril 's small — 

Is't not"? 
Angelo. No ! 

Isabella. Then the cheek 's awry so 

near it. 
It makes it seem so ! 
Angelo. Out ! thou cavilling fool ! 

Thou 'rt one of those whose own deform- 

ity 

Makes all thou seest look monstrous. Go 

and pray 
For a clear sight, and read thy missal 

with it. 



Thou art a priest, and livest by the altar, 
Yet dost thou recognize God's imprest 

seal, 
Set on that glorious beauty ! 
Isabella {aside). (Oh, he loves me! 

Loves me as genius loves — ransacking 

earth 
And ruffling the forbidden flowers of 

heaven 
To make celestial incense of his praise. 
High-thoughted Angelo! He loves me 

well! 
With what a gush of all my soul I thank 

him — 
But he's to win yet, and the time is 

precious.) 
( To Angelo. ) Signor, I take my leave. 
Angelo. Good day, old man ! 

And, if thou com'st again, bring new 

eyes with thee. 
Or thou wilt find scant welcome. 
Isabella. You shall like 

These same eyes well enough when next 

I come! {Exit.) 

Angelo. A crabbed monk! {Turns the 

picture to the wall again.) I '11 hide 

this fatal picture 
From sight once more, for till he made 

me look on 't 
I did not know my weakness. Once 

more, Zippa, 
I '11 dwell on thy dear face, and with my 

pencil 
Make thee more fair than life, and try 

to love thee! {A knock.) 

Come in! 

{Enter Zippa.) 

Zippa. Good day, Signor Angelo! 

Angelo. Why, Zippa! is't thou? is't 

thou, indeed! 
Zippa. Myself, dear Angelo ! 
Angelo. Art well? 
Zippa. Ay ! 

Angelo. Hast been well? 
Zippa. Ay ! 
Angelo. Then why, for three long days, 

hast thou not been near me? 
Zippa. Ask thyself, Signor Angelo ! 
Angelo. I have — a hundred times since I 

saw thee. 
Zippa. And there was no answer? 
Angelo. None ! 
Zippa. Then shouldst thou have ask'd the 

picture on thy easel ! 
Angelo. Nay — I understand thee not. 
Zippa. Did I not find thee feasting thy 

eyes upon it? 
Angelo. True — thou didst. 



278 



TORTESA THE USURER 



ZiPPA. And art thou not enamoured of it 
— wilt tell me truly*? 

Angelo {smiling). 'T is a fair face! 

ZiPPA. Oh, unkind Angelo! 

Angelo. Look on 't ! and, seeing- its beauty, 
if thou dost not forgive me, I will never 
touch pencil to it more. 

ZiPPA. I '11 neither look on 't, nor forgive 
thee. But if thou wilt love the picture of 
another better than mine, thou shalt paint 
a new one! (As she rushes up to dash it 
from the easel, Angelo catches her arm^ 
and points to the picture. She looks at 
it, and, seeing her own portrait, turns 
and falls on his bosom.) My picture! 
and I thought thee so false! Dear, dear 
Angelo! I could be grieved to have 
wronged thee, if joy would give me time. 
But thou 'It forgive me*? 

AxGELO. Willingly! Willingly! 

ZiPPA. And thou lovest me indeed, in- 
deed ! Nay, answer not ! I will never 
doubt thee more! Dear Angelo! Yet — 
{Suddenly turns from Angelo with a 
troubled air.) 

Angelo. What ails thee now*? (Zippa 
takes a rich veil from under her cloak, 
throws it over her head, and looks on the 
ground in embarrassed silence.) Dost 
thou stand there for a picture of Silence"? 

Zippa. Alas! dear Angelo! When I said 
I forgave and lov'd thee, I forgot that I 
was to be married to-morrow ! 

Angelo. Married! to whom"? 

Zippa. Tortesa, the usurer! 

Angelo. Tortesa, saidst thou"? 

Zippa. Think not ill of me, dear Angelo, 
till I have told thee all! This rich 
usurer, as thou knowest, would for am- 
bition marry Isabelle de Falcone. 

Angelo. He would, I know. 

Zippa. But for love, he would marry your 
poor Zippa. 

Angelo. irwou' you that *? 

Zippa. He told me so the day you anger'd 
me with the praises of the court lady you 
were painting. What was her name, 
Angelo'? 

Angelo {composedly). I — I'll tell thee 
presently! Go on! 

Zippa. Well — jealous of this unknown 
lady, I vow'd, if it broke my heart, to 
wed Tortesa. He had told me Isabella 
scorn'd him. I flew to her palace. She 
heard me, pitied me, agreed to plot with 
me that I might wed the usurer, and then 
told me in confidence that there was a 
poor youth whom she loved and would 
fain marry. 



Angelo {in breathless anxiety). Heard 

you his name"? 
Zippa. No! But as I was to wed the 
richer and she the poorer, she took my 
poor veil, and gave me her rich one. 
Now canst tliou read the riddle"? 
Angelo (aside). (A "poor vouth!" 
What if it is I"? She ^'loves and will 
wed him!" Oh! if it were I!) 
Zippa. Nay, dear Angelo ! be not so an- 
gry! I do not love him! Nay — thou 
knowst I do not ! 
Angelo (aside). (It may be — nay — it 
must ! But I will know ! If not, I may 
as well die of that as of this jealous mad- 
ness.) (Prepares to go out.) 
Zippa. Angelo! where go you"? Forgive 
me, dear Angelo ! I swear to thee I love 
him not ! 
Angelo. I '11 know who that poor youth 
is, or suspense will kill me! 

(Goes out hastily, without a look at 
Zippa. She stands silent and amazed 
for a moment.) 
Zippa. Why cares he to know who that 
poor youth is? "Suspense will kill 
him*?" Stay! a light breaks on me! If 
Isabella were the Court lady whom he 
painted! If it were Angelo whom she 
loved! He is a poor youth! — The pic- 
ture ! The picture will tell all ! 

(Hurriedly turns round several pic- 
tures turned to the wall, and last of 
all, Isabella's. Looks at it an in- 
stant, and exclaims) 
Isabella ! 

(She drops on her knees, overcome 
with grief, and the scene closes.) 



Scene 2. A Lady's dressing-room in the 
Falcone Palace. Isabella discovered 
ivith two phials. 

Isabella. Here is a draught will still the 

breath so nearly. 
The keenest-eyed will think the sleeper 

dead, — 
And this kills quite. Lie ready, trusty 

friends, 
Close by my bridal veil! I thought to 

baffle 
My ruffian bridegroom by an easier cheat ; 
But Zippa 's dangerous, and if I fail 
In mocking death, why death indeed be 

w^elcome ! 

(Enter Zippa angrily.) 
Zippa. Madam ! 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



279 



Isabella. You come rudely! 

ZiPPA. If I offend you more, I still have 
cause — 
Yet as the "friend" to whom you gave a 

husband, 
(So kind you were!) I might come un- 
announced ! 
Isabella. What is this anger? 
ZiPPA. I 'm not angry, madam ! 

Oh, no ! I 'm patient ! 
Isabella. What's your errand, then*? 

ZiPPA. To give you back your costly bridal 
veil 
And take my mean one. 
Isabella. 'T was your wish to change. 
'T was you that plotted we should wed 

together — 
You in my place, and I in yours — was 't 
not? 
ZiPPA. Oh, heaven ! you 're calm ! Had 
you no plotting, too? 
You 're noble born, and so your face is 

marble — 
I 'm poor, and if my heart aches, 't will 

show through. 
You 've robb'd me, madam ! 
Iabella. I? 

ZiPPA. Of gold — of jewels! — 

Gold that would stretch the fancy but to 

dream of. 
And gems like stars! 
Isabella. You're mad! 
ZiPPA. His love was worth them ! 

Oh, what had you to do with Angelo? 
Isabella. Nay — came you not to wed Tor- 
tesa freely? 
What should you do with Angelo? 
ZiPPA. You mock me ! 

You are a woman, though your brow 's a 

rock, 
And know what love is. In a ring of 

fire 
The tortured scorpion stings himself, to 

die — 
But love will turn upon itself, and grow 
Of its own fang immortal ! 
Isabella. Still, you left him 

To wed another? 
ZiPPA. 'T is for that he 's mine ! 

What makes a right in any thing, but 

pain? 
The diver's agony beneath the sea 
Makes the pearl his — pain gets the 

miser's gold — 
The noble's coronet, won first in battle. 
Is his by bleeding for't — and Angelo 
Is ten times mine because I gave him 

up- 
Crushing my heart to do so ! 



Isabella. Now you plead 

Against yourself. Say it would kill me 

quite. 
If you should wed him? Mine's the 

greater pain. 
And so the fairer title! 
ZiPPA {falling on her knees). 

I implore you 
Love him no more! Upon my knees I 

do! 
He 's not like you ! Look on your snow- 
white arms! 
They 're f orm'd to press a noble to your 

breast — 
Not Angelo ! He 's poor — and fit for 

mine! 
You would not lift a beggar to your 

lips ! — 
You would not lean from your proud 

palace-stairs 
To pluck away a heart from a poor girl 
Who has no more on earth! 
Isabella. I will not answer! 

ZiPPA. Think what it is! Love is to you 

like music — 
Pastime ! You think on 't when the 

dance is o'er — 
When there 's no revel — when your hair 's 

unbound, 
And its bright jewels with the daylight 

pale — 
You w<r.nt a lover to press on the hours 
That iag till night again ! But I — ■■ 
Isabella. Stop there! 

I love him better than you've soul to 

dream of! 
ZiPPA {rising). 'T is false! How can 

you ? He 's to you a lamp 
That shines amid a thousand just as 

bright ! 
What 's one amid your crowd of wor- 
shippers ? 
The glow-worm 's bright — but oh ! 't is 

wanton murder 
To raise him to the giddy air you breathe. 
And leave his mate in darkness! 
Isabella. Say the worm 

Soar from the earth on his own wing — 

what then ? 
ZipPA. Fair reasons cannot stay the heart 

from breaking. 
You've stol'n my life, and you can give 

it back ! 
Will you — for heaven's sweet pity? 
Isabella. Leave my presence ! 

{Aside.) (I pity her — but on this fatal 

love 
Hangs my life, too.) What right have 

such as you 



280 



TORTESA THE USURER 



To look with eyes of love on Aiii^elo'? 
ZiPPA. What right ? 

Isabella. I say so. Where 's the 

miracle 

Has made you fit to climb into the sk}^ — 

A moth — and look with love upon a 

star ! 

ZiPPA {mournfully). I 'm lowly bom, alas ! 

Isabella. Your soul 's low born ! 

Forget your anger and come near me, 

Zippa, 
For e'er ^ I 'm done yon '11 wonder ! 

Have you ever, 
VTheu Angelo was silent, mark'd his 

eye- 
How, of a sudden, as 't were touch'd with 

fire, 
There glows unnatural light beneath the 
lid? 
Zippa. I have — I 've thought it strange ! 
Isabella. Have you walk'd with him 

When he has turn'd his head, as if to list 
To music in the air — but you heard 

none — 
And presently a smile stole through his 

lips, 
And some low words, inaudible to you. 
Fell from him brokenly. 
Zippa. Ay — ^many times ! 

Isabella. Tell me once more! Hast 
never heard him speak 
With voice unlike his own — so melan- 
choly, 
And yet so sweet a voice, that, were it 

only 
The inarticulate moaning of a bird. 
The very tone of it had made you weep*? 
Zippa. 'T is strangely true, indeed ! 
Isabella. Oh, heaven! You say so — 

Yet never dreamt it was a spirit of light 
Familiar with you ! 
Zippa. How"? 

Isabella. W'hy, there are seraphs 

Who walk this common world, and want, 

as we do — 
Here, in our streets — all seraph, save in 

wings — 
The look, the speech, the forehead like a 

god— 
And he the brightest ! 
Zippa (incredulously). Nay — I 've known 

him long! 
Isabella. Why, listen ! There are worlds, 
thou doubting fool! 
Farther to flee to than the stars in 

heaven, 
Wliich Angelo can walk as we do this — 
And does — while you look on him ! 
Zippa. Angelo ! 

1 Ere. 



Isabella. He 's never at your side one 

constant minute 
Without a thousand messengers from 

thence! 
(0 block! to live with him, and never 

dream on 't ! ) 
He plucks the sun's rays open like a 

thread. 
And knows what stains the rose and not 

the lily- 
He never sees a flower but he can tell 
Its errand on the earth — (they all have 

errands — 
You knew not that, oh dulness!) He 

sees shapes 
Flush'd with immortal beauty in the 

clouds — 
(You 've seen him mock a thousand on his 

canvas, 
And never wonder'd!) Yet you talk of 

love ! 
What love you"? 
Zippa. Angelo — and not a dream ! 

Take you the dream and give me Angelo ! 
You may talk of him till my brain is 

giddy— 
But, oh, you cannot praise him out of 

reach 
Of my true heart. — He's here, as low 

as I!— 
Shall he not wed a woman, flesh and 

blood? 
Isabella. See here! There was a small, 

earth-creeping mole. 
Born by the low nest of an unfledged 

lark. 
They lived an April youth amid the 

grass — 
The soft mole happy, and the lark no 

less. 
And thought the bent sky leaned upon. 

the flowers. 
By early ]\Iay the fledgling got his wings ; 
And, eager for the light, one breezy 

dawn, 
Sprang from his nest, and buoyantly 

away, 
Fled forth to meet the morning. Newly 

born 
Seem'd the young lark, as in another 

world 
Of light, and song, and creatures like 

himself. 
He soar'd and dropp'd, and sang unto 

the sun, 
And pitied every thing that had not 

wings — 
But most the mole, that wanted even eyes 
To see tlie light he floated in ! 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



281 



ZiPPA. Yet still 

She watch'd bis nest, and fed him when 

he came — 
Would it were Angelo and I indeed ! 
Isabella. Nay, mark! The bird grew 

lonely in the sky. 
There was no echo at the height he flew ! 
And when the mist lay heavy on his wings 
His song broke, and his flights were 

brief and low — 
And the dull mole, that should have sor- 
rowed with him, 
Joy'd that he sang at last where she 

could hear! 
ZiPPA. Why, happy mole again ! . 
Isabella. Not long! — for soon 

He found a mate that loved him for liis 

wings! 
One who with feebler flight, but eyes 

still on him. 
Caught up his dropp'd song in the mid- 
dle air. 
And, with the echo, cheered him to the 

sun! 
ZiPPA (aside). (I see! I see! His soul 

was never mme! 
I was the blind mole of her hateful 

story ! 
No, no! he never loved me! True, we 

ate. 
And laugh'd, and danced together — but 

no love — 
He never told his thought when he was 

sad! 
His folly and his idleness were mine — 
No more! The rest was lock'd up in his 

soul! 
I feel my heart grow black!) Fair 

madam, thank you ! 
YouVe told me news! (She shall not 

have him neither. 
If there 's a plot in hate to keep him 

from her! 
I must have room to think, and air to 

breathe — 
I choke here!) Madam, the blind mole 

takes leave! 
Isabella. Farewell! (Exit Zippa.) 

{Takes the phial from the table.) 
And now, come forth, sweet comforter ! 
I '11 to my chamber with this drowsy poi- 
son. 
And from my sleep I wake up Angelo's, 
Or wake no more! (Exit.) 



END OF THE THIRD ACT. 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene 1. (A sumptuous Drawing-room in 
the Falcone Palace. Guests assembled 
for the bridal Lords and ladies prome- 
nading, and a band of musicians in a 
gallery at the side of the stage.) 

1st Lord. Are we before the hour? or 
does the bridegroom 
Affect this tardiness*? 
2nd Lord. We're bid at twelve. 

1st Lord. 'T is now past one. At least we 
should have music 
To wile the time. [To the musicians.) 
Strike up, good fellows! 
2nd Lord. Why, 

A man who 's only drest on holidays 
Makes a long toilet. Now, I '11 warrant 

he 
Has vex'd his tailor since the break of 

day 
Hoping to look a gentleman. D 'ye 
know him? 
1st Lord. I Ve never had occasion ! 
2nd Lord. Poor Falcone ! 

He'd give the best bleed in his veins, I 

think, 
To say as much ! 
1st Lord. How's this! I see no stir 

Among the instruments. Will they not 
play? 
2nd Lord. Not they ! I ask'd before you, 
and they 're bid 
To strike up when they hear Tortesa's 

horses 
Prance thro' the gateway — not a note till 
then! {Music plays.) 

1st Lord. He comes ! 

{Enter Tortesa, dressed over-richly.) 

ToRTESA. Good day, my lords! 

1st Lord. Good day ! 

2nd Lord, The sky 

Smiles on you, Signor! 'T is a happy 

omen 
They say, to wed in sunshine. 
Tortesa. Why, I think 

The sun is not displeased that I should 
wed. 
1st Lord. We 're happy, Sir, to have you 

one of us. 
Tortesa. What have I been till now! I 
was a man 
Before I saw your faces ! Where 's the 

change? 
Have I a tail since? Am I gTOwn a 
T^onkev % 



28*2 



TORTESA THE USURER 



(LoKDS whisper together, mid icalJc 

from him,.) 
Oh, for a mint to coin the world again 
And melt the mark of gentlemen from 

clowns ! 
It puts me out of patience! Here's a 

fellow 
That, by much rubbing against better 

men. 
Has, like a penny in a Jew's close pocket. 
Stolen the color of a worthier coin, 
And thinks he rings like sterling cour- 
tesy! 
Yet look! he cannot phrase you a good 

morrow, 
Or say he 's sad, or glad, at any thing. 
But close beneath it, rank as verdigrease. 
Lies an insulting rudeness! He was 

"happy" 
That I should now be one of them. 

Now! Now! 
As if, till no IV, I 'd been a dunghill grub. 
And was but just turn'd butterfly! 

{A Lady advances.) 

Lady. Fair Sir, 

I must take leave to say, were you my 

brother. 
You 've made the choice that would have 

pleas'd me best ! 
Your bride 's as good as fair. 
ToRTESA. I thank you. Madam ! 

To be your friend, she should be — good 

and fair! 
{The Lady turns, and walks up the 

stage.) 
How like a drop of oil upon the sea 
Falls the apt word of woman! So! her 

''brother" ! 
Why, there could be no contumely there! 
I might, for all I look, have been her 

brother, 
Else her first thought had never coupled 

us. 
I '11 pluck some self-contentment out of 

that ! 

(Enter suddenly the Count's Secretary.) 

How now! 
Secretary. I 'm sent. Sir, with unwel- 
come tidings. 
Tortesa. Deliver them the quicker ! 
Secretary. I shall be 

Too sudden at the slowest. 
Tortesa. Pshaw! what is't'? 

I 'm not a girl ! Out with your news at 
once! 

Are my ships lost? 



Secretary. {Hesitatingly.) The lady Isa- 
bella— 
Tortesa. What? run away! 
Secretary. Alas, good Sir ! she 's dead ! 
Tortesa. Bah! just as dead as I! Why, 
thou dull blockhead! 
Cannot a lady faint, but there must be 
A trumpeter like thee to make a tale 
on't? 
Secretary. Pardon me, Signor, but — 
Tortesa. Who sent you hither'? 

Secretary. My lord the Count. 
Tortesa. {Turning quickly aside.) He 
put it in the bond, 
That if by any humor of my own. 
Or accident that sprang not from him- 
self. 
Or from his daughtei'^s will, the match 

were marr'd, 
His tenure stood intact. If she were 

dead — 
I don't believe she is — ^but if she were. 
By one of those strange chances that do 

happen — 
If she were dead, I say, the silly fish 
That swims with safety among hungry 

sharks 
To run upon the pin-hook of a boy. 
Might teach me wisdom. {The Secre- 
tary comes forward, narrating 
eagerly to the company.) Now, 
what says this jackdaw? 
Secretary. She had refused to let her 

bridesmaids in — 
Lady. And died alone? 
Secretary. A trusty serving maid 

Was with her, and none else. She 

dropp'd away, 
The girl said, in a kind of weary sleep. 
1st Lord. Was no one told of it? 
Secretary. The girl watch'd by her,-^ 

And thought she slept still ; till, the music 

sounding. 
She shook her by the sleeve, but got no 

answer ; 
And so the truth broke on her! 
Tortesa. {Aside.) (Oh, indeed! 

The plot is something shallow ! ) 
2nd Lord. Might we go 

And see her as she lies? 
Secretary. The holy father 

Who should have married her, has check'd 

all comers. 
And staying for no shroud but bridal 

dress, 
He bears her presently to lie in state 
In the Falcone chapel. 
Tortesa. {Aside.) (AYorse and worse— 
They take me for a fool!) 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



283 



1st Lohd. But why such baste'? 

Secretary. I know not. 
All. Let us to the chapel ! 

TORTESA. (Drawing his sword, and step- 
ping between them and the door.) 

Hold! 
Let no one try to pass ! 
1st Lord. What mean you, Sir! 

ToRTESA. To keep you here till you have 
got your story 
Pat to the tongue — the truth on 't, and 
no more! 
Lady. Have you a doubt the bride is dead, 

good Signor? 
ToRTESA. A palace, see you, has a tricky 
air! 
When I am told a tradesman's daugh- 
ter 's dead, 
I know the coffin holds an honest corse, 
Sped, in sad earnest, to eternity. 
But were 1 stranger in the streets to-day, 
And heard that an ambitious usurer, 
With lands and money having bought a 

lady 
High-born and fair, she died before the 

bridal, 
I would lay odds with him that told me 

of it 
She 'd rise again — before the resurrec- 
tion. 
So stand back all ! If I 'm to fill today 
The pricking ears of Florence with a 

lie, 
The bridal guests shall tell the tale so 

truly. 
And mournfully, from eyesight of the 

corse. 
That ev'n the shrewdest listener shall be- 
lieve. 
And I myself have no misgiving of it. 
Look! where they come! {Door opens to 
funeral music, and the body of Isa- 
bella is borne in, preceded by a 
Monk, and followed by Falcone 
and mourners. Tortesa confronts 
the Monk.) What's this you bear 
away "? 
Monk. Follow the funeral, but stay it not. 
Tortesa. If thereon lie the lady Isabella, 

I ask to see her face before she pass ! 
Monk. Stand from the way, my son, it 

cannot be! 
Tortesa. What right have you to take me 
for a stone"? 
See what you do! I stand a bridegroom 

here. 
A moment since the joyous music playing 
Which promised me a fair and blushing 
bride. 



The flowers are fragrant, and the guests 

made welcome ; 
And while my heart beats at the opening 

door. 
And eagerly I look to see her come, — 
There enters in her stead a covered corse ! 
And when I ask to look upon her face — 
One look, before my bride is gone foi^ 

ever, — 
You find it in your hearts to say me 

nay!— 
Shame ! Shame ! 
Falcone. {Fiercely.) Lead on ! 
Tortesa. My lord, by covenant — 

By contract writ and seal'd — by value 

rendered — 
By her own promise — nay, by all, save 

taking. 
This body 's mine ! I '11 have it set down 

here 
And wait my pleasure! See it done, my 

lord. 
Or I will, for you ! 
Monk. {To the bearers.) Set the body 

down ! 
Tortesa. {Takes the veil from the face.) 
Come hither all! Nay, father, look not 

black! 
If o'er the azure temper of this blade 
There come no mist, when laid upon her 

lips, 
I '11 do a penance for irreverence, 
And fill your sack with penitential goLl! 
Look well! {Puts his sword blade to 

Isabella's lips, and after watching 

it with intense interest a moment, 

drops on his knees beside the bier.) 

She 's dead indeed ! Lead on ! 
{The procession starts again to fune- 
real music, and Tortesa follows 

last.) 

Scene 2. A Street in Florence. The 
funereal music dying away in the dis- 
tance. 

{Enter Zippa, straining her eyes to look 
after it.) 

Zippa. 'T is Angelo that follows close be- 
hind, 

Laying his forehead almost on her bier! 

His heart goes with her to the grave ! 
Oh, Heaven ! 

Will not Tortesa pluck out of his hand 

The tassel of that pall? {She hears a 
footstep. ) Stay, stay, he 's here ! 

{Enter Tortesa, musing. Zippa stands 
aside.) 



284 



TORTESA THE USURER 



ToRTESA. I 've learned to-day a lord may 
be a Jew, 
I 've learned to-day that grief may kill a 

lady ; 
Which touches me the most I cannot say, 
For I could fight Falcone for my loss 
Or weep, with all my soul, for Isabella. 
(ZiPPA touches him on the shoulder.) 
ZiPPA. How is 't the Signor follows not his 

bride? 
ToRTESA. I did — but with their melancholy 
step 
I fell to musing, and so dropp'd behind — 
But here 's a sight I have not seen to-day ! 
{Takes her hand smilingly.) 
ZipPA, What's that? 

ToRTESA. A friendly face, my honest 

Zippa ! 
Art well? What en^and brings thee 
forth? 
Zippa. None, Sig-nor! 

But passing by the funeral, I stopped, 
Wondering to see the bridegroom lag 

behind. 
And give his sacred station next the cross 
To an obtrusive stranger. 
ToRTESA. Which is he? 

Zippa. (Points after Angelo.) Look 

there ! 
ToRTESA. His face is buried in his 

cloak. 
Who is't? 
Zippa. Not know him ? Had I half the 

cause 
That you have, to see through that mum- 
ming cloak. 
The shadow of it would speak out his 
name ! 
ToRTESA. What mean you? 
Zippa. Angelo! What right has he 

To weep in public at her funeral? 
ToRTESA. The painter? 
Zippa. Ay — the peasant Angelo! 

Was 't not enough to dare to love her 

living, 
But he must fling the insult of his tears 
Betwixt her corse and you? Are you not 

mov'd? 
Will you not go and pluck him from your 
place? 
ToRTESA. No, Zippa! for my spirits are 
more apt 
To grief than anger. I 've in this half 

hour 
Remember'd much I should have thought 

on sooner, — 
For, had I known her heart was capable 
Of breaking for the love of one so 
low, 



I would have done as much to make her 

his 
As I have done, in hate, to make her 

mine. 
She lov'd him, Zippa. {Walks hack in 

thought.) 
Zippa. {Aside.) (Oh, to find a way 

To pluck that fatal beauty from his eyes ! 
'T is twilight, and the lamp is lit above 

her, 
And Angelo will watch the night out 

there, 
Gazing with passionate worship on her 

face. 
But no! he shall not!) 
Tortesa. (Advancing.) Come ! what busy 

thought 
Yexes your brain now? 
Zippa. Were your pride as quick 

As other men's to see an insult, Signor! 
I had been spared the telling of my 

thought. 
Tortesa. You put it sharply ! 
Zippa. Listen ! you are willing 

That there should follow, in your place 

of mourner, 
A youth, who, by the passion of his grief 
Shews to the world he 's more bereaved 

than you ! 

Tortesa. Humph! well! 

Zippa. Still follows he without rebuke; 

And in the chapel where she lies to-night, 

Her features bared to the funereal lamp, 

He '11, like a mourning bridegroom, keep 

his vigil, 
As if all Florence knew she was his 

own. 
Tortesa. Nay, nay! he may keep vigil if 

he will ! 
The door is never lock'd upon the dead 
Till bell and mass consign them to the 

tomb ; 
And custom gives the privilege to all 
To enter in and pray — and so may he. 
Zippa. Then learn a secret which I fain 

had spared 
My lips the telling. Question me not 

how, 
But I have chanced to learn, that Angelo, 
To-night, will steal the body from its 

hier! 
Tortesa. To-night! What! Angelo! 

Nay, nay, good Zippa ! 
If he 's enamoured of the corse, 't is 

there — 
And he may watch it till its shape decay, 
And holy church will call it piety. 
But he who steals from consecrated 

ground. 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



285 



Dies, by the law of Florence. There's 

no end 
To answer in 't. 
ZiPPA. You know not, Angelo ! 

You think not with what wild, delirious 

passion 
A painter thirsts to tear the veil from 

beauty. 
He painted Isabella as a maid, 
Coy as a lily turning- from the sun. 
Now she is dead, and, like a star, that 

flew 
Flashing and hiding thro' some fleecy 

rack, 
But suddenly sits still in cloudless heav- 
ens, 
She slumbers fearless in his steadfast 

gaze. 
Peerless and unforbidding. 0! to him 
She is no more your bride! A statue 

fairer 
Than ever rose enchanted from the stone, 
Lies in that dim-lit chapel, clad like life. 
Are you too slow to take my meaning 

yet? 
He cannot loose the silken boddice there! 
He cannot, there upon the marble breast 
Shower the dark locks from the golden 

comb ! 
TORTESA. Hold ! 
ZiPPA. Are you mov'd ? Has he no 

end to compass 
In stealing her away from holy ground ■? 
Will you not lock your bride up from his 

touch? 
ToRTESA. No more! no more! I thought 

not of all this ! 
Perchance it is not true. But twilight 

falls. 
And I will home to doff this bridal gear. 
And, after, set a guard upon the corse. 
We '11 walk together. Come ! 
ZiPPA. (Aside.) (He shall not see her!) 

{Exeunt. ) 



Scene 3. {A Street in front of the Fal- 
cone Palace. Night. Enter Isabella in 
her white bridal dress. She falters to 
her father's door, and drops exhausted.) 

Isabella. My brain swims round ! I '11 

rest a little here! 
The night's cold, chilly cold. Would I 

could reach 
The house of Angelo! Alas! I thought 
He would have kept one night of vigil 

near me, 



Thinking me dead. Bear up, good heart ! 

Alas! ^ 
I faint! Where am I? {Looks around.) 

'T is my father's door. 
My undirected feet have brought me 

home — 
And I must in, or die! {Knocks with a 
painful effort.) So ends my dream ! 
Falcone. (From above.) Who's that 

would enter to a mourning house? 
Isabella. Your daughter! 
Falcone. Ha ! what voice is that I 

hear? 
Isabella. Poor Isabella's. 
Falcone. Art thou come to tell me, 

That with unnatural heart I killed my 

daughter ? 
Just Heaven! thy retribution follows 

fast! 
But, oh, if holy and unnumbered masses 
Can give thee rest, perturb'd and rest- 
less spirit! 
Haunt thou a weeping penitent no more ! 
Depart ! I '11 in, and pass the night in 



prayer 



So shalt thou rest ! Depart ! 

{He closes the window, and Isabella 
drops with her forehead to the mar- 
ble stair.) 

{Enter Tomaso, with a bottle in his hand.) 

ToMASO. It 's like the day after the deluge. 
Few stirring and nobody dry. I 've been 
since twilight looking for somebody that 
would drink. Not a beggar athirst in all 
Florence! I thought that, with a bottle 
in my hand, I should be scented like a 
wild boar. I expected drunkards would 
have come up out of the ground — like 
worms in a shower. When was I ever so 
difficult to find by a moist friend? Two 
hundred ducats in good wine and no com- 
panion ! I '11 look me up a dry dog. I '11 
teach him to tipple, and give up the fel- 
lowship of mankind ! 

Isabella. {Faintly.) Signer! 

Tomaso. Hey ! What ! 

Isabella. Help, Signor! 

Tomaso. A woman! Ehem! {Approach- 
ing her.) Would you take something to 
drink by any chance? {Offers her the 
bottle.) No? Perhaps you don't like to 
drink out of the bottle. 

Isabella. I perish of cold ! 

Tomaso. Stay! Here's a cloak! My 
master 's out for the night, and you shall 
home with me. Come! Perhaps when 
you get warmer, you'd like to drink a 
little. The wine 's good ! {Assists her in 



286 



TORTESA THE USURER 



rising.) By St. Genevieve, a soft hand! 
Come! 1 '11 bring you where there 's fire 
and a clean flagon. 

Isabella. To any shelter, Signor! 

ToMASO. Shelter! nay, a good house, and 
two hundred ducats in ripe wine. 
Steady, now! (This shall pass for a 
good action ! If my master smell a rat, 
I'll face him out the woman's honest!) 
This way, now! Softly! That's w^ell 
stepp'd ! Come ! 

{Goes out, assisting her to walk.) 

END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 



ACT FIFTH. 

Scene 1. (Angelo's Studio. A full-length 
picture, in a large frame, stands on the 
floor against an easel, placed nearly in 
the centre of the room. Two curtains, so 
arranged as to cover the picture when 
drawn together. Angelo stands in an 
imploring attitude near the picture, his 
pencil and palette in his hands, appealing 
to Isabella, who is partly turned from 
him in an attitude of refusal. The hack 
wall of the room such as to form a natural 
ground for a picture.) 

AxGELO. Hear me, sweet ! 
Isabella. No, we '11 keep a holiday. 

And waste the hours in love, and idleness. 
You shall not paint to-day, dear Angelo ! 
Angelo. But listen ! 

Isabella. Nay, I 'm jealous of my 

picture ; 
For all you give to that is stol'n from 

me. 
I like not half a look that turns aw^ay 
Without an answer from the eyes it met ! 
I care not you should see my lips' bright 

color 
Yet wait not for the breath that floats 
between ! 
Angelo. AYilt listen *? 
Isabella. Listen? Yes! a thousand 

years ! 
But there 's a pencil in those restless 

fingers, 
Which you 've a trick of touching to your 

lips — 
And while you talk, my hand would do as 

well! 
And if it 's the same tale you told before 
Of certain vigils you forgot to keep. 
Look deep into my eyes till it is done — 
For, like the children's Lady-in-the-well, 



I only hark because you 're looking in ! 
Will you talk thus to me? 
Angelo. Come night I wdll ! 

But close upon thy voice, sweet Isabella ! 
A boding whisper sinks into mine ear 
Which tells of sudden parting! If 'tis 

false, — 
We shall have still a lifetime for our love, 
But if 'tis true, oh, think that, in my 

picture. 
Will lie the footprint of an angel gone! 
Let me but make it clearer! 
Isabella. Now, by heaven ! 

I think thou lov'st the picture, and not 

me! 
So different am I, that, did I think 
To lose thee presently, by death or part- 
ing, 
For thy least word, or look, or slightest 

motion — 
Nay, for so little breath as makes a sigh 
I would not take, to have it pass un- 

treasured. 
The empire of a star! 

{While she was uttering this reproach, 

Angelo has looked at her with de- 
light, and touched his portrait with a 

few^ rapid strokes.) 
Angelo. My picture 's done ! 

{Throws his pencil to the ground.) 
Break, oh enchanted pencil! thou wilt 

never 
On earth again, do miracles so fair! 
Oh, Isabella ! as the dusky ore 
Waits for the lightning's flash to turn to 

gold— 
As the dull vapor waits for Hesperus, 
Then falls in dew-drops, and reflects a 

star — 
So waited I that fire upon thy lips, 
To make my master-piece complete in 

beauty ! 
Isabella. This is ambition when I look'd 

for love. 
The fancy flattering where the heart 

should murmur. 
I think you have no heart ! 
Angelo. Your feet are on it ! 

The heart is ever lowly with the fortunes, 
Tho' the proud mind sits level with a 

king! 
I gave you long ago both heart and soul, 
But only one has dared to speak to you ! 
Yet, if astonishment will cure the dumb, 
Give it a kiss — 
Isabella. {Smiling.) Lo! Where it 

speaks at last ! 

{A loud knock is heard.) 
Hark, Angelo! 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



287 



{He flies to the window, and looks out.) 
Angelo. Tortesa with a guard ! 

Alas ! that warning voice ! They 've 

traced thee hither! 
Lost ! Lost ! 
Isabella. {Ilastihj drawing tJie curtain,^ 
and disappearing heliind it.) No! 
No ! defend thy picture only, 
And all is well yet ! 
Angelo. Thee and it with life ! 

{Draws his sword, and stands before 
the curtains in an attitude of defi- 
ance.) 

{Enter Tortesa, with officers and guard.) 

What is your errand"? 
Tortesa, I 'm afraid, a sad one ! 

For, by your drawn sword and defying 
air. 

Your conscious thought foretells it. 
Angelo. Why, — a blow — 

( You took one, Signor, w^hen you last 
were here — 

If you've forgot it, well!) — but, com- 
monly. 

The giver of a blow needs have his sword 

Promptly in hand. You '11 pardon me ! 
Tortesa. I do! 

For, if my fears are just, good Signor 
painter ! 

You 've not a life to spare upon a quar- 
rel! 

In brief, the corse of a most noble lady 

Was stol'n last night from holy sanctu- 
ary. 

I have a warrant here to search your 
house ; 

And, should the body not be found 
therein, 

I 'm bid to see the picture of the lady — 

W^hereon, (pray mark me!) if I find a 
trace 

Of charms fresh copied, more than may 
beseem 

The modest beauty of a living maid, 

I may arrest you on such evidence 

For instant trial! 
Angelo. Search my house and welcome ! 

But, for my picture, tho' a moment's 
glance 

Upon its pure and hallowed loveliness 

Would give the lie to your foul thought 
of me. 

It is the unseen virgin of my brain ! 

And as th' inviolate person of a maid 

Is sacred ev'n in the presence of the law. 

My picture is my own — to bare or cover ! 

Look on it at your peril! 



Tortesa. {To the guard.) Take his sword. 
{The gua^-ds attack and disarm him.) 
Angelo. Coward and villain ! 

(Tortesa parts the curtains with his 
sword, and Angelo starts amazed to 
see Isabella^ with her hands crossed 
on her breast, and her eyes fixed on 
the ground, standing motionless in 
the frame which had contained his 
picture. The tableau deceives Tor- 
tesa, who steps back to contemplate 
what he supposes to be the portrait 
of his bride.) 
Tortesa. Admirable work! 

'T is Isabella's self ! Why, this is won- 
drous ! 
The brow, the lip, the countenance — how 

true! 
I would have sworn that gloss upon the 

hair. 
That shadow from the lash, were nature's 

own — 
Impossible to copy! {Looks at it a mo- 
ment in silence.) Yet methinks 
The color on the cheek is something faint ! 
Angelo. {Hurriedly.) Step this way 

farther ! 
Tortesa. {Changing his position.) Ay 
— 'tis better here! 
The hand is not as white as Isabella's — 
But painted to the life! If there's a 

feature 
That I would touch again, the lip, to 

me, 
Seems wanting in a certain scornfulness 
Native to her! It scarcely marr'd her 

beauty. 
Perhaps 't is well slurr'd over in a pic- 
ture! 
Yet stay! I see it, now I look again! 
How excellently well! {Guards return 
from searching the house.) What! ' 
found you nothing "? 
Soldier. {Holding up Isabella's veil.) 

This bridal veil — no more. 
Angelo. {Despairingly.) Oh! luckless 

star ! 
Tortesa. Signor ! you '11 trust me when I 
say I 'm sorry 
With all my soul! This veil, I know it 

well — 
Was o'er the face of that unhappy lady 
When laid in sanctuary. You are silent ! 
Perhaps you scorn to satisfy me here ! 
I trust you can — in your extremity! 
But I must bring you to the Duke! 
Lead on ! 
Angelo. An instant! 
Tortesa. {Courteously.) At your pleasure! 



288 



TORTESA THE USURER 



Angelo. {To Isabella, as he passes close 
to her.) I conjure you, 

By all our love, stir not ! 
Isabella. {Still motionless.) Farewell! 
(ToRTESA motions for Angelo to pre- 
cede him with the guard, looks once 
more at the picture, and with a ges- 
ture expressive of admiration, fol- 
lows. As the door closes, Isabella 
steps from the frame.) 
Isabella. I '11 follow 

Close on thy steps, beloved Angelo! 
And find a way to bring thee home again ! 
My heart is light, and hope speaks cheer- 
ily! 
And lo ! bright augui-y ! — a friar's hood 
For my disguise! Was ever omen 

fairer ! 
Thanks! my propitious star! 

{Envelopes herself in the hood, and 
goes out hastily.) 



Scene 2. {A Street. Enter Tomaso, with 
his hat crushed and pulled sulkily over 
his eyes, his clothes dirty on one side, and 
other marks of having slept in the street. 
Enter Zippa from the other side, meeting 
him. ) 

Zippa. Tomaso! Is 't thou? Where's 

Angelo ? 
Tomaso. It is I, and I don't know ! 
Zippa. Did he come home last night? 
Tomaso. ^'Did he come home!" Look 

there! (Pulls off his hat, and shews his 

dirty side.) 
Zippa. Then thou hast slept in the street! 
Tomaso. Ay ! 
Zippa. And what has that to do with the 

coming home of Angelo f 
Tomaso. What had thy father to do with 

thy having such a nose as his? (Zippa 

holds up a ducat to him.) What! gave 

thy mother a ducat? — cheap as dirt! 
Zippa. Blockhead, no! I'll give thee the 

ducat if thou wilt tell me, straight on, 

what thou know'st of Angelo! 
Tomaso. I will — and thou shalt see how 

charity is rewarded. 
Zippa. Begin ! — begin ! 
Tomaso. Last night, having pray'd later 

than usual at vespers — 
Zippa. Ehem ! 
Tomaso. I was coming home in a pious 

frame of mind — 
Zippa. — And a bottle in thy pocket. 
Tomaso. No ! — in my hand. What should 

I stumble over — 



Zippa. — But a stone. 

Tomaso. A woman! 

Zippa. Fie ! what 's this you 're going to 
tell me? 

Tomaso. She was dying with cold. Full 
of Christian charity — 

Zippa. — And new wine. 

Tomaso. Old wine, Zippa ! The wine was 
old! 

Zippa. Well ! 

Tomaso. I took her home. 

Zippa. Shame! — at thy years? 

Tomaso. And Angelo being out for the 
night — 

Zippa. There! there! you may skip the 
particulars. 

Tomaso. I say my own bed being in the 
garret — 

Zippa. Well, well ! 

Tomaso. I put her into Angelo's. 

Zippa. Oh, unspeakable impudence! 
Didst thou do that? 

Tomaso. I had just left her to make a 
w^ine jDosset, (for she was well nigh dead,) 
when in popped my master, — finds her 
there — asks no questions, — kicks me into 
the street, and locks the door! There's 
the reward of virtue ! 

Zippa. Did be not turn out the woman, 
too? 

Tomaso. Not as I remember. 

Zippa. Oh, worse and worse! And thou 
hast not seen him since? 

Tomaso. I found me a soft stone, said my 
prayers, and went to sleep. 

Zippa. And hast thou not seen him to-day? 

Tomaso. Partly, I have ! 

Zippa. Where? Tell me quickly! 

Tomaso. Give me the ducat. 

Zippa. {Gives it him.) Quick! say on! 

Tomaso. I have a loose recollection, that,- 
lying on that stone, Angelo called me by 
name. Looking up, I saw two Angelos, 
and two Tortesas, and soldiers with two 
spears each. {He figures in the air with 
his finger as if trying to remember.) 

Zippa. {Aside.) (Ha! he is apprehended 
for the murder of Isabella ! Say that 
my evidence might save his life! Not 
unless he love me ! ) Which way went he, 
Tomaso? (Tomaso points.) This way? 
(Then has he gone to be tried before the 
Duke.) Come with me, Tomaso! Come. 

Tomaso. Where? 

Zippa. To the Duke's palace! Come! 
(Takes his arm.) 

Tomaso. To the Duke's palace? There'll 
be kicking of heels in the ante-chamber! 
— Dry work! I'll spend thy ducat as 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



289 



we go along. Shall it be old wine, or 
new? (Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. (Hall of Judgment in the Ducal 
Palace. The Duke upon a raised throne 
on the left. Falcone near his chair, and 
Angelo on the opposite side of the stage 
with a guard. Isabella behind the 
guard disguised as a monk. Tortesa 
stands near the centre of the stage, and 
ZiPPA and ToMASO in the left corner, 'lis- 
tening eagerly. Counsellors at a table, 
and crowd of spectators at the sides and 
rear. ) 

Duke. Are there more witnesses'? 
Counsellor. No more, my liege ! 

Duke. None for the prisoner? 
Counsellor. He makes no defence 

Beyond a firm denial. 
Falcone. Is there wanting 

Another proof, my liege, that he is 
guilty? 
Duke. I fear he stands in deadly peril, 
Count. 

(To the Counsellor.) 

Sum up the evidence. (He reads.) 

Counsellor. 'T is proved, my liege, 

That for no honest or sufficient end. 

The pris'ner practised on your noble 

Grace 
And Count Falcone a eontriv'd deceit. 
Whereby he gain'd admittance to the 
lady. 

(ToMASO exhibits signs of alarm.) 
Duke. Most true! 

Counsellor. That, till the eve before 

her death. 
He had continual access to the palace; 
And, having grown enamoured of the 

bride, 
Essay'd by plots that never were matured, 
And quarrels often forced on her be- 
trothed, 
To stay the bridal. That, against the 

will 
Of her most noble father and the Duke, 
The bride was resolute to keep her troth; 
And so, preparing for the ceremony, 
Upon her bridal morning was found dead. 
'T is proved again — that, while she lay in 

state, 
The guard, at several periods of the 

night, 
Did force the pris'ner from the chapel 

door; 
And when the corse was stoFn from sanc- 
tuary 



All search was vain, till, in the pris'ner's 

hands 
Was found the veil that shrouded her. 

To these 
And lighter proofs of sacrilege and mur- 
der 
The prisoner has opposed his firm de- 
nial — 
No more! 
Duke. Does no one speak in his behalf ? 
Tortesa. My liege ! so far as turns the evi- 
dence 
Upon the prisoner's quarrels with myself, 
I'm free to say that they had such oc- 
casion 
As any day may rise 't wixt men of honor. 
As one of those aggriev'd by his offences, 
You '11 wonder I 'm a suitor for his par- 
don — 
But so I am! Besides that there is room 
To hope him innocent, your Grace's realm 
Holds not so wondrous and so rare a 

painter ! 
If he has killed the lady Isabella, 
'T is some amends that in his glorious pic- 
ture 
She's made immortal! If he stole her 

corse, 
He can return, for that disfigured dust. 
An Isabella fresh in changeless beauty! 
Were it not well to pardon him, my 
Lord? 
Isabella. {Aside. ) Oh, brave Tortesa ! 
Duke. You have pleaded kindly 

And eloquently, Signor! but the law 
Can recognize no gift as plea for pardon. 
For his rare picture he will have his 

fame; 
But if the Isabella he has painted 
Find not a voice to tell his innocence. 
He dies at sunset ! 
Isabella. {Despairingly.) He is dead to 
me! 
Yet he shall live ! 

{She drops the cowl from her shoul- 
ders, and with her arms folded, walks 
slowly to the f^et of the Duke.) 
Falcone. {Rushing forward.) My daugh- 
ter! 
Angelo. {With a gesture of agony.) 

Lost ! 
Tortesa. Alive ! 

ZiPPA. {Energetically.) Tortesa '11 have 
her 
(Isabella retires to the back of the 
stage with her father, and kneels to 
him, imploring in dumb show; the 
Duke and others watching.) 
Tortesa. (Aside.) So! all's right again? 



290 



TORTESA THE USURER 



Now for my lancte, or Isabella'? — Stay! 
'T is a bravo i^irl, by Heaven! (Reflects 

a moment.) A sleeping draught, 
And so to Angelo ! Her love for me 
A counterfeit to take suspicion off! 
It was well done ! 1 feel my heart warm 

to her! [Eeflects again.) 

Where could he hide her from our search 

to-day? 

(Looks round at Isabella.) 
No? Yet the dress is like! It was the 

picture ! 
Herself — and not a picture! Now, by 

Heaven, 
A girl like that should be the wife of 

Caesar ! 

[Presses his hand upon his heart.) 
I Ve a new feeling here ! 

(Falcone comes forward, followed hy 

Isabella ivitli gestures of supplica- 
tion.) 
Falcone. I will not hear you ! 

My liege, I pray you keep the prisoner 
In durance till my daughter 's fairly wed. 
He has contriv'd against our peace and 

honor. 
And howsoe'er this marvel be made clear. 
She stands betroth'd, if he is in the mind, 
To the brave Signer, yonder! 
Duke. This were well — 

What says Tortesa? 
ToRTESA. If my liege permit, 

I will address my answer to this lady. 

( Turns to Isabella.) 
For reasons which 1 need not give you 

now. 
Fair Isabella ! I became your suitor. 
My motives were unworthy you and me — 
Yet I was true — I never said I lov'd 

you! 
Your father sold you me for lands and 

money — 
(Pardon me, Duke! And you, fair Isa- 
bella ! 
You will — ere I am done!) I push'd my 

suit! 
The bridal day came on, and clos'd in 

mounaing; 
For the fair bride it dawn'd upon was 

dead. 
I had my shame and losses to remember — 
But in my heart sat sorrow uppermost, 
And pity — for I thought your heart was 

broken. 
(Isabella begins to discover interest 

in his story, and Angelo watches her 

with jealous eagerness.) 
I see you here again! You are my 

bride! 



Your father holds me to my bargain f )r 

you! 
The lights are burning on the nuptial 

altar — 
The bridal chamber and the feast, all 

ready ! 
What stays the marriage now? — my new- 
horn love! 
That nuptial feast were fruit from Para- 
dise — 
I cannot touch it till you bid me wel- 
come! 
That nuptial chamber were the lap o:P- 

Heaven — 
I cannot enter till you call me in! 

[Takes a ring from his hosom.) 
Here is the golden ring you should have 

worn. 
Tell me to give it to my rival there— 
I '11 break my heart to do so ! 

[Holds it toward Angelo.) 
Isabella. [Looking at her father.) 

Would I might ! 
ToRTESA. You shall, if 't please you ! 
Falcone. I command thee, never! 

My liege, permit me to take home my 

daughter ! 
And, Sign or, you — if you would keep 

your troth — 
To-morrow come, and end this halting 

bridal! 
Home! Isabella! 

(Takes his daughter's hand.) 
Tortesa. [Taking it from him.) Stay! 
she is not yours ! 
My gracious liege, there is a law in 

Florence, 
That if a father, for no guilt or shame, 
Disown, and shut his door upon his 

daughter, 
She is the child of him who succors her; 
Who, by the shelter of a single night, 
Becomes endowed with the authority 
Lost by the other. Is 't not so? 
Duke. So runs 

The law of Florence, and I see your 

drift— 
For, look my lord! [To Falcone.) if 

that dread apparition 
You saw last night, was this your living 

daughter. 
You stand within the peril of that law. 
Falcone. My liege! 

Isabella. [Looking admiringly at Tor- 
tesa.) Oh, noble Sigiior! 
Tortesa. [To Isabella.) Was't well 
done? 
Shall I give Angelo the ring? 

[As she is about to take it from him, 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 



291 



ToMASO steps in behind, and pulls 
Isabella by the sleeve.) 
ToMASO. Stay there ! 

What wilt thou do for dowry? I'm thy 

father? 
But — save some flasks of Aviue — 
Isabella. {Sorrowfully.) Would I were 
richer 
For thy sake, Angelo ! 

(ToRTESA looks at her an instant, and 
then steps to the table and writes.) 
Angelo. {Coming forward with an ef- 
fort.) Look, Isabella! 
I stand between thee and a life of sun- 
shine. 
Thou wert both rich and honor'd, but for 

me! 
That thou couldst wed me, beggar as I 

am. 
Is bliss to think on — but see how I rob 

thee! 
I have a loving heart — but am a beg- 
gar! 
There is a loving heart — {Points to ToR- 
TESA.) With wealth and honor! 
(ToRTESA steps between them, and 
hands a paper to Angelo.) 
ToRTESA. {To Isabella.) Say thou wilt 

wed the poorer? 
Isabella. {Offers her hands to Angelo.) 

So I will! 
Tortesa. Then am I blest, for he 's as rich 
as I — 
Yet, in his genius, has one jewel more! 
Isabella. What say'st thou? 

(Angelo reads earnestly.) 

Tortesa. In a mortal quarrel, lady ! 

'T is thought ill-luck to have the better 

sword ; 
For the good angels, who look sorrowing 

on. 
In heavenly pity take the weaker side ! 
Isabella What is it, Angelo? 
Angelo. A deed to me 

Of the Falcone palaces and lands, 
And all the moneys forfeit by your 

father ! — 
By Heaven, I '11 not be mock'd ! 
Tortesa. The deed is yours — 

What mockery in that? 
Isabella. {Tenderly to Tortesa.) It is 
not kind 
To make refusal of your love a pain ! 
Tortesa. I would 't would kill you to re- 
fuse me, lady! 
So should the blood plead for me at your 

heart ! 
Shall I give up the ring? 

{Offers it.) 



Isabella. {Hesitatingly.) Let me look 

on it ! ^ 
Tortesa. {Withdrawing it.) A moment 
yet! You'll give it ere you think! 
Oh, is it fair that Angelo had days, 
To tell his love, and I have not one hour? 
How know you that I cannot love as well? 
Isabella. 'T is possible ! 
Tortesa. Ah ! thanks ! 

Isabella. But I have given 

My heart to him! 
Tortesa. You gave your troth to me! 

If, of these two gifts you must take back 

one, 
Rob not the poorer! Shall I keep the 
ring? (Isabella looks down.) 

Angelo. She hesitates ! I 've waited here 
too long ! 

{Tears the deed in two.) 
Perish your gift, and farewell, Isabella! 
Isabella. {Advancing a step with clasp' d 
hands.) You'll kill me, Angelo! 
Come back! 
Tortesa. {Seizing him by the hand as he 
hesitates, and flinging him back with 
a strong effort.) He shall! 
Angelo. Stand from my path! Or, if 
you care to try 
Some other weapon than a glozing tongue. 
Follow me forth where we may find the 
room! 
Tortesa. You shall not go. 
Angelo. {Draws.) Have at thee then! 
{Attacks Tortesa, who disarms him, 
and holds his sword-point to his 
breast. Duke and others come for- 
ward.) 
Tortesa. The bar 

'Twixt me and heaven, boy! is the life I 

hold 
Now at my mercy! Take it, Isabella! 
And with it the poor gift he threw 

awaj^ ! 
I '11 write a new deed ere you 've time to 

marry, 
So take your troth back with your bridal 

ring, 
And thus I join you! 

{Takes Isabella's hand, but Angelo 
refuses his.) 
Angelo. {Proudly.) Never! But for 
me. 
The hand you hold were joyfully your 

own ! 
Shall I receive a life and fortune from 

you. 

Yet stand 'twixt you and that? 
Isabella. {Turning from Angelo.) 
Thou dost not love me ! 



292 



TORTESA THE USURER 



ToRTESA. Believe it not! He does! An 
instant more 

I '11 brnsh this new-spun cobweb from his 
eyes. {Crosses to Zippa.) 

Fair Zippa! in this eross'd and tangled 
world 

Few wed the one they could have lov'd 
the best, 

And fewer still wed well for happiness! 

We each have lost to-day what best we 
love. 

But as the drops that mingled in the sky, 

Are torn apart in the tempestuous sea. 

Yet with a new drop tremble into one, 

We two, if you 're content, may swim to- 
gether ! 

What say you? 
Zippa. (Giving her hand.) I have thought 
on it before, 

When I believed you cold and treacher- 
ous. 

'T is easy when I know you kind and 
noble. 
ToRTESA. To-morrow, then, we '11 wed ; 
and now, fair Signor, 

{To Angelo.) 

Take you her hand, nor fear to rob Tor- 
tesa! 

{Turns to the Duke.) 



Shall it be so, my liege ? 
Duke. You please me well. 

And if you '11 join your marriage feasts 

together 
I '11 play my part, and give the brides 



away 



ToRTESA. Not so, my liege! I could not 

see her ived him. 
To give her to him has been all I could; 
For I have sought her with the dearest 

pulses 
That quicken in my heart, my love and 

scorn. 
She 's taught me that the high-born may 

be true. 
I thank her for it — but, too close on that 
Follow'd the love, whose lightning flash 

of honor 
Brightens, but straight is dark again ! 

My liege. 
The poor who leap up to the stars for 

duty 
Must drop to earth again ! and here, if 't 

please you, 
I take my feet forever from your palace, 
And, match'd as best beseems me, say 

farewell. 
{Takes Zippa's hand, and the curtain 

drops. ) 



THE END. 



FASHION 

BY 

Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie 



FASHION 

Fashion, while not our first dramatic social satire, for that honor belongs to 
The Contrast, is of special interest as inspiring a series of plays dealing with the 
follies of those who aspire to secure an assured position without being aware of 
social values. The best of this later series is Nature's NoUeman, by Henry 0. 
Pardey, (1851), for Mrs. Bateman's Self, (1856), E. G. Wilkins' You7ig Neiv 
York, (1856), and Cornelius Mathews' False Pretences, or Both Sides of Good 
Society (1856) are merely caricature. 

Anna Cora Ogden, the author of Fashion, was born in Bordeaux, France, 
in 1819, the daughter of Samuel G. Ogden, of New York, who was tried and 
acquitted for complicity in the Miranda expedition to liberate South America. 
She was interested in the stage from childhood, taking the part of a judge 
in a French version of Othello when she was five years of age. At fourteen she 
had put on an English translation of Voltaire's Alzire at her home in Flatbush. 
She married James Mowatt, a barrister in New York, when she was fifteen. 
At sixteen she published her first literary venture, a poetical romance, Pelayo 
or the Cavern of Covadonga. Being threatened with tuberculosis of the lungs, 
she took a sea voyage and went to London and to Hamburg, and later to Paris, 
where she saw Rachel act, and where she wrote Gulzara or the Persian Star, a 
play in six acts which was acted afterwards at her home in Flatbush by her 
sisters, and on two other occasions, at least. It was published in the New World 
in 1840. Mr. Mowatt lost his fortune and Mrs. Mowatt began to give public 
readings with considerable success. Notwithstanding her constant struggle 
against ill health, she wrote copiously for the leading magazines, sometimes con- 
tributing several articles under different names to the same journal. Her novel 
of The Fortune Hunter (1842), had quite a wide sale and was translated into 
German. Her other novel, Evelyn, a domestic story, was published after her 
debut, in 1845. 

Fashion was produced first at the Park Theatre, New York, March 24, 1845. 
An interesting account of its production is given in her Autobiography, It ran 
for three weeks and was withdrawn only owing to engagements of stars at the 
Park Theatre. It was played in Philadelphia at the "Walnut Street Theatre 
while the New York engagement was on. The success of the play and also her 
financial necessities induced her to go on the stage and she made her debut at 
the Park Theatre as *' Pauline" in the Lady of Lyons, on June 13, 1845. Her 
modest accounts of her stage beginning show that she made a success from the 

295 



296 INTRODUCTION 



lirst and she toured the country, going as far south as New Orleans. She played 
''Gertrude" in Fashion for the first time in Philadelphia apparently and repeated 
it in other places several times but the part was not a favorite one with her. 

During the summer of 1847 she wrote Armand, the Child of the People, 
intending the name part for E. L. Davenport, her leading man, and the part of 
' ' Blanche ' ' for herself. It was produced at the Park Theatre, September 27, 1847, 
with success and " Blanche ' ' became one of her leading characters. It is a comedy 
melodrama, laid in the time of Louis XV, partly in blank verse. Mrs. iMowatt 
appeared at the Theatre Royal, Manchester, December 7, 1847, as ''Pauline" 
and made so favorable an impression that she and Davenport were engaged to 
tal^e IMacready's place at the Theatre Royal, Marylebone, London, when the 
latter came to America. During this engagement she put on Armand, January 
18, 1849, when it ran twenty-one consecutive nights. Fashion was played at 
the Royal Olympic Theatre, where she and ]\Ir. Davenport w^ere playing, on 
January 9, 1850, and ran for tw^o weeks. In January, 1851, she went to Dublin 
and was given a w^onderful reception. Mr. Mowatt died in 1851 and she re- 
turned to America on July 9th of that year. She continued her stage career 
under the discouragement of ill health and accident until 1854, when, after a 
long illness, she retired. Her last performance was on June 3, 1854, at Niblo's 
Garden, in the character of "Pauline," in which she had made her debut. It 
was made the occasion for a great testimonial to her. In 1854 she published 
her Autohiography, a fascinating account of her experiences from childhood to 
that time. She married William F. Ritchie, of the Richmond Enquirer, June 
7, 1854. 

Her later publications include a number of works of fiction, the most im- 
portant of w^hich is 31imic Life, or Before and Behind the Curtain, (1855), a 
series of stories dealing with life on the stage in which her own experiences are 
to a certain extent reflected. After 1861 she lived mostly abroad and died in 
London, July 28, 1870. 

For an interesting contemporary criticism see Edgar A. Poe, The New 
Comedy hy Mrs. Mowatt, Broadway Journal, ]\larch 29, 1845, and Mrs. Mowatt's 
Comedy, Broadway Journal, April 5, 1845, reprinted in the Virginia Edition of 
Poe's AVorks, Vol. 12, pp. 112-121 and 124-129. His criticisms of her acting may 
be found in Vol. 12, pp. 184-192, also reprinted from the Broadway Journal, of 
July 19 and 26, 1845. 

Fashion was published in London in 3850, and was reprinted, with Armand, 
in Boston, in ]855. The present edition is based upon a collation of these two 
texts, which differ very slightly. 

The play was revived by the Zelosophic Society of the University of Penn- 
sylvania, May 19, 1919, on which occasion its acting qualities were clearly shown. 



FASHION; 

OB, 

LIFE IN NEW YORK. 

IN FIVE ACTS. 



BY 

ANNA CORA MOWATT, 

AUTHOR OF "ARMAND," *'*EVELYN," "THE FORTUNE HUNTER." 
ETC., ETC. 



** Howe'er it be — it seems to me 

'Tis only noble to be good ; 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood." 

Tennyson. 



LONDON : 
W. NEWBERY, 6, KING STREET, HOLBORN 

1850. 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Park Theatre, New- 
York, 1845 

Adam Trueman Mr. Chippendale 

Count Jolimaitre, a fashionable 

European Importation Mr. Crisp 

Colonel Howard, an officer in 

the United States Army ]\Ir. Dyott 

Mr. Tiffany, a New York Mer- 
chant ]\Ir. Barry 

T. Tennyson Twinkle, a modern 

Poet Mr. DeWalden 

Augustus Fogg, a drawing room 

appendage IMr. J. Howard 

Snobson, a rare species of confi- 
dential clerk IMr. Fisher 

Zeke, a colored servant Mr. Skerrett 

jMrs. Tiffany, a lady who imag- 
ines herself fashionable Mrs. Barry 

Prudence, a maiden lady of a 

certain age Mrs. Knight 

IMillinette, a French lady's maid Mrs. Dyott 

Gertrude, a governess I\Iiss Ellis 

Seraphina Tiffany, a belle iMiss Horn 



Royal Olympic 

Theatre, London 

1850 

Mr. E. Davenport 

Mr. A. Wigan 

Mr. Belton 

Mr. J, Johnstone 

Mr. Kinloch 

Mr. J. Howard 

Mr. H. Scharf 
My. J. Herbert 

]\Irs. H. iMarston 

jMrs. Parker 
j\rrs. A. AVigan 
Miss F. Vining 
Miss Gougenheim 



FASHION 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1. A splendid Drawing Room in 
the House of Mrs. Tiffany. Open fold- 
ing doors, discovering a Conservatory. 
On either side glass windows down to 
the ground. Doors on right and left. 
Mirror, couches, ottomans, a table with 
albums, beside it an arm chair. Milli- 
NETTE dusting furniture. Zeke in a 
dashing livery, scarlet coat. 

Zeke. Dere 's a coat to take de eyes ob 
all Broadway! Ah! Missy, it am de fix- 
in's dat make de natural born gemman. 
A libery for ever ! Dere 's a pair ob in- 
suppressibles to 'stonish de colored pop- 
ulation. 

MiLLiNETTE. Oh, oui, Mousieur Zeke. 
{Very politely.) I not comprend one 
word he say! {Aside.) 

Zeke. I tell 'ee what, Missy, I 'm 'stordi- 
nary glad to find dis a bery 'speetabul 
like situation ! Now, as you 've made de 
acquaintance ob dis here family, and 
dere you Ve had a supernumerary ad- 
vantage ob me — seeing dat I only re- 
ceibed my appointment dis morning. 
What I wants to know is your publicated 
opinion, privately expressed, ob de do- 
mestic circle. 

Mil. You mean vat espece, vat kind of 
personnes are Monsieur and Madame 
Tiffany? Ah! Monsieur is not de same 
ting as Madame, — not at all. 

Zeke. Well, I s'pose he ain't altogether. 

Mil. Monsieur is man of business, — Ma- 
dame is lady of fashion. Monsieur 
make de money, — Madame spend it. 
Monsieur nobody at all, — Madame every- 
body altogether. Ah! Monsieur Zeke, 
de money is all dat is necessaire in dis 
country to make one lady of fashion. 
Oh! it is quite anoder ting in la belle 
France! 

Zeke. A bery lucifer explanation. Well, 
now we 've disposed ob de heads ob de 
family, who come next? 

Mil. First, dere is Mademoiselle Sera- 
phina Tiffany. Mademoiselle is not at 
all one proper personne. Mademoiselle 



Seraphina is one coquette. Dat is not 
de mode in la belle France; de ladies, 
dere, never learn la coquetrie until dey 
do get one husband. 

Zeke. I tell ^ee what. Missy, I disrepro- 
bate dat proceeding altogeder! 

Mil. Vait! I have not tell you all la 
famille yet. Dere is Ma'mselle Prudence 
— Madame's sister, one very bizarre per- 
sonne. Den dere is Ma'mselle Gertrude, 
but she not anybody at all; she only 
teach Mademoiselle Seraphina la mu- 
sique. 

Zeke. Well now, Missy, what 's your own 
special def unctions? 

Mil. I not understand, Monsieur Zeke. 

Zeke. Den I '11 amplify. What 's de na- 
ture ob your exclusive services? 

Mil. Ah, oui! je comprend. I am Ma- 
dame's femme de chambre — her lady's 
maid, Monsieur Zeke. I teach Madame 
les modes de Paris, and Madame set de 
fashion for all New York. You see. 
Monsieur Zeke, dat it is me, moi-meme, 
dat do lead de fashion for all de Ameri- 
can beau monde! 

Zeke. Yah ! yah ! yah ! I hab de idea by 
de heel. Well now, p'raps you can 'lus- 
trify my officials? 

Mil. Vat you will have to do? Oh! 
much tings, much tings. You vait on 
de table, — you tend de door, — you clean 
de boots, — you run de errands, — you 
drive de carriage, — you rub de horses, — 
you take care of de flowers, — you carry 
de water, — you help cook de dinner, — 
you wash de dishes, — and den you al- 
ways remember to do everyting I tell 
you to! 

Zeke. Wheugh, am dat all? 

Mil. All I can tink of now. To-day is 
Madame's day of reception, and all her 
grand friends do make her one petite 
visit. You mind run fast ven de bell do 
ring. 

Zeke. Run ? If it was n't for dese super- 
fluminous trimmings, I tell 'ee what, 
Missy, I 'd run — 

Mrs. Tiffany. {Outside.) Millinette! 

Mil. Here comes Madame! You better 



299 



300 



FASHION 



Zeke. Look aliea, Massa Zeke, does n't dis 
open rich! {Aside.) {Exit Zeke.) 

{Enter Mrs. Tiffany, dressed in the most 
extravagant height of fashion.) 

Mrs. Tif. Is everytliing in order, Milli- 
nette? Ah! very elegant, very elegant, 
indeed! There is a jenny -say s-quoi look 
about this furniture, — an air of fashion 
and gentility perfectly bewitching. Is 
there not, Millinette? 

Mil. Oh, oui, Madame! 

Mrs. Tif. But where is Miss Seraphina? 
It is twelve o'clock; our visitors will be 
pouring in, and she has not made her 
appearance. But I hear that nothing is 
more fashionable than to keep people 
waiting. — None but vulgar persons pay 
any attention to punctuality. Is it not 
so, Millinette? 

Mil. Quite comme il faut. — Great per- 
sonnes always do make little personnes 
wait, Madame. 

Mrs. Tif. This mode of receiving visitors 
only upon one specified day of the week 
is a most convenient custom! It saves 
the trouble of keeping the house contm- 
ually in order and of being always 
dressed. I flatter myself that I was the 
first to introduce it amongst the New 
York ee-light. You are quite sure that 
it is strictly a Parisian mode, Millinette? 

Mil. Oh, oui, Madame; entirely mode de 
Paris. 

Mrs. Tif. This girl is worth her weight 
in gold. {Aside.) Millinette, bow do 
you say arm-chair in French? 

Mil. Fauteuil, Madame. 

Mrs. Tip. Fo-tool! That has a foreign 
— an out-of-the-wayish sound that is per- 
fectly charming — and so genteel! There 
is something about our American words 
decidedly vulgar. Fowtool! how refined. 
Fowtool! Arm-chair! what a difference! 

Mil. Madame have one charmante pro- 
nunciation. Fowtool {mimicking aside) 
charmante, Madame! 

Mrs. Tif. Do you think so, Millinette? 
Well, I l)elieve' I liave. But a woman of 
refinement and of fashion can always 
accommodate herself to everything for- 
eign! And a week's study of that in- 
valuable work — "French without a Mas- 
ter/' has made me quite at home in the 
court language of Europe! But where 
is the new valet? I'm rather sorry that 
he is black, but to obtain a white Ameri- 
can for a domestic is almost impossible; 
and they call this a free country ! What 



did you say was the name of this new 
servant, Millinette? 

Mil. He do say his name is Monsieur 
Zeke. 

Mrs. Tif. Ezekiel, I suppose. Zeke! 
Dear me, such a vulgar name will com- 
promise the dignity of the whole fam- 
ily. Can you not suggest something 
more aristocratic, Millinette? Something 
French I 

Mil. Oh, oui, Madame; Adolph is one 
very fine name. 

Mrs. Tif. A-dolph! Charming! Ring 
the bell, Millinette! (Millinette rings 
the hell.) I will change his name im- 
mediately, besides giving him a few di- 
rections. • 

{Enter Zeke. Mrs. Tiffany addresses him 
with great dignity.) 

Your name, I hear, is Ezekiel. — I con- 
sider it too plebeian an appellation to be 
uttered in my presence. In future you 
are called A-dolph. Don't reply, — never 
interrupt me when I am speaking. 
A-dolph, as my guests arrive, I desire 
that you will inquire the name of every 
person, and then announce it in a loud, 
clear tone. That is the fashion in Paris. 
(Millinette retires up the stage.) 
Zeke. Consider de office discharged. Mis- 
sus. {Speaking very loudly.) 
Mrs. Tif. Silence! Your business is to 

obey and not to talk. 
Zeke. I 'm dumb. Missus ! 
Mrs. Tif. {Pointing up stage.) A-dolph, 

place that fowtool behind me. 
Zeke. {Looking about him.) I hab n't 
got dat far in de dictionary yet. No 
matter, a genus gets his learning by 
nature. 

{Takes up the table and places it he- 
hind Mrs. Tiffany, then expresses 
in dumb show great satisfaction. 
Mrs. Tiffany, as she goes to sit, 
discovers the mistake.) 
Mrs. Tif. You dolt! Where have you 
lived not to know that fow-tool is the 
French for arm-chair? What igno- 
rance! Leave the room this instant. 
(Mrs. Tiffany draws forward an arm- 
chair and sits. Millinette comes 
forward suppressing her merriment 
at Zeke's mistake and removes the 
table.) 
Zeke. Dem 's de defects ob not having a 
libery education. {Exit.) 

(Prudence peeps in.) 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



301 



Pru. I wonder if any of the fine folks 
have come yet. Not a soul, — I knew 
they had n't. There 's Betsy all alone. 
{Walks in.) Sister Betsy! 

Mrs. Tif. Prudence! how many times 
have I desired you to call me Elizabeth? 
Betsy is the height of vulgarity. 

Pru. Oh ! I forgot. Dear me, how spruce 
•we do look here, to be sure, — everything 
in first rate style now, Betsy. (Mrs. T. 
looks at her angrily.) Elizabeth, I 
mean. Who would have thought, when 
you and I were sitting behind that little 
mahogany-colored counter, in Canal 
Street, making up flashy hats and caps — 

Mrs. Tif. Prudence, what do you mean? 
Millinette, leave the room. 

Mil. Oui, Madame. 

(Millinette pretends to arrange the 
books upon a side table, but lingers 
to listen.) 

Pru. But I always predicted it, — I al- 
ways told you so, Betsy, — I always said 
you were destined to rise above your 
station ! 

Mrs. Tif. Prudence! Prudence! have I 
not told you that — • 

Pru. No, Betsy, it was I that told you, 
when we used to buy our silks and rib- 
bons of Mr. Antony Tiffany — ^'talking 
Tony/' you know we used to call him, 
and when you always put on the finest 
bonnet in our shop to go to his, — and 
when you staid so long smiling and chat- 
tering with him, I always told you that 
something would grow out of it — and 
didn't it? 

Mrs. Tif. Millinette, send Seraphina here 
instantly. Leave the room. 

Mil. Oui, Madame. So dis Americaine 
ladi of fashion vas one milliner? Oh, 
vat a fine country for les marchandes des 
modes! I shall send for all my relation 
by de next packet! {Aside.) 

{Exit Millinette.) 

Mrs. Tif. Prudence! never let me hear 
you mention this subject again. Forget 
what we have been, it is enough to re- 
member that we are of the upper ten 
thousand! 

(Prudence goes up and sits down.) 

{Enter Seraphina, very extravagantly 
dressed. ) 

Mrs. Tif. How bewitchingly you look, 
my dear! Does MilHnette say that that 
head dress is strictly Parisian? 

Seraphina. Oh, yes. Mamma, all the 
rage! They call it a lady's tarpaulin, 



and it is the exact pattern of one worn 
by the Princess Clementina at the last 
court ball. 
Mrs. Tif. Now, Seraphina, my dear, 
don't be too particular in your attentions 
to gentlemen not eligible. There is 
Count Jolimaitre, decidedly the most 
fashionable foreigner in town, — and so 
refined, — so much accustomed to associ- 
ate with the first nobility in his own 
country that he can hardly tolerate the 
vulgarity of Americans in general. You 
may devote yourself to him. Mrs. 
Proudacre is dying to become acquainted 
with him. By the by, if she or her 
daughters should happen to drop in, be 
sure you don't introduce them to the 
Count. It is not the fashion in Paris to 
introduce — Millinette told me so. 

{Enter Zeke.) 

Zeke. {In a very loud voice.) Mister T. 

Tennyson Twinkle! 
Mrs. Tif. Show him up. {Exit Zeke.) 
Pru. I must be running away! {Going.) 
Mrs. Tif. Mr. T. Tennyson Twinkle— a 
very literary young man and a sweet 
poet! It is all the rage to patronize 
poets! Quick, Seraphina, hand me tha- 
magazine. — Mr. Twinkle writes for it. 
(Seraphina hands the magazine, Mrs. 
Tiffany seats herself in an arm- 
chair and opens the book.) 
Pru. {Returning.) There's Betsy trying 
to make out that reading without her 
spectacles. 

{Takes a pair of spectacles out of her 
pocket and hands them to Mrs. Tif- 
fany.) 
There, Betsy, I knew you were going to 
ask for them. Ah! they're a blessing 
when one is growing old! 
Mrs. Tif. What do you mean. Prudence? 
A woman of fashion never grows old! 
Age is always out of fashion. 
Pru. Oh, dear! what a delightful thing 
it is to be fashionable. 

{Exit Prudence. Mrs. Tiffany re- 
sumes her seat.) 

{Enter Twinkle. He salutes Seraphina.) 

Twin. Fair Seraphina! the sun itself 
grows dim. 
Unless you aid his light and shine on 
him! 
Sera. Ah ! Mr. Twinkle, there is no such 

thing as answering you. 
Twin. {Looks around and perceives Mrs. 
Tiffany.) The "New Monthly Vernal 



302 



FASHION 



Galaxy." Reading my verses by all 
that 's charming ! Sensible woman ! I 
won't interrupt her. (Aside.) 

Mrs. Tif. (Rising and coming forward.) 
Ah! Mr. Twinkle, is that you? I was 
perfectly abime at the perusal of your 
very distingue verses. 

Twin. I am overwhelmed, Madam. Per- 
mit me. (Taking the magazine.) Yes, 
they do read tolerably. And you must 
take into consideration, ladies, the rapid- 
ity with which they were written. Four 
• minutes and a half by the stop watch! 
The true test of a poet is the velocity 
with which he composes. Really they do 
look very prettily, and they read toler- 
ably — quite tolerably — very tolerably, — 
especially the first verse. (Reads.) 
"To Seraphina T ." 

Sera. Oh! Mr. Twinkle! 

Twin. (Reads.) "Around my heart" — 

Mrs. Tif. How touching! Really, Mr. 
Twinkle, quite tender! 

Twin. (Recommencing.) "Around my 
heart"— 

Mrs. Tif. Oh, I must tell you, Mr. 
Twinkle! I heard the other day that 
poets were the aristocrats of literature. 
That 's one reason I like them, for I 
do dote on all aristocracy! 

Twin. Oh, Madam, how flattering! Now 
pray lend me your ears! (Reads.) 

"Around my heart thou weavest" — 

Sera. That is such a sweet commence- 
ment, Mr. Twinkle! 

Twin. (Aside.) I wish she wouldn't in- 
terrupt me! (Reads.) "Around my 
heart thou weavest a spell" — 

Mrs. Tif. Beautiful! But excuse me one 
moment, while I say a word to Seraph- 
ina! Don't be too affable, my dear! 
Poets are very ornamental appendages 
to the drawing room, but they are al- 
ways as poor as their own verses. They 
don't make eligible husbands! (Aside 
to Seraphina.) 

Twin. Confound their interruptions! 
(Aside.) My dear Madam, unless you 
pay the utmost attention you cannot 
catch the ideas. Are you ready? Well, 
now you shall hear it to the end! 
(Reads.) 

"Around my heart thou weavest a spell 
"Whose"— 

(Enter Zeke.) 

Zeke. Mister Augustus Fogg! A bery 
misty lookin young gemman? (Aside.) 



Mrs. Tif. Show him up, Adolph! 

(Exit Zeke.) 

Twin. This is too much! 

Sera. Exquisite verses, Mr. Twinkle, — 
exquisite ! 

Twin. Ah, lovely Seraphina! your smile 
of approval transports me to the summit 
of Olympus. 

Sera. Then I must frown, for I would 
not send you so far away. 

Twin. Enchantress! It's all over with 
her. (Aside.) 

(Retire up and converse.) 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Fogg belongs to one of our 
oldest families, — to be sure he is the 
most difficult person in the world to en- 
tertain, for he never takes the trouble to 
talk, and never notices anything or any- 
body, — but then I hear tliat nothing is 
considered so vulgar as to betray any 
emotion, or to attempt to render oneself 
agreeable ! 

(Enter Mr. Fogg, fashionably attired hut 
in very dark clothes.) 

Fogg. (Bowing stiffly.) Mrs. Tiffany, 

your most obedient. Miss Seraphina, 

yours. How d'ye do, Twinkle? 
Mrs. Tif. Mr. Fogg, how do you do? 

Fine weather, — delightful, is n't it ? 
Fogg. I am indifferent to weather, 

Madam. 
Mrs. Tif. Been to the opera, Mr. Fogg? 

I hear that the how monde make their 

dehutt there every evening. 
Fogg. I consider operas a bore, Madam. 
Sera. (Advancing.) You must hear Mr. 

Twinkle's verses, Mr. Fogg! 
Fogg. I am indifferent to verses. Miss 

Seraphina. 
Sera. But Mr. Twinkle's verses are ad-^ 

dressed to me! 
Twin. Now pay attention, Fogg! 

(Reads) — 

"Around my heart thou weavest a spell 

"Whose magic I" — 

(Enter Zeke.) 

Zeke. Mister — No, he say he ain't no 
Mister — 

Twin. "Around my heart thou weavest a 
spell 
"Whose magic I can never tell !" 

Mrs. Tif. Speak in a loud, clear tone, 
A-dolph ! 

Twin. This is terrible! 

Zeke. Mister Count Jolly-made-her ! 

Mrs. Tif. Count Jolimaitre! Good gra- 
cious! Zeke, Zeke — A-dolph I mean, — 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



303 



Dear me, what a mistake! (Aside.) 
Set that chair out of the way, — put that 
table back. Seraphina, my dear, are you 
all in order? Dear me! dear me! Your 
dress is so tumbled! (Arranges her 
dress.) What are you grinning at? 
(To Zeke.) Beg the Count to honor us 
by walking up! (Exit Zeke.) 

Seraphina, my dear (aside to her), re- 
member now what I told you about the 
Count. He is a man of the highest, — 
good gracious! I am so flurried; arid 
nothing is so ungenteel as agitation! 
what will the Count think! Mr. 
Twinkle, pray stand out of the way! 
Seraphina, my dear, place yourself on 
my right! Mr. Fogg, the conservatory 
— beautiful flowers, — pray amuse your- 
self in the conservatory. 

Fogg. I am indifferent to flowers, Madam. 

Mrs. Tif. Dear me ! the man stands right 
in the way, — just where the Count must 
make his entray! (Aside.) Mr. Fogg, 
— pray— 

(Enter Count Jolimaitre, very dashingly 
dressed, wears a moustache.) 



Mrs. Tif. Oh, 



Count, this unexpected 
inexpressible pleas- 



honor — 

Sera. Count, this 
ure — 

Count. Beg you won't mention it. 
Madam ! Miss Seraphina, your most de- 
voted! (Crosses.) 

Mrs. Tif. What condescension! (Aside.) 
Count, may I take the liberty to in- 
troduce — Good gracious! I forgot. 
(Aside.) Count, I was about to remark 
that we never introduce in America. All 
our fashions are foreign. Count. 

(Twinkle, who has stepped forward 
to be introduced, shows great indig- 
nation.) 

Count. Excuse me. Madam, our fashions 
have grown antediluvian before you 
Americans discover their existence. 
You are lamentably behind the age — 
lamentably! Ton my honor, a for- 
eigner of refinement finds great diffi- 
culty in existing in this provincial at- 
mosphere. 

Mrs. Tif. How dreadful. Count! I am 
very much concerned. If there is any- 
thing which I can do. Count — 

Sera. Or I, Count, to render your situa- 
tion less deplorable — 

Count. Ah! I find but one redeeming 
charm in America — the superlative love- 
liness of the feminine portion of crea- 



tion, — and the wealth of their obliging 
papas. (Aside-.) 

Mrs. Tif. How flattering! Ah! Count, I 
am afraid you will turn the head of my 
simple girl here. She is a perfect child 
of nature. Count. 

Count. Very possibly, for though you 
American women are quite charming, 
yet, demme, there 's a deal of native rust 
to rub off! 

Mrs. Tif. Rustf Good gracious. Count! 
where do you find any rust? (Looking 
about the room.) 

Count. How very unsophisticated I 

Mrs. Tif. Count, I am so much ashamed, 
— pray excuse me! Although a lady of 
large fortune, and one, Count, who can 
boast of the highest connections, I blush 
to confess that I have never travelled, — 
while you. Count, I presume are at 
home in all the courts of Europe. 

Count. Courts? Eh? Oh, yes. Madam, 
very true. I believe I am pretty well 
known in some of the courts of Europe 
— police courts. (Aside, crossing.) In 
a word. Madam, I had seen enough of 
civilized life — wanted to refresh myself 
by a sight of barbarous countries and 
customs — had my choice between the 
Sandwich Islands and New York — chose 
New York! 

Mrs. Tif. How complimentary to our 
country! And, Count, I have no doubt 
you speak every conceivable language? 
You talk English like a native. 

Count. Eh, what? Like a native? Oh, 
ah, demme, yes, I am something of an 
Englishman. Passed one year and eight 
months with the Duke of Wellington, six 
months with Lord Brougham, two and 
a half with Count d'Orsay — knew them 
all more intimately than their best 
friends — no heroes to me — had n't a se- 
cret from me, I assure you, — especially 
of the toilet. (Aside.) 

Mrs. Tif. Think of that, my dear! Lord 
Wellington and Duke Broom! (Aside 
to Seraphina.) 

Sera. And only think of Count d'Orsay, 
Mamma! (Aside to Mrs. Tiffany.) I 
am so wild to see Count d'Orsay! 

Count. Oh! a mere man milliner. Very 
little refinement out of Paris! Why, at 
the very last dinner given at Lord — 
Lord Knowswho, would you believe it. 
Madam, there was an individual present 
who wore a black cravat and took soup 
twice! 

Mrs. Tif. How shocking ! the sight of him 



304 



FASHION 



would have spoilt my appetite! Think 
wliat a great man he must be, my dear, 
to despise lords and counts in that way. 
{Aside to Seraphina.) I must leave 
them together. {Aside.) Mr. Twinkle, 
your arm. I have some really very for- 
eign exotics to show you. 

Twin. I fly at your command. I w^sh 
all her exotics w^ere blooming in their 
native soil! {Aside, and glancing at the 
Count.) 

Mrs. TiF. Mr. Fogg, will you accompany 
us? My conservatory is wtII worthy a 
visit. It cost an immense sum of money. 

Fogg. I am indifferent to conservatories, 
Madam; flowers are such a bore! 

Mrs. TiF. I shall take no refusal. Con- 
servatories are all the rage, — I could not 
exist without mine! Let me show you, 
— let me show you. 

{Places her arm through Mr. Fogg's, 
without his consent. Exeunt Mrs. 
Tiffany, Fogg, and Twinkle into 
the conservatory, where they are 
seen walking about.) 

Sera. America, then, has no charms for 
you, Count? 

Count. Excuse me, — some exceptions. I 
find you, for instance, particularly 
charmmg! Can't say I admire your 
country. Ah! if you had ever breathed 
the exhilarating air of Paris, ate creams 
at Tortoni's, dined at the Cafe Royale, 
or if you had lived in London — felt at 
home at St. James's, and every after- 
noon driven a couple of Lords and a 
Duchess through Hyde Park, you would 
find America — where you have no kings, 
queens, lords, nor ladies — insupportable! 

Sera. Not while there was a Count in it? 

{Enter 2eke, very indignant.) 

Zeke. Where's de Missus? 

{Enter Mrs. Tiffany, Fogg, and 
Twinkle, from the conservatory.) 

Mrs. Tif. Whom do you come to an- 
nounce, A-dolph? 

Zeke. He said he wouldn't trust me — no, 
not el)en wid so much as his name; so I 
would n't trust him up stairs, den he ups 
wid his stick and I cuts mine. 

Mrs. Tif. Some of Mr. Tiffany's vulgar 
acquaintances. I shall die with shame. 
{Aside.) A-dolph, inform him that I 
am not at home. {Exit Zeke.) 

My nerves are so shattered, I am ready 
to sink. Mr. Twinkle, that fow tool, if 
you please! 



Twin. What? What do you wish, 
Madam? 

Mrs. Tif. The ignorance of these Amer- 
icano! {Aside.) Count, may I trouble 
you? That fow tool, if you please! 

Count. She's not talking English, nor 
French, but I suppose it's American. 
{Aside.) 

True. {Outside.) Not at home! 

Zeke. No, Sar — Missus say she's not at 
home. 

True. Out of the way, you grinning nig- 
ger! 

{Enter Adam Trueman, dressed as a 

farmer, a stout cane in his hand, his 

hoots covered with dust. Zeke 

jumps out of his way as he enters.) 

{Exit Zeke.) 

True. Where 's this woman that 's not at 
home in her own house? May I be shot ! 
if I wonder at it ! I should n't think 
she 'd ever feel at home in such a show- 
box as this! {Looking round.) 

Mrs. Tif. What a plebeian looking old 
farmer! I wonder w^ho he is? {Aside.) 
Sir — {advancing very agitatedly) what 
do 3'ou mean. Sir, by this oii'dacious con- 
duct? How dare you intrude yourself 
into my parlor? Do you know who I 
am, Sir? {With great dignity.) You 
are in the presence of Mrs. Tiffany, Sir! 

True. Antony's wife, eh? Well now, I 
might have guessed that — ha! ha! ha! 
for I see you make it a point to carry 
half your husband's shop "upon your 
back! No matter; that's being a good 
helpmate — for he carried the whole of 
it once in a pack on his own shoulders — 
now you bear a share! 

Mrs. Tif. How dare you, you imperti- 
nent, 016'dacious, ignorant old man ! It 's 
all an invention. You're talking of 
somebody else. What will the Count 
think! {Aside.) 

True. Why, I thought folks had better 
manners in the city! This is a civil 
welcome for your husband's old friend, 
and after my coming all the way from 
Catteraugus to see you and yours! 
First a grinning nigger tricked out in 
scarlet regimentals — 
Mrs. Tif. Let me tell you. Sir, that liv- 
eries are all the fashion! 
True. The fashion, are they? To make 
men wear the badge of servitude in a 
free land, — that's the fashion, is it? 
Hurrah, for republican simplicity! I 
will venture to say now, that you have 
your coat of arms too! 



ANNA CORA MOW ATT RITCHIE 



305 



Mrs. Tif. Certainly, Sir; you can see it 
on the panels of my voyture. 

True. Oh! no need of that. I know 
wliat your escutcheon must be ! A band- 
box rampant with a bonnet couchant, 
and a peddlar's pack passant! Ha, ha, 
ha! that shows both houses united! 

Mrs. Tif. Sir! you are most profoundly 
ignorant,^ — what do you mean by this in- 
solence, Sir? How shall I get rid of 
him? (Aside.) 

True. {Looking at Seraphina.) I hope 
that is not Gertrude! {Aside.) 

Mrs. Tif. Sir, I 'd have you know that — 
Seraphina, my child, walk with the gen- 
tlemen into the conservatory. 

{Exeunt Seraphina, Twinkle, Fogg 
into conservatory.) 
Count Jolimaitre, pray make due al- 
lowances for the errors of this rustic! 
I do assure you, Count — {Whispers to 
him.) 

True. Count ! She calls that critter with 
a shoe brush over his mouth. Count ! To 
look at him, I should have thought he 
was a tailor's walking advertisement! 
{Aside.) 

Count. {Addressing Trueman whorti he 
has been inspecting through his eye- 
glass.) Where did you say you be- 
longed, my friend? Dug out of the 
ruins of Pompeii, eh? 

True. I belong to a land in which I re- 
joice to find that you are a foreigner. 

Count. What a barbarian ! He doesn 't 
see the honor I 'm doing his country ! 
Pray, Madam, is it one of the aboriginal 
inhabitants of the soil? To what tribe 
of Indians does he belong — the Pawnee 
or Choctaw? Does he carry a toma- 
hawk? 

True. Something quite as useful, — do you 
see that? {Shaking his stick.) 

(Count runs behind Mrs. Tiffany.) 

Mrs. Tif. Oh, dear! I shall faint! Mil- 
linette! {Approaching.) Millinette! 

{Enter Millinette, without advancing 
into the room.) 

MiLLi. Oui, Madame. 

Mrs. Tif. A glass of water! 

{Exit Millinette.) 
Sir, {crossing to Trueman) I am shocked 
at your plebeian conduct ! Tis is a gen- 
tleman of the highest standing, Sir ! He 
is a Count, Sir! 

{Enter Millinette, bearing a salver with 
a glass of water. In advancing towards 



Mrs. Tiffany, she passes in front of the 
Count, starts and screams. The Count, 
after a start of surprise, regains his com- 
posure, plays with liis eye glass, and 
looks perfectly unconcerned.) 

Mrs. Tif. What is the matter? What is 
the matter? 

Milli. Noting, noting, — only — {Looks 
at Count and turns away her eyes again.) 
only — noting at all! 

True. Don't be afraid, girl! Why, did 
you never see a live Count before ? He 's 
tame, — I dare say your mistress there 
leads him about by the ears. 

Mrs. Tif. This is too much! Millinette, 
send for Mr. Tiffany instantly! 
{Crosses to Millinette, wlio is going.) 

Milli. He just come in, Madame! 

True. My old friend! Where is he? 
Take me to him, — I long to have one 
more hearty shake of the hand! 

Mrs. Tif. {Crosses to him.) Count, 
honor me by joining my daughter in tlie 
conservatory, I will return immediately. 
(Count bows and walks towards con- 
servatory, Mrs. Tiffany following 
part of the way and then returning 
to Trueman.) 

True. What a Jezebel ! These women al- 
ways play the very devil with a man, and 
yet I don't believe such a damaged bale 
of goods as that {looking at Mrs. Tif- 
fany) has smothered the heart of little 
Antony ! 

Mrs. Tif. This way, Sir, sal vous plait. 
{Exit with great dignity.) 

True. Sal vous plait. Ha, ha, ha! 
We'll see what Fashion has done for 
him. {Exit.) 

END OF act first. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. Inner apartment of Mr. Tif- 
fany's Counting House. Mr. Tiffany, 
seated at a desk looking over papers. 
Mr. Snobson, on a high stool at another 
desk, with a pen behind his ear. 

Snobson. {Rising, advances to the front 
of the stage, regards Tiffany and shrugs 
his shoulders.) How the old boy frets 
and fumes over those papers, to be sure ! 
He 's working himself into a perfect 
fever — ex-actly, — therefore bleeding 's 
the prescription! So here goes! 



306 



FASHION 



(Aside.) Mr. Tiffany, a word with you, 
if you please, Sir? 

TiF. {Sitting still.) Speak on, Mr. Snob- 
son, I attend. 

Snob. What I have to say, Sir, is a mat- 
ter of the first importance to the credit 
of the concern — the credit of the con- 
cern, Mr. Tiffany! 

TiF. Proceed, Mr. Snobson. 

Snob. Sir, you 've a handsome house — 
fine carriage — nigger in livery — feed on 
the fat of the land — everything first 
rate — 

TiF. Well, Sir? 

Snob. My salary, Mr, Tiffany! 

TiF. It has been raised three times within 
the last year. 

Snob. Still it is insufficient for the neces- 
sities of an honest man, — mark me, an 
honest man, Mr. Tiffany. 

TiF. (Crossing.) What a weapon he has 
made of that word! (Aside.) Enough 
— another hundred shall be added. Does 
that content you? 

Snob. There is one other subject, which 
I have before mentioned, Mr. Tiffany, — 
your daughter, — what 's the reason you 
can't let the folks at home know at once 
that I'm to be the 7nanf 

TiF. Villain! And must the only seal 
upon this scoundrel's lips be placed there 
by the hand of my daughter? (Aside.) 
Well, Sir, it shall be as you desire. 

Snob. And Mrs. Tiffany shall be in- 
formed of your resolution? 

TiF. Yes. 

Snob. Enough said ! That 's the ticket ! 
The CREDIT of the concern's safe, Sir! 
(Returns to liis seat.) 

TiF. How low have I bowed to this in- 
solent rascal ! To rise himself he mounts 
upon my shoulders, and unless I can 
shake him off he must crush me! 
(Aside.) 

(Enter TRUEiiAN.) 

True. Here I am, Antony, man! I told 
you I 'd pay you a visit in your money- 
making quarters. (Looks around.) But 
it looks as dismal here as a cell in the 
States' prison! 

TiF. (Forcing a laugh.) Ha, ha, ha! 
States' prison! You are so facetious! 
Ha, ha, ha! 

True. Well, for the life of me I can't 
see anything so amusing in that! I 
I should think the States' prison plaguy 
uncomfortable lodgings. And you laugh, 



man, as though you fancied yourself 
there already. 

Tip. Ha, ha, ha ! 

True. (Imitating him.) Ha, ha, ha! 
What on earth do you mean by that ill- 
sounding laugh, that has nothing of a 
laugh about it! This /as/i /o/i-worship 
has made heathens and hypocrites of you 
all! Deception is your household God! 
A man laughs as if he were crying, and 
cries as if he were laughing in his sleeve. 
Everything is something else from what 
it seems to be. I have lived in your 
house only three days, and I 've heard 
more lies than were ever invented dur- 
ing a Presidential election! First your 
fine lady of a wife sends me word that 
she 's not at home — I walk up stairs, 
and she takes good care that I shall not 
be at home — wants to turn me out of 
doors. Then you come in — take your 
old friend by the hand — whisper, the 
deuce knows w^hat, in your wife's ear, 
and the tables are turned in a tangent! 
Madam curtsies — says she 's enchanted to 
see me — and orders her grinning nigger 
to show me a room. 

TiF. We were exceedingly happy to wel- 
come you as our guest! 

True. Happy? You happy? Ah, An- 
tony! Antony! that hatchet face of 
yours, and those criss-cross furrows tell 
quite another story! It's many a long 
day since you were happy at anything! 
You look as if you 'd melted down your 
flesh into dollars, and mortgaged your 
soul in the bargain! Your warm heart 
has grown cold over your ledger — your 
light spirits heavy with calculation! 
You have traded away your youth — your 
hopes — your tastes, for wealth! and new 
you have the wealth you coveted, what 
does it profit you? Pleasure it cannot 
buy; for you have lost your capacity for 
enjoyment — Ease it will not bring; for 
the love of gain is never satisfied! It 
has made your counting-house a peni- 
tentiary, and your home a fashionable 
museum where there is no niche for you ! 
You have spent so much time ciphering 
in the one, that you find yourself at last 
a very cipher in the other! See me, 
man! seventy-two last August! — strong 
as a hickory and every whit as sound ! 

TiF. I take the greatest pleasure in re- 
marking your superiority. Sir. 

True. Bah ! no man takes pleasure in re- 
marking the superiority of another! 
W^hy the deuce, can't you speak the 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



307 



truth, man? But it's not the fashion 
I suppose! I have not seen one frank, 
open face since — no, no, I can't say that 
either, though lying is catching! 
There 's that girl, Gertrude, who is try- 
ing to teach your daughter music — but 
Gertrude was bred in the country! 

TiF. A good girl; my wife and daughter 
lind her very useful. 

True. Useful? Well, I must say you have 
queer notions of use! — But come, cheer 
up, man! I'd rather see one of -your 
old smiles, than know you'd realized 
another thousand! I hear you are mak- 
ing money on the true, American, high 
pressure system — better go slow and sure 
— the more steam, the greater danger of 
the boiler's bursting! All sound, I 
hope? Nothing rotten at the core? 

Tif. Oh, sound — quite sound! 

True. Well, that's pleasant — though I 
must say you don't look very pleasant 
about it! 

Tif. My good friend, although I am solv- 
ent, I may say, perfectly solvent — yet 
you — the fact is, you can be of some as- 
sistance to me! 

True. That's the fact is it? I'm glad 
we 've hit upon one fact at last ! Well — 
(SNObsON, who during this conversa- 
tion has been employed in writing, 
but stops occasionally to listen, now 
gives vent to a dry chuckling laugh.) 

True. Hey? What's that? Another of 
those deuced ill-sounding, city laughs! 
{Sees Snobson.) Who's that perched 
up on the stool of repentance — eh, An- 
tony? 

Snob. The old boy has missed his text 
there — that's the stool of repentance! 
{Aside and looking at Tiffany's seat.) 

Tif. One of my clerks — my confidential 
clerk ! 

True. Confidential? Why he looks for 
all the world like a spy — the most in- 
quisitorial, hang-dog face — ^ugh! the 
sight of it makes my blood run cold! 
Come, {crosses) let us talk over mat- 
ters where this critter can't give us the 
benefit of his opinion! Antony, the 
next time you choose a confidential clerk, 
take one that carries his credentials in 
his face — those in his pocket are not 
worth much without! 

{Exeunt Trueman and Tiffany.) 

Snob. {Jumping from his stool and ad- 
vancing.) The old prig has got the tin, 
or Tiff would never be so civil! All 
right — Tiff will work every shiner into 



the concern — all the better for me! 
Now I '11 go and make love to Seraphina. 
The old woman need n't try to knock me 
down with any of her French lingo! 
Six months from to-day if I ain't driving 
my two footmen tandem, down Broad- 
way — and as fashionable as Mrs. Tif- 
fany herself, then I ain't the trump I 
thought I was ! that 's all. {Looks at 
his watch.) Bless me! eleven o'clock 
and I have n't had my julep yet ! Snob- 
son, I 'm ashamed of you! {Exit.) 

Scene 2. The interior of a beautiful con- 
servatory; walk through the centre; 
stands of flower pots in bloom; a couple 
of rustic seats. Gertrude, attired in 
lohite, with a white rose in her hair; 
tvatering the flowers. Colonel Howard 
regarding her. 

How. I am afraid you lead a sad life 
here, Miss Gertrude? 

Ger. {Turning round gaily.) What! 
amongst the flowers? 

{Continues her occupation.) 

How. No, amongst the thistles, with 
which Mrs. Tiffany surrounds you; the 
tempests, which her temper raises! 

Ger. They never harm me. Flowers and 
herbs are excellent tutors. I learn pru- 
dence from the reed, and bend until the 
storm has swept over me! 

How. Admirable philosophy! But still 
this frigid atmosphere of fashion must 
be uncongenial to you? Accustomed to 
the pleasant companionship of your kind 
friends in Geneva, surely you must re- 
gret this cold exchange? 

Ger. Do you think so ? Can you suppose 
that I could possibly prefer a ramble in 
the woods to a promenade in Broadway? 
A wreath of scented wild flowers to a 
bouquet of these sickly exotics? The 
odour of new-mown hay to the heated 
air of this crowded conservatory? Or 
can you imagine that I could enjoy the 
quiet conversation of my Geneva friends, 
more than the edifying cMt-chat of a 
fashionable drawing roomf But I see 
you think me totally destitute of taste? 

How. You have a merry spirit to jest 
thus at your grievances! 

Ger. I have my mania, — as some wise 
person declares that all mankind have, — 
and mine is a love of independence! 
In Geneva, my wants were supplied by 
two kind old maiden ladies, upon whom 
I know not that I have any claim. I 



308 



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had abilities, and desired to use them. I 
came here at my own request; for here 
I am no longer dependent! Voila tout, 
as Mrs, Tili'any would say. 

How. Believe me, I appreciate the confi- 
dence you repose in me! 

Ger. Confidence! Truly, Colonel How- 
ard, the confidence is entirely on your 
part, in supposing that I confide that 
which I have no reason to conceal ! I 
think I informed you that Mrs. Tiffany 
only received visitors on her reception 
day — slie is therefore not prepared to see 
you. Zeke — Oh ! I beg his pardon — 
Adolph, made some mistake in admitting 
you. 

How. Nay, Gertrude, it was not Mrs. Tif- 
fany, nor Miss Tift'any, whom I came to 
see; it — it was — 

Ger. The conservatory perhaps? I will 
leave you to examine the flowers at lei- 
sure! {Crosses.) 

How. Gertrude — listen to me. If I only 
dared to give utterance to what is hover- 
ing upon my lips! [Aside.) Gertrude! 

Ger. Colonel HoAvard! 

How. Gertrude, I must — must — 

Ger. Yes, indeed you must, must leave 
me! I think I hear somebody coming — 
Mrs. Titifany would not be well pleased 
to find you here — pray, pray leave me — 
that door- will lead you into the street. 
{Hurries him out through door; takes 
up her watering pot, and commences 
watering flowers, tying up branches, 
&c.) 
What a strange being is man! "Why 
should he hesitate to say — nay, why 
should I prevent his saying, what I 
would most delight to hear? Truly man 
is strange — but woman is quite as in- 
comprehensible ! 

{Walks about gathering flowers.) 

[Enter Count Jolimaitre.) 

Count. There she is — the, bewitching lit- 
tle creature! Mrs. Tift'any and her 
daughter are out of ear-shot. I caught 
a glimpse of their feathers floating down 
Broadway, not ten minutes ago. Just 
tiie opportunity I have been looking for! 
Now for an engagement with this cap- 
tivating little piece of prudery ! Ton 
honor, I am almost afraid she will not 
resist a Count long enough to give value 
to the conquest. {Approaching her.) 
Ma belle petite, were you gathering roses 
for me? 

Ger. {Starts on first perceiving him, but 



instantly regains her, self-possession.) 
The roses here. Sir, are carefully guarded 
with thorns — if you have the right to 
gather, pluck for yourself! 

Count. Sharp as ever, little Gertrude! 
But now that we are alone, throw off this 
frigidity, and be at your ease. 

Ger. Permit me to be alone, Sir, that I 
may be at my ease! 

Count. Very good^ ma belle, well said! 
[Applauding her with his hands.) 
Never yield too soon, even to a title! 
But as the old girl may find her way back 
before long, we may as well come to par- 
ticulars at once. I love you; but that 
you know already. [Bubbing his eye- 
glass unconcernedly with his handker- 
chief.) Before long I shall make Made- 
moiselle Seraphina my wufe, and, of 
course, you shall remain in the family! 

Ger. [Indignantly.) Sir — 

Count. Ton my honor you shall! In 
France we arrange these little matters 
without difficulty! 

Ger. But I am an American! Your con- 
duct proves that you are not one! 

[Going, crosses.) 

Count. [Preventing her.) Don't run 
away, my immaculate petite Americaine! 
Demme, you 've quite overlooked my con- 
descension — the difference of our sta- 
tions — you a species of upper servant — 
an orphan — no friends. 

[Enter Trueman unperceived.) 

Ger. And therefore more entitled to the 
respect and protection of every true 
gentleman! Had you been one, you 
would not have insulted me! 

Count. My charming little orator, pa- 
triotism and declamation become you par- 
ticularly! [Approaches her.) I feel 
quite tempted to taste — 

True. [Thrusting him aside.) An Amer- 
ican hickory -switch ! [Strikes him.) 
Well, how do you like it? 

Count. Old matter-of-fact! [Aside.) 
Sir, how dare you? 

True. My stick has answered that ques- 
tion! 

Ger.- Oh! now I am quite safe! 

True. Safe! not a bit safer than before! 
All women would be safe, if they knew 
how virtue became them ! As for you, 
Mr. Count, what have you to say for 
yourself? Come, speak out! 

Count. Sir, — aw — aw — you don't under- 
stand these matters! 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



309 



Trl'E. That's a fact! Not having had 
your experience, I don't believe I do 
understand them! 

Count. A piece of pleasantry — a mere 
joke — 

True. A joke was it? I'll show you a 
joke worth two of that ! I '11 teach you 
the way we natives joke- with a puppy 
who don't respect an honest woman! 
[Seizing him.) 

Count. Oh ! oh ! demme — you old ruffian ! 
let me go. What do you mean? 

True. Oh ! a piece of pleasantry — a mere 
joke — very pleasant isn't it? 

[Attempts to strike liim again; 
Count struggles with him. Enter 
Mrs. Tiffany hastily, in her bon- 
net and shatul.) 

l^RS. TiF. What IS the matter? I am 
pei'fectly ahime with terror. Mr. True- 
man, what has happened? 

True. Oh! we have been joking! 

Mrs. Tif. [To Count, who is re-arrang- 
ing his dress.) My dear Count, I did 
not expect to find you here — how kind of 
you! 

True. Your dear Count has been show- 
ing his kindness in a very foreign man- 
ner. Too foreign I think, he found it 
to be relished by an unfashio7iahle na- 
tive! What do you think of a puppy, 
who insults an innocent girl all in the 
w^ay of kindness? This Count of yours 
— this importation of — 

Count. My dear Madam, demme, permit 
me to explain. It would be unbecoming 
— demme — particular unbecoming of you 
— aw — aw — to pay any attention to this 
ignorant person. [Crosses to True- 
man.) Anything that he says concern- 
ing a man of my standing — aw — the 
truth is, Madam — 

True. Let us have the truth by all means, 
— if it is only for the novelty's sake! 

Count. [Turning his hack to TruemaN.) 
You see. Madam, hoping to obtain a few 
moments' private conversation with Miss 
Seraphina — with Miss Seraphina I say 
and — aw — and knowing her passion for 
flowers, I found my way to your very 
tasteful and recherche conservatory. 
[Looks about him approvingly.) Very 
beautifully arranged — does you great 
credit, madam! Here I encountered this 
young person. She was inclined to be 
talkative; and I indulged her with — with 
a — aw — demme — a few commo?i places! 
What passed between us was mere harm- 
less badinage — on my part. You, 



madam, you — so conversant with our 
European manners — you are aware that 
when a man^of fashion — that is, when a 
woman — a man is bound — amongst noble- 
men, you know — 

Mrs. Tif. I comprehend you perfectly^ — 
parfittement, my dear Count. 

Count. 'Pon my honor, that 's very ob- 
liging of her. [Aside.) 

Mrs. Tif. I am shocked at the plebeian 
forwardness of this conceited girl ! 

True. [Walking up to Count.) Did you 
ever keep a reckoning of the lies you tell 
in an hour? 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Trueman, I blush for you! 
[Crosses to Trueman.) 

True. Don't do that — 3'ou have no blushes 
to spare! 

Mrs. Tif. It is a man of rank whom you 
are addressing, Sir! 

True. A rank villain, Mrs. Antony Tif- 
fany! A rich one he would be, had he 
as much gold as brass! 

Mrs. Tif. Pray pardon him, Count; he 
knows nothing of Itow ton! 

Count. Demme, he 's beneath my notice. 
I tell you what, old fellow — (Trueman 
raises his stick as Count approaches, the 
latter starts back) the sight of him dis- 
composes me — aw — I feel quite uncom- 
fortable — aw — let us join your charming 
daughter? I can't do you the honor to 
shoot you. Sir — [to Trueman) you are 
beneath me — a nobleman can't fight a 
commoner! Good bye, old Truepenny! 
I — aw — I 'm insensible to your inso- 
lence ! 

[Exeunt Count and Mrs. Tiffany.) 

True. You won't be insensible to a cow 
hide in spite of your nobility ! The next 
time he practises any of his foreign fash- 
ions on you, Gertrude, you '11 see how 
I '11 wake up his sensibilities ! 

Ger. I do not know what I should have 
done without you, sir. 

True. Yes, you do — you know that you 
would have done well enough ! Never 
tell a lie, girl! not even for the sake of 
pleasing an old man! When you open 
your lips let your heart speak. Never 
tell a lie ! Let your face be the looking- 
glass of your soul — your heart its clock 
— Avhile your tongue rings the hours ! 
But the glass must be clear, the clock 
true, and then there 's no fear but the 
tongue will do its duty in a woman's 
head! 

Ger. You are very good. Sir ! 

True. That's as it may be! — How my 



310 



FASHION 



lieart warms towards her! (Aside.) 
Gertrude, I hear that you have no 
mother? 

Gkr. Ah! no, Sir; I wish I had. 

True. So do I! Heaven knows, so do I! 
[Aside, and with emotion.) And you 
have no father, Gertrude? 

Ger. No, Sir— I often wish I had! 

True. {Hurriedly.) Don't do that, 
girl! don't do that! Wish you had a 
mother — but never wish that you had a 
father again ! Perhaps the one you had 
did not deserve such a child! 

{Enter Prudence.) 

Pru. Seraphina is looking for you, Ger- 
trude. 
Ger. I will go to her. {Crosses.) Mr. 
Trueman, you will not permit me to 
thank you, but you cannot prevent my 
gratitude! {Exit.) 

True. {Looking after her.) If falsehood 
harbours there, I '11 give up searching 
after truth! 

{Crosses, retires up the stage mus- 
ingly, and commences examining the 
flowers.) 
Pru. What a nice old man he is to be 
sure! I wish he would say something! 
{Aside.) 

{Crosses, walks after him, turning 
when he turns — after a pause,) 
Don't mind me, Mr. Trueman ! 

Oh! no, don't be 
-I was n't minding 



True. Mind you ? 
afraid {crosses.)- 



you. Nobody seems to mind you much ! 
{Continues walking and examining the 
flowers — Prudence folloivs.) 

Pru. Very pretty flowers, ain't they? 
Gertrude takes care of them. 

True. Gertrude? So I hear — {advanc- 
ing) I suppose you can tell me now who 
this Gertrude — 

Pru. Who she 's in love with ? I knew 
you were going to say that ! I '11 tell 
you all about it ! Gertrude, she 's in love 
with — Mr. Twinkle ! and he 's in love 
with her. And Seraphina she 's in love 
with Count Jolly — what-d' ye-eall-it : but 
Count Jolly don't take to her at all — but 
Colonel Howard — he 's the man — he 's 
desperate about her! 

True. Why you feminine newspaper! 
Howard in love with that quintessence of 
affectation ! Howard — the only, frank, 
straightforward fellow that I 've met 
since — I '11 tell him my mind on the sub- 
ject! And Gertrude hunting for happi- 



ness in a rhyming dictionary! The 
girl 's a greater fool than I took her for ! 

(Crosses.) 

Pru. So she is — you see I know all about 
them ! 

True. I see you do ! You Ve a wonder- 
ful knowledge — wonderful — of other peo- 
ple's concerns! It may do here, but take 
my word for it, in the county of Cat- 
teraugus you 'd get the name of a great 
busy-body. But perhaps you know that 
too? 

Pru. Oh! I always know what's com- 
ing. I feel it beforehand all over me. 
I knew something was going to happen 
the day you came here — and what 's 
more I can always tell a married man 
from a single — I felt right off that you 
were a bachelor! 

True. Felt right off I was a bachelor did 
you? you were sure of it — sure? — quite 
sure? (Prudence assents delightedly.) 
Then you felt wrong! — a bachelor and a 
widower are not the same thing ! 

Pru. Oh ! but it all comes to the same 
thing — a widower 's as good as a bach- 
elor any day! And besides I knew that 
you were a farmer right ojf. 

True. On the spot, eh? I suppose you 
saw cabbages and green peas growing 
out of my iiat? 

Pru. No, I didn't — but I knew all about 
you. And I knew — (looking down and 
fidgeting with her apron) I knew you 
were for getting married soon ! For last 
night I dream't I saw your funeral going 
along the streets, and the mourners all 
dressed in white. And a funeral is a 
sure sign of a wedding, you know! 
(Nudging him with her elbow.) 

True. (Imitatiyig her voice.) Well I 
can't say that I know any such thing! 
you know! (Nudging her back.) 

Pru. Oh! it does, and there's no getting 
over it! For my part, I like farmers — 
and I know all about setting hens and 
turkeys, and feeding chickens, and lay- 
ing eggs, and all that sort of thing! 

True. May I be shot! if mistress news- 
paper is not putting in an advertisement 
for herself! This is your city mode of 
courting I suppose, ha, ha, ha! (Aside.) 

Pru. I 've been west, a little ; but I never 
was in the county of Catteraugus, my- 
self. 

True. Oh! you were not? And you have 
taken a particular fancy to go there, eh ? 

Pru. Perhaps I should n't object — 

True. Oh! — ah! — so I suppose. Now 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



311 



pay attention to what I am going to say, 
for it is a matter of great importance to 
yourself. 

Peu. Now it 's coming — I know what he 's 
going to say! (Aside.) 

True. The next time you want to tie a 
man for life to your apron-strings, pick 
out one that don't come from the county 
of CatteraugTis — for greenhorns are 
scarce in those parts, and modest women 
plenty! (Exit.) 

Pru. Now who'd have thought lie was 
going to say that! But I won't give 
him up yet — I won't give him up. 

(Exit.) 

END OF ACT SECOND. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene 1. Mrs. Tiffany's Parlor. Enter 
Mrs. Tiffany, followed by Mr. Tif- 
fany. 

TiF. Your extravagance will ruin me, 
Mrs. Tiffany! 

Mrs. Tif. And your stinginess will ruin 
me, Mr. Tiffany! It is totally and toot 
a fate impossible to convince you of the 
necessity of keeping up appearances. 
There is a certain display which every 
woman of fashion is forced to make! 

TiF. And pray who made you a woman of 
fashion ? 

Mrs. Tif. What a vulgar question! All 
women of fashion, Mr. Tiffany — 

Tif. In this land are self-constituted, 
like you. Madam — and fashion is the 
cloak for more sins than charity ever 
covered! It was for fashion's sake that 
you insisted upon my purchasing this 
expensive house — it was for fashion's 
sake that you ran me in debt at every 
exorbitant upholsterer's and extravagant 
furniture warehouse in the city — it was 
for fashion's sake that you built that 
ruinous conservatory — hired more serv- 
ants than they have persons to wait upon 
— and dressed your footman like a harle- 
quin! 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, you are thor- 
oughly plebeian, and insufferably Amer- 
ican, in your grovelling ideas! And, 
pray, what was the occasion of these very 
mal-ap-pro-pos remarks? Merely be- 
cause I requested a paltry fifty dollars 
to purchase a new style of head-dress-— 
a bijou of an article just introduced in 
France. 



Tif. Time was, Mrs. Tiffany, when you 
manufacti^red your own French head- 
dresses — took off their first gloss at the 
public balls, and then sold them to your 
shortest-sighted customers. And all you 
knew about France, or French either, 
was what you spelt out at the bottom of 
your fashion plates — but now you have 
grown so fashionable, forsooth, that you 
have forgotten how to speak your 
mother tongue! 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, Mr. Tiffany! 
Nothing is more positively vulgarian — 
more unaristocratie than any allusion to 
the past! 

Tif. Why I thought, my dear, that aris- 
tocrats lived principally upon the past — 
and traded in the market of fashion with 
the bones of their ancestors for capital? 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, such vulgar re- 
marks are only suitable to the counting 
house, in my drawing room you should — 

Tif. Vary my sentiments with my lo- 
cality, as you change your manners with 
your dress! 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, I desire that you 
will purchase Count d'Orsay's "Science 
of Etiquette," and learn how to conduct 
yourself — especially before you appear 
at the grand ball, which I shall give on 
Friday ! 

Tif. Confound your balls. Madam; they 
make footballs of my money, while you 
dance away all that I am worth! A 
pretty time to give a ball when you 
know that I am on the very brink of 
bankruptcy ! 

Mrs. Tif. So much the greater reason 
that nobody should suspect your cir- 
cumstances, or you would lose your credit 
at once. Just at this crisis a ball is ab- 
solutely necessary to save your reputa- 
tion! There is Mrs. Adolphus Dasha- 
way — she gave the most splendid fete of 
the season — and I hear on very good au- 
thority that her husband has not paid his 
baker's bill in three months. Then there 
was Mrs. Honeywood — 

Tif. Gave a ball the night before her 
husband shot himself — perhaps you wish 
to drive me to follow his example? 

(Crosses.) 

Mrs. Tif. Good gracious! Mr. Tiffany, 
how you talk ! I beg you won't mention 
anything of the kind. I consider black 
the most unbecoming color. I 'm sure 
I 've done all that I could to gratify you. 
There is that vulgar old torment, True- 
man, who gives one the lie fifty times a 



312 



FASHION 



day — liaven't I been very civil to liim? 
TiF. ' Civil to his icealth, Mrs. Tiffany! 
I tokl you tliat he was a rich, old farmer 
— the early friend of my father — my 
own benefactor — and that I had reason 
to think he might assist me in my pres- 
ent embarrassments. Your civility was 
bought — and like most of your own pur- 
chases has yet to be ^ja/cZ for. (Crosses.) 

Mrs. Tif. And will be, no doubt! The 
condescension of a woman of fashion 
should command any price. Mr. True- 
man is insupportably indecorous — he 
has insulted Count Jolimaitre in the 
most outrageous manner. If the Count 
was not so deeply interested — so ahime 
witli Seraphina, I am sure he would 
never honor us by his visits again! 

Tif. So much the better — he shall never 
marry my daughter! — I am resolved on 
that. Why, Madam, I am told there is 
in Paris a regular matrimonial stock 
company, who fit out indigent dandies 
for this market. How do I know but 
this fellow is one of its creatures, and 
that he has come here to increase its 
dividends by marrying a fortune? 

Mrs. Tif. Nonsense, Mr. Tiffany. The 
Count, the most fashionable young man 
in all New York — the intimate friend of 
all the dukes and lords in Europe — not 
marry my daughter? Not permit Sera- 
phina to become a Countess? Mr. Tif- 
fany, you are out of your senses! 

Tif. That would not be very wonderful, 
considering how many years I have been 
united to you, my dear. Modern physi- 
cians pronounce lunacy infectious! 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, he is a man of 
fashion — 

Tif. Fashion makes fools, but cannot 
feed them. By the bye, I have a request, 
— since you are bent upon ruining me 
by this ball, and there is no help for it, 
— I desire that you will send an invita- 
tion to my confidential clerk, Mr. Snob- 
son. 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Snobson! Was there ever 
such an you-nick demand! Mr. Snob- 
son would cut a pretty figure amongst 
my fashionable friends! I shall do no 
such thing, Mr. Tiffany. 

Tif. Then," Madam, the ball shall not take 
place. Have I not told you that I am 
in the power of this man? That there 
are circumstances which it is hai)py for 
you that you do not know — which you 
cannot comprehend, — but which render 
it essential that you should be civil to 



Mr. Snobson? Not you merely, but 
Seraphina also? He is a more appro- 
priate match for her than your foreign 
favorite. 

Mr. Tif. A match for Seraphina, indeed! 
[Crosses.) Mr. Tiffany, you are deter- 
mined to make a fow pas. 

Tif. Mr. Snobson intends calling this 
morning. {Crosses.) 

Mrs. Tif. But, Mr. Tiffany, this is not 
reception day — my drawing-rooms are in 
the most terrible disorder — 

Tif. Mr. Snobson is not particular — he 
must be admitted. 



Zeke. 



{Enter Zeke.) 
Mr. Snobson. 



{Enter Snobson, exit Zeke.) 

Snobson. How dye do, Marm? {Crosses.) 
How are you? Mr. Tiffany, your 
most ! — 

Mrs. Tif. {Formally.) Bung jure. Cem- 
ment vow porte vow, Monsur Snohson? 

Snob. Oh, to be sure — very good of you — 
fine day. 

Mrs. Tif. {Pointing to a chair with great 
dignity.) Sassoyez vow, Monsur Snob- 
son. 

SxoB. I wonder what she's driving at? 
I ain't up to the fashionable lingo yet! 
{Aside.) Eh? what? Speak a little 
louder, Marm? 

Mrs. Tif. What ignorance! {Aside.) 

Tif. I presume Mrs. Tiffany means that 
you are to take a seat. 

Snob. Ex-actly — very obliging of her — so 
I will. {Sits.) No ceremony amongst 
friends, you know — and likely to be 
nearer — you understand? 0. K., all cor- 
rect. How is Seraphina? 

Mrs. Tif. Miss Tiffany is not visible this 
morning. {Retires up.) 

Snob. Not visible? {Jumping up.) I 
suppose that 's the English for can't see 
her? Mr. Tiffany, Sir — {walking up to 
him) Avhat am I to understand by this 
de-fal-ca-tion. Sir? I expected your 
word to be as good as your bond — beg 
pardon, Sir — I mean better — consider- 
ably better — no humbug about it, Sir. 

Tif. Have patience, Mr. Snobson. 

{Rings bell.) 

{Enter ^ Zeke.) 

Zeke, desire my daughter to come here. 
Mrs. Tif. {Coming down.) Adolph — I 
say, Adolph — 

(Zeke straightens himself and assumes 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



313 



foppish airs, as he turns to Mrs. 
Tiffany.) 

TiF. Zeke. 

Zeke. Don't know any such nigga, Boss. 

TiF. Do as I bid you instantly, or off with 
your livery and quit the house! 

Zeke. Wheugh! I 'se all dismission! 

{Exit,) 

Mrs. Tif. A-dolph, A-dolph! 

{Calling after him.) 

Snob. I brought the old boy to his bear- 
ings, did n't I though ! Pull that string, 
and he is sure to work right. {Aside.) 
Don't make any stranger of me, Marm — 
I 'm quite at home. If you 've got any 
odd jobs about the house to do up, I 
sha'n't miss you. I '11 amuse myself 
with Seraphina when she comes — we '11 
get along very cosily by ourselves. 

Mrs. Tif. Permit me to inform you, Mr. 
Snobson, that a French mother never 
leaves her daughter alone with a young 
man — she knows your sex too well for 
that ! 

Snob. Very ^zs-obliging of her — but as 
w^e 're none French — 

Mrs. Tif. You have yet to learn, Mr. 
Snobson, that the American ee-light — the 
aristocracy — the how-ton — as a matter 
of conscience, scrupulously follow the 
foreign fashions. 

Snob. Not when they are foreign to their 
interests, Marm — for instance — {enter 
Seraphina). There you are at last, eh. 
Miss? How d'3^e do? Ma said you 
were n't visible. Managed to get a peep 
at her, eh, Mr. Tiffany? 

Sera. I heard you were here, Mr. Snob- 
son, and came w^ithout even arranging 
my toilette; you will excuse my negli- 
gence ? 

Snob. Of everything but me, Miss. 

Sera. I shall never have to ask your par- 
don for that, Mr. Snobson. 

Mrs. Tif. Seraphina— child— really— 

{As she is approaching Seraphina, 
Mr. Tiffany plants himself in front 
of his wife.) 

Tif. Walk this way. Madam, if you 
please. To see that she fancies the surly 
fellow takes a weight from my heart. 

{Aside.) 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, it is highly im- 
proper and not at all distingue to leave 
a young girl— 

{Enter Zeke.) 

^r:KE. Mr. Count Jolly-made-her ! 

Mrs. Tif. Good gracious! The Count — 



Oh, dear! — Seraphina, run and change 
your dress, — no there 's not time ! 
A-dolph, admit him. {Exit Zeke.) Mr. 
Snobson, get out of the way, will you? 
Mr. Tiffany, what are you doing at home 
at this hour? 

{Enter Count Jolimaitre, ushered hy 
Zeke.) 

Zeke. Dat 's de genuine article ob a gem- 
man. {Aside.) {Exit.) 

Mrs. Tif. My dear Count, I am overjoyed 
at the very sight of you. 

Count. Flattered myself you 'd be glad to 
see me, Madam — knew it was not your 
jour de reception. 

Mrs. Tif. But for you. Count, all days — 

Count. I thought so. Ah, Miss Tiffany, 
on my honor, you're looking beautiful. 

{Crosses.) 

Sera. Count, flattery from you — 

Snob. What? Eh? What's that you 
say? 

Sera. Nothing but what etiquette re- 
quires. {Aside to him.) 

Count. {Regarding Mr. Tiffany through 
his eye glass.) Your worthy Papa, I 
believe? Sir, your most obedient. 

(Mr. Tiffany bows coldly; Count re- 
gards Snobson through his glass, 
shrugs his shoulders and turns 
away.) 

Snob. {To Mrs. Tiffany.) Introduce 
me, will you? I never knew a Count in 
all my life — what a strange-looking ani- 
mal! 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Snobson, it is not the fash- 
ion to introduce in France! 

Snob. But, Marm, we 're in America. 
(Mrs. T. crosses to Count.) The 
woman thinks she 's somewhere else than 
where she is — she wants to make an 
alibi f {Aside.) 

Mrs. Tif. I hope that we shall have the 
jDleasure of seeing you on Friday eve- 
ning. Count? 

Count. Really, madam, my invitations — 
my engagements — so numerous — I can 
hardly answer for myself: and you 
Americans take offence so easily — 

Mrs. Tif. But, Count, everybody expects 
you at our ball — you are the principal 
attraction — 

Sera. Count, you 7nust come! 

Count. Since you insist — aw — aw — 
there 's no resisting you, Miss Tiffany. 

Mrs. Tif. I am so thankful. How can I 
repay your condescension! (Count and 
Seraphina converse.) Mr. Snobson, 



314 



FASHION 



will you walk this way? — I have such a 
cactus in full bloom — remarkable flower! 
Mr. Tiffany, pray come here — I have 
something particular to say. 

Tip. Then speak out, my dear — I thought 
it was highly improper just now to leave 
a girl with a young man? 

{Aside to her.) 

Mrs. Tif. Oh, but the Count — that is dif- 
ferent ! 

Tip. I suppose you mean to say there 's 
nothing of the man about him? 

{Enter Millinette with a scarf in her 
hand.) 

Mil. Adolph tell me he vas here. 
{Aside.) Pardon, Madame, I bring dis 
scarf for Mademoiselle. 
Mrs. Tip. Very well, Millinette ; you know 
best what is proper for her to wear. 
(Mr. and Mrs. Tiffany and Snobsox 
retire up; she engages the attentio?i 
of both gentlemen.) 
(Millinette crosses towards Sera- 
PHINA, gives the Count a threaten- 
ing look, and commences arranging 
the scarf over Seraphina's shoul- 
ders. ) 
Mil. Mademoiselle, permettez-moi. Per- 
fide! {Aside to Count.) If Mademoi- 
selle vil stand tranquille one petit mo- 
ment. {Turns Seraphina's hack to the 
Count, and pretends to arrange the 
scarf.) I must speak vid you to-day, or 
I tell all — you find me at de foot of de 
stair ven you go. Prends garde! {Aside 
to Count.) 
Sera. What is that you say, Millinette? 
Mil. Dis scarf make you so very beauti- 
ful, Mademoiselle — Je vous salue, mes 
dames. {Curtsies.) {Exit.) 

Count. Not a moment to lose! {Aside.) 
Miss Tiffany, I have an unpleasant — ^^a 
particularly unpleasant piece of intelli- 
gence — you see, I have just received a 
letter from my friend — the — aw — the 
Earl of Airshire ; the truth is, the EarFs 
daughter — beg you won't mention it — 
has distinguished me by a tender pen- 
chant. 
Sera. I understand — and they wish you 
to return and marry the young lady; but 
surely you will not leave us. Count? 
Count. If you bid me sta}^ — I shouldn't 
have the conscience — I could n't afford to 
tear myself away. I 'm sure that 's hon- 
est. {Aside.) 
Sera. Oh, Count! 
Count. Say but one word — say that you 



should n't mind being made a Countess — 
and I '11 break with the Earl to-morrow. 

Sera. Count, this surprise — but don't 
tliink of leaving the country, Count — we 
could not pass the time without you! I 
— yes — yes. Count — I do consent ! 

Count. I thought she would! {Aside, 
while he embraces her.) Enchanted, 
rapture, bliss, ecstacy, and all that sort 
of thing — words can't express it, but you 
understand. But it must be kept a se- 
cret — postively it must! If the rumour 
of our engagement were whispered 
abroad — the Earl's daughter — the deli- 
cacy of my situation, aw — you compre- 
hend? It is even possible that our nup- 
tials, my charming Miss Tiffany, our 
nuptials must take place in private! 

Sera. Oh, that is quite impossible! 

Count. It's the latest fashion abroad — 
the very latest. Ah, I knew that would 
determine you. Can I depend on your 
secrecy ? 

Sera. Oh, yes! Believe me. 

Snob. {Coming forward in spite of Mrs. 
Tiffany's efforts to detain him.) Why, 
Seraphina, hav[e] n't you a word to 
throw to a dog? 

Tip. I should n't think she had after wast- 
ing so many upon a puppy. (Aside.) 

{Enter Zeke, wearing a three-cornered 
hat.) 

Zeke. Missus, de bran new carriage am 
below. 

Mrs. Tif. Show it up, — I mean, Very 
well, A-dolph. {Exit Zeke.) 

Count, my daughter and I are about to 
take an airing in our new voyture, — 
will you honor us with your company? 

Count. Madam, I — I have a most press- 
ing engagement. A letter to write to the 
Earl of Airshire — who is at present re- 
siding in the Isle of Skye. I must bid 
you good morning. 

Mrs. Tip. Good morning, Count. 

{Exit Count.) 

Snob. / 'm quite at leisure, ( crosses to 
Mrs. T.) Marm. Books balanced — 
ledger closed — nothing to do all the after- 
noon, — I 'm for you. 

Mrs. Tip. {Without noticing him.) 
Come, Seraphina, come ! 

{As they are going Snobson follows them.) 

Snob. But, Marm — I was saying, Marm, 
I am quite at leisure — not a thing to do ; 
have I, Mr. Tiffany? 

Mrs. Tip. Seraphina, child — your red 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



315 



shawl — remember — Mr. Snobson, hon 

swear! 

(Exit, leading Seraphixa.) 
Snob. Swear! Mr. Tiffanj^, Sir, am I 

to be fobbed off with a bon swear? 

D — n it, I will swear ! 
TiF. Have patience, Mr. Snobson, if you 

will accompany me to the counting 

house — 
Snob. Don't count too much on me, Sir. 

I '11 make up no more accounts until 

these are settled ! I '11 run down and 

jump into the carriage in spite of her 

hon swear. {Exit.) 

TiF. You '11 jump into a hornet's nest, if 

you do! Mr. Snobson, Mr. Snobson! 
{Exit after Mm.) 



Scene 2. Housekeeper's room. 

{Enter Millinette.) 

Mil. I have set dat bete, Adolph, to vatch 
for him. He say he would come back 
so soon as Madame's voiture drive from 
de door. If he not come — but he vill — 
he vill — he hien etourdi, but he have hon 
coeur. 

{Enter Count.) 

Count. Ah! Millinette, my dear, you see 
what a good-natured dog I am to fly at 
your bidding — 

Mil. Fly? Ah! trompeur! Vat for you 
fly from Paris? Vat for you leave me 
— and I love you so much? Ven you 
sick — you almost die — did I not stay bj' 
you — take care of you — and you have no 
else friend? Vat for you leave Paris? 

Count. Never allude to disagreeable sub- 
jects, mon enfant! 1 was forced by un- 
controllable circumstances to fly to the 
land of liberty — 

Mil. Vat you do vid all de money I give 
you? The last sou I had — did I not 
give you? 

Count. I dare say you did, ma petite — 
wish you 'd been better supplied ! 
{Aside.) Don't ask any questions here 
— can't explain now — the next time we 
meet — 

Mil. But, ah! ven shall ve meet — ven? 
You not deceive me, not any more. 

Count. Deceive you ! I 'd rather deceive 
myself — I wish I could ! I 'd persuade 
myself you were once more washing linen 
in the Seine! {Aside.) 

Mil. I vil tell you ven ve shall meet — On 



Friday night Madame give one grand 
ball — 3'ou come sans douie — den ven de 
supper is served — de Americans tink of 
noting else ven de supper come — den you 
steal out of de room, and you find me 
here — and you give me one grand ex- 
planation! 

{Enter Gertrude, unperceived.) 

Count. Friday night — while supper is 
serving — parole dlionneur I will be here 
— I will explain every thing — ^my sud- 
den departure from Paris — my — demme, 
my countship — every thing! Now let 
me go — if any of the family should dis- 
cover us — 

Ger. {Who during the last speech has 
gradually advanced.) They might dis- 
cover more than you think it advisable 
for them to know! 

Count. The devil! 

Mil. Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle Gertrude! 

Count. {Recovering himself.) My dear 
Miss Gertrude, let me explain — aw — 
aw — nothing is more natural than the 
situation in which you find me — 

Ger. I am inclined to believe that, Sir. 

Count. Now — 'pon my honor, that 's not 
fair. Here is Millinette will bear wit- 
ness to what I am about to say — 

Ger. Oh, I have not the slightest doubt 
of that. Sir. 

Count. You see, Millinette happened to 
be lady's-maid in the family of — of — the 
Duchess Chateau D'Espagne — and I 
chanced to be a particular friend of the 
Duchess — very particular I assure you! 
Of course I saw Millinette, and she, 
demme, she saw me! Didn't you, Mil- 
linette ? 

Mil. Oh! oui — Mademoiselle, I knew him 
ver veil. 

Count. Well, it is a remarkable fact that 
— being in correspondence with this very 
Duchess — at this very time — 

Ger. That is sufficient, Sir — I am already 
so well acquainted with your extraor- 
dinary talents for improvisation, that I 
will not further tax your invention — 

Mil. Ah! Mademoiselle Gertrude do not 
betray us — have pity! 

Count. {Assuming an air of dignity.) 
Silence, Millinette! My word has been 
doubted — the word of a nobleman! I 
will inform m}^ friend, Mrs. Tiffany, of 
this young person's audacity. {Going.) 

Ger. His own weapons alone can foil this 
villain! {Aside.) Sir — Sir — Count! 
{At the last word the Count turns.) 



316 



FASHION 



Perhaps, Sir, the least said abuut this 
matter the better! 

Count. {DeUghtedlij.) The least said? 
We won't say anything at all. She 's 
coming round — could n't resist me. 
(Aside.) Cliarming Gertrude — 

Mil. Quoi? Vat that you say? 

Count. My sweet, adorable Millinette, 
hold your tongue, will you? {Aside to 
her.) 

Mil. (Aloud.) No, I vill not! If you 
do look so from out your eyes at her 
again, I vill tell all ! 

Count. Oh, I never could manage two 
women at once, — jealousy makes the 
dear creatures so spiteful. The only 
valor is in flight! (Aside.) Miss Ger- 
trude, I wish you good morning. Mil- 
linette, mon enfant, adieu. (Exit.) 

Mil. But I have one word more to say. 
Stop, Stop! (Exit after him.) 

Ger. (Musingly.) Friday night, while 
supper is serving, he is to meet Millin- 
ette here and explain — what? This man 
is an impostor! His insulting me — his 
familiarity with Millinette — his whole 
conduct— prove it. If I tell Mrs. Tif- 
fany this she will disbelieve me, and one 
word may place this so-called Count on 
. his guard. To convince Seraphina would 
be equally difficult, and her rashness and 
infatuation may render her miserable for 
life. No — she shall be saved! I must 
devise some plan for opening their eyes. 
Truly, if I cannot invent one, I shall be 
the first woman who was ever at a loss 
for a stratagem — especially to punish a 
villain or to shield a friend. (Exit.) 

END of act third. 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene 1. Ball room splendidly illumi- 
nated. A curtain hung at the further 
end. Mr. and Mrs. Tiffany, Seraph- 
ina, Gertrude, Fogg, Twinkle, Count, 
Snobson, Colonel Howard, a number 
of guests — some seated, some standing. 
As the curtain rises, a cotillion is danced; 
Gertrude dancing with Howard, Sera- 
phina with Count. 

Count. (Advancing with Seraphina to 
the front of the stage. ) To-morrow tlien 
— to-morrow — I may salute you as ray 
bride — demme, my Countess! 

(Enter Zeke, with refreshments.) 



Sera. Yes, to-morrow. 

(As the Count is about to reply, 

Snobson thrusts himself in front of 

Seraphina.) 

Snob. You said you 'd dance w^ith me, 

MisG — now take my fin, and we '11 walk 

about and see what's going on. 

(Count raises his eye-glass, regards 
Snobson, and leads Seraphina 
away; Snobson follows, endeavor- 
ing to attract her attention, but en- 
countering Zeke, bearing a waiter 
of refreshments; stops him, helps 
himself, and puts some in his 
pockets.) 
Here 's the treat ! get my to-morrow's 
luncheon out of Tiff. 

(Enter Trueman, yawning and rubbing 
his eyes.) 

True. What a nap I 've had, to be sure I 
(Looks at his watch.) Eleven o'clock, 
as I 'm alive ! Just the time when coun- 
try folks are comfortably turned in, and 
here your grand turn-out has hardly be- 
gun yet. (To Tiffany, who ap- 
proaches.) 

Ger. (Advancing.) I was just coming 
to look for you, Mr. Trueman. I be- 
gan to fancy that you were paying a 
visit to dream-land. 

True. So I was, child — so I was — and I 
saw a face — like yours — but brighter! — 
even brighter. (To Tiffany.) There's 
a smile for you, man! It makes one 
feel that the world has something worth 
living for in it yet ! Do you remember a 
smile like that, Antony? Ah! I see 
you don't — but I do — I do! (Much 
moved.) 

How. (Advancing.) Good evening, Mr^ 
Trueman. (Offers his hand.) 

True. That's right, man; give me your 
whole hand ! When a man offers me the 
tips of his fingers, I know at once there 's 
nothing in him worth seeking beyond his 
fingers ends. 

(Trueman and Howard, Gertrude and 
Tiffany converse.) 

Mrs. Tif. (Advancing.) I'm in such a 
fidget lest that vulgar old fellow should 
disgrace us by some of his plebeian re- 
marks! What it is to give a ball, when 
one is forced to invite vulgar people ! 
(Mrs. Tiffany advances towards 
Trueiman; Seraphina stands con- 
versing flippantly with the gentle- 
men who surround her; amongst 
them is Twinkle, who having taken 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



317 



a magazine from his pocket, is read- 
ing to her, much to the undisguised 
annoyance of Snobson.) 
Dear nie, Mr. Trueman, you are very 
late — quite in the fashion, I declare! 
True. Fashion! And pray what is 
fashion, madam? An agreement be- 
tween certain persons to live without us- 
ing their souls! to substitute etiquette 
for virtue — decorum for purity — man- 
ners for morals! to affect a shame for 
the works of their Creator! and expend 
all their rapture upon the works of their 
tailors and dressmakers! 
Mrs. Tif. You have the most ow-tray 
ideas, Mr. Trueman — quite rustic, and 
deplorably American! But pray walk 
this way. 

(Mrs. Tiffany and Trueman go up.) 
Count. {Advancing to Gertrude, How- 
ard a short distance behind her.) Miss 
Gertrude — no opportunity of speaking 
to you before — in demand you know! 
Ger. I have no choice, I must be civil to 
him. {Aside.) What were you re- 
marking, Sir? 
Count. Miss Gertrude — charming Ger — 
aw — aw — I never found it so difficult to 
speak to a woman before. {Aside.) 
Ger. Yes, a very charming ball — ^many 

beautiful faces here. 
Count. Only one ! — aw — aw — one — the 
fact is — 

{Talks to her in dumb show.) 
How. What could old Trueman have 
meant by saying she fancied that puppy 
of a Count — that paste jewel thrust upon 
the little finger of society. 
Count. Miss Gertrude^aw — 'pon my 
honor — you don't understand — really — 
aw — aw — will you dance the polka with 
me? 

(Gertrude bows and gives him her 
hand; he leads her to the set form- 
ing; Howard remains looking after 
them.) 
How. Going to dance with him too! A 
few days ago she would hardly bow to 
him civilly — could old Trueman have had 
reasons for what he said? {Retires up.) 
{Dance, the polka; Seraphina, after 
having distributed her bouquet, vin- 
aigrette and fan amongst the gen- 
tlemen, dances with Snobson.) 
Pru. {Peeping in as dance concludes.) I 
don't like dancing on Friday; sometliing 
strange is always sure to happen ! I '11 
be on the look out. 

{Remains peeping and concealing her- 



self when any of the company ap- 
proach.). 

Ger. {Advancing hastily.) They are 
preparing the supper — now if I can only 
dispose of Millinette while I unmask this 
insolent pretender! {Exit.) 

Pru. {Peeping.) What's that she said? 
It 's coming ! 

{Re-enter Gertrude, bearing a small bas- 
ket filled with bouquets; approaches 
Mrs. Tiffany; they walk to the front of 
the stage.) 

Ger. Excuse me, Madam — I believe this is 
just the hour at wdiich you ordered sup- 
per? 

Mrs. Tif. Well, what 's that to you ! So 
you 've been dancing with the Count — 
how dare you dance with a nobleman — 
youf 

Ger. I will answer that question half an 
hour hence. At present I have some- 
thing to propose, which I think will grat- 
ify you and please your guests. I have 
heard that at the most elegant balls in 
Paris, it is customary — 

Mrs. Tif. What? what? 

Ger. To station a servant at the door 
with a basket of flowers. A bouquet is 
then presented to every lady as she 
passes in — I prepared this basket a short 
time ago. As the company walk in to 
supper, might not the flowers be dis- 
tributed to advantage? 

Mrs. Tif. How distingue! You are a 
good creature, Gertrude — there, run and 
hand the bokettes to them yourself! 
You shall have the whole credit of the . 
thing. 

Ger. Caught in my own net! {Aside.) 
But, Madam, / know so little of fashions 
— Millinette, being French herself, will 
do it with so much more grace. I am 
sure Millinette — 

Mrs. Tif. So am I. She will do it a 
thousand times better than you^there 
go call- her. 

Ger. {Giving basket.) But, Madam, 
pray order Millinette not to leave her 
station till supper is ended — as the com- 
pany pass out of the supper room she 
may find that some of the ladies have 
been overlooked. 

Mrs. Tif. That is true — very thoughtful 
of you, Gertrude. {Exit Gertrude.) 
What a recherche idea! 

{Enter Millinette.) 

Here, Millinette, take this basket. Place 
yourself there, and distribute these bo- 



318 



FASHION 



kettes as the company i)ass in to supper; 
but remember not to stir from the spot 
until supper is over. It is a French 
fashion you know, Milhnette. I am so 
delighted to be the first to introduce it 
— it will be all the rage in the bow- 
monde! 
Mil. Mon Dieu! dis vill ruin all! 
(Aside.) Madame, Madame, let me tell 
you, Madame, dat in France, in Paris, 
it is de custom to present les bouquets 
ven every body first come — long before 
de supper. Dis vould be outre! barhare! 
not at all la mode! Ven dey do come 
in — dat is de fashion in Paris! 
Mrs. Tif. Dear me! Millinette, w4iat is 
the difference ? besides I 'd have you to 
know that Americans always improve 
upon French fashions ! here, take the bas- 
ket, and let me see that you do it in the 
most you-nick and genteel manner. 
(Millinette poutingly takes the bas- 
ket and retires up stage. A march. 
Curtain hung at the further end of 
the room is drawn back, and dis- 
closes a room, in the centre of which 
stands a supper table, beautifully 
decorated and illuminated; the com- 
pany promenade two by two into the 
supper room; Millinette presents 
bouquets as they pass; Count leads 
Mrs. Tiffany.) 
True. {Encountering Fogg, who is hurry- 
ing alone to the supper room.) Mr. 
Fogg, never mind the supper, man! 
Ha, ha, ha! Of course you are indif- 
ferent to suppers ! 
Fogg. Indifferent! suppers — oh, ah — no, 
Sir — suppers? no — no — I'm not indif- 
ferent to suppers! 

[Hurries away towards table.) 
True. Ha, ha, ha ! Here 's a new dis- 
covery I 've made in the fashionable 
world! Fashion don't permit the crit- 
ters to have heads or hearts, but it allows 
them stomachs! {To Tiffany, who ad- 
vances.) So it 's not fashionable to feel, 
but it 's fashionable to feed, eh, An- 
tony? ha, ha, ha! 

(Trueman and Tiffany retire to- 
wards supper room. Enter Ger- 
trude, followed by Zeke.) 
Ger. Zeke, go to the supper room in- 
stantly, — whisper to Count Jolimaitre 
that all is ready, and that he must keep 
his appointment without delay, — then 
watch him, and as he passes out of the 
room, place yourself in front of Milli- 
nette in such a manner, that the Count 



cannot see her nor she him. Be sure that 
they do not see each other — every thing 
depends upon that. {Crosses.) 

Zeke. Missey, consider dat business 
brought to a scientific conclusion. 

{Exit into supper room. Exit Ger- 
trude.) 
Pr*u. {Who has been listening.) What 
can she want of the Count? I always 
suspected that Gertrude, because she is 
so merry and busy! Mr. Trueman 
thinks so much of her too — I '11 tell him 
this ! There 's something wrong — but it 
all comes of giving a ball on a Friday! 
How astonished the dear old man will be 
w^ien he finds out how much I know! 
{Advances timidly towards the supper 
room.) 

Scene 2. Housekeeper's room; dark 
stage; table, two chairs. 

{Enter Gertrude, with a lighted candle in 
her hand.) 

Ger. So far the scheme prospers ! and yet 
this imprudence — if I fail? Fail! to 
lack courage in a difficulty, or ingenuity 
in a dilemma, are not woman's failings! 

{Enter Zeke, with a napkin over his arm, 
and a bottle of champagne in his hand.) 

Well, Zeke— Adolph! 

Zeke. Dat 's right, Missey ; I feels just 
now as if dat was my legitimate title ; dis 
here 's de stuff to make a nigger feel 
like a gemman! 

Ger. But he is coming? 

Zeke. He 's coming! {Sound of a cham- 
pagne cork heard.) Do you hear dat, 
Missey? Don't it put you all in a frothy 
and make you feel as light as a cork? 
Dere 's nothing like the union brand, to 
wake up de harmonies ob de heart. 

{Drinks from bottle.) 

Ger. Remember to keep watch upon the 
outside — do not stir from the spot ; when 
I call you, come in quickly with a light — 
now, will you be gone! 

Zeke. I 'm off, Missey, like a champagne 
cork wid de strings cut. {Exit.) 

Ger. I think I hear the Count's step. 
{Crosses, stage dark; she blows out can- 
dle.) Now if I can but disguise my 
voice, and make the best of my French. 

{Enter Count.) 

Count. Millinette, where are you? How 
am I to see you in the dark? 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



319 



Ger. {Imitating Millinette's voice in a 
whisper.) Hush! parle bas. 

Count. Come here and give me a kiss. 

Ger. Non — non — {retreating alarmed, 

Count follows) make haste, I must 
know all. 

Count. You did not use to be so deuced 
particular. 

Zeke. {Without.) No admission, gem- 
man ! Box office closed, tickets stopped ! 

True. {Witltout.) Out of my way; do 
you want me to try if your head is as 
hard as my stick? 

Ger. What shall I do? Ruined, ruined! 
{She stands with her hands clasped in 
speechless despair.) 

Count. Halloa! they are coming here, 
Millinette! Millinette, why don't you 
speak? Where can I hide myself? 
{Running about stage, feeling for a 
door.) Where are all your closets? If 
I could only get out — or get in some- 
where; may I be smothered in a clothes' 
basket, if you ever catch me in such a 
scrape again! {His hand accidentally 
touches the knob of a door opening into 
a closet. ) Fortune's favorite yet ! I 'm 
safe! 

{Gets into closet and closes door. 
Enter Prudence, Trueman, Mrs. 
Tiffany, and Colonel Howard, 
followed by Zeke, bearing a light; 
lights up.) 

Pru. Here they are, the Count and Ger- 
trude ! I told you so ! 

{Stops in surprise on seeing only Ger- 
trude.) 
True. And you see what a lie you told! 
Mrs. Tif. Prudence, how dare you create 
this disturbance in my house? To sus- 
pect the Count too — a nobleman! 
How. My sweet Gertrude, this foolish old 

woman would — 
Pru. Oh ! you need n't talk — I heard her 
make the appointment — I know he 's 
here — or he 's been here. I wonder if 
she has n't hid him away ! 

{Runs peeping about the room.) 
True. {Following her angrily.) You're 
what I call a confounded — troublesome 
— meddling — old — prying — {as he says 
the last word, Prudence opens closet 
where the Count is concealed.) Thun- 
der and lightning ! 
Pru. I told you so i 

{They all stand aghast; Mrs. Tiffany, 
with her hands lifted in surprise and 
anger; Trueman, clutching his stick; 



Howard, looking with an expression 
of bewildered horror from the 
Count to Gertrude.) 

Mrs. Tif. {Shaking her fist at Gf.rtrvd-e.) 
You depraved little minx! this is the 
meaning of your dancing with the Count ! 

Count. {Stepping from the closet and 
advancing.) I don't know v/hat to make 
of it! Millinette not here! Miss Ger- 
trude — oh ! I see— a disguise — the girl 's 
desperate about me — the way with them 
all. {Aside.) 

True. I *m choking — I can't speak — Ger- 
trude — no — no — it is some horrid mis- 
take! {Partly aside, changes his tone 
suddenly.) The villain! I'll hunt the 
truth out of him, if there 's any in — 
{crosses, approaches Count threaten- 
ingly) do you see this stick? You made 
its first acquaintance a few days ago; 
it is time you were better known to each 
other. 

{As Trueman attempts to seize him. 
Count escapes, and shields himself 
behind Mrs. Tiffany, Trueman fol- 
lowing.) 

Count. You ruffian! would you strike a 
woman ? — Madam — my dear Madam — 
keep off that barbarous old man, and I 
will explain! Madam, with — aw — your 
natural bon gout — aw — your fashionable 
refinement — aw — your — aw — ^-our knowl- 
edge of foreign customs — 

Mrs. Tif. Oh! Count, I hope it ain't a 
foreign custom for the nobility to shut 
themselves up in the dark with young 
women? We think such things dreadful 
in America. 

Count. Demme — aw — hear what I have 
to say. Madam — I '11 satisfy all sides — I 
am perfectly innocent in this affair — 
'pon my honor I am ! That young lady 
shall inform you. that I am so herself ! — 
can't help it, sorry for her. Old matter- 
of-fact won't be convinced any other 
way, — that club of his is so particularly 
unpleasant! {Aside.) Madam, I was 
summoned here malgre moi, and not 
knowing whom I was to meet — Miss 
Gertrude, favor the company by saying 
whether or not you directed — that — aw 
— aw — that colored individual to conduct 
me here? 

Ger. Sir, you well know — 

Count. A simple yes or no will suffice. 

Mrs. Tif. Answer the Count's question 
instantly. Miss. 

Ger. I did — but — 

Count. You hear, Madam — 



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True. I won't believe it — I can't! Here, 
you nigger, stop rolling up your eyes, 
and let us know whether she told you to 
bring that critter here"? 

Zeke. I 'se refuse to gib ebidence; dat 's 
de device ob de skilfullest counsels ob de 
day! -Can't answer, Boss — neber git a 
word out ob dis child — Yah! yah! 

(Exit.) 

Ger. Mrs. Tiffany, — Mr. Trueman, if you 
will but have patience — 

True. Patience ! Oh, Gertrude, you 've 
taken from an old man something better 
and dearer than his patience — the one 
bright hope of nineteen years of self- 
denial — of nineteen years of — 

{Throws himself upon a chair, his head 
leaning on table.) 

Mrs. Tip. Get out of my house, you ow- 
dacious — you ruined — you ahime young 
woman! You will corrupt all my fam- 
ily. Good gracious! don't touch me, — 
don't come near me. Never let me see 
your face after to-morrow. Pack. 

{Goes up.) 

How. Gertrude, I have striven to find 
some excuse for you — to doubt — to dis- 
believe — but this is beyond all endur- 
ance! {Exit.) 

{Enter Millinette in haste.) 

Mil. I could not come before — {Stops 
in surprise at seeing the persons assem- 
bled.) Mon Dieu! vat does dis mean? 

Count. Hold your tongue, fool! You 
will ruin everything, I will explain to- 
morrow. {Aside to her.) Mrs. Tiffany 
— Madam — my dear Madam, let me con- 
duct you back to the ball-room. {She 
takes his arm.) You see I am quite in- 
nocent in this matter; a man of my 
standing, you know, — aw, aw^ — you com- 
prehend the whole affair. 

{Exit Count leading Mrs. Tiffany.) 

Mil. I will say to him von vord, I will ! 

{Exit.) 

Ger. Mr. Trueman, I beseech you — I in- 
sist upon being heard, — I claim it as a 
right ! 

True. Right? How dare you have the 
face, girl, to talk of rights? {Comes 
down.) You had more rights than you 
thought for, but you have forfeited them 
all! All right to love, respect, protec- 
tion, and to not a little else that you don't 
dream of. Go, go ! I '11 start for Cat- 
teraugus to-morrow, — I Ve seen enough 
of what fashion can do! {Exit.) 

Pru. {Wiping her eyes.) Dear old man, 



how he takes on ! I '11 go and console 
him! [Exit.) 

Ger. This is too much! How heavy a 
penalty has my imprudence cost me! — 
his esteem, and that of one dearer — my 
home — my — {Burst of lively music 
from ball-room.) They are dancing, and 
I — I should be weeping, if pride had not 
sealed up my tears. 

{Slie sinks into a chair. Band plays 
the polka behind till Curtain falls.) 

end op act fourth. 



ACT FIFTH. 

Scene 1. Mrs. Tiffany's Drawing Room 
— same Scene as Act First. Gertrude 
seated at a table, with her head leaning 
on her hand; in the other hand she holds 
a pen. A sheet of paper and an ink- 
stand before her. 

Ger. How shalM write to them? What 
shall I say? Prevaricate I cannot — 
{rises and comes forward) and yet if I 
write the truth — simple souls! how can 
they comprehend the motives for my con- 
duct? Nay — the truly pure see no im- 
aginary evil in others! It is only vice, 
that reflecting its own image, suspects 
even the innocent. I have no time to 
lose — I must prepare them for my re- 
turn. {Resumes her seat and writes.) 
What a true pleasure there is in daring 
to be frank! {After writing a few lines 
more pauses.) Not so frank either, — 
there is one name that I cannot mention. 
Ah! that he should suspect — should 
despise me. {Writes.) 

{Enter Trueman.) 

True. There she is! If this girl's soul 
had only been as fair as her face, — yet 
she dared to speak the truth, — I '11 not 
forget that! A woman who refuses to 
tell a lie has one spark of heaven in her 
still. {Approaches Jier.) Gertrude, 

(Gertrude starts and looks up.) 
what are you writing there? Plotting 
more mischief, eh, girl? 

Ger. I was writing a few lines to some 
friends in Geneva. 

True. The Wilsons, eh? 

Ger. {Surprised, rising.) Are you ac- 
quainted with them, Sir? 

True. I shouldn't wonder if I was. I 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



321 



suppose you have taken good care not to 
mention the dark room — that foreign 
puppy in the closet — the pleasant sur- 
prise — and all that sort of thing, eh? 

Ger. I have no reason for concealment, 
Sir! for I have done nothing of which I 
am ashamed ! 

True. Then I can't say much for your 
modesty. 

Ger. I sliould not wish you to say more 
than I deserve. 

True. There's a bold minx! (Aside.) 

Ger. Since my affairs seem to have excited 
your interest — I will not say curiosity, 
perhaps you even feel a desire to inspect 
my correspondence? There, {handing 
the letter) I pride myself upon my good 
nature, — you may like to take advantage 
of it? 

True. With what an air she carries it off ! 
(Aside.) Take advantage of it? So I 
will. (Reads.) What's this? "French 
chambermaid — Count — impostor — infatu- 
ation — Seraphina — Millinette — disguised 
myself — expose him." Thunder and 
lightning! I see it all! Come and kiss 
me, girl! (Gertrude evinces surprise.) 
No, no — I forgot — it won't do to come 
to that yet ! She 's a rare girl ! I 'm 
out of my senses with joy! I don't 
know what to do with myself! Tol, de 
rol, de rol, de ra. (Capers and sings.) 

Ger. What a remarkable old man! 
(Aside.) Then you do me justice, Mr. 
Trueman ? 

True. I say I don't! Justice? You're 
above all dependence upon justice! 
Hurrah ! I 've found one true woman 
at last? True? (Pauses tJt ought fully.) 
Humph! I didn't think of that flaw! 
Plotting and manoeuvering — not much 
truth in that? An honest girl should be 
above stratagems ! 

Ger. But my motive, Sir, was good. 

True. That 's not enough — your actions 
must be good as well as your motives! 
Why could you not tell the silly girl 
that man was an impostor? 

Ger. I did inform her of my suspicions 
— she ridiculed them; the plan I chose 
was an imprudent one, but I could not 
devise — 

True. I hate devising! Give me a 
w^oman with the firmness to be frank! 
But no matter — I had no right to look 
for an angel out of Paradise; and I am 
as happ3^ — as happy as a Lord! that is, 
ten times happier than any Lord ever 
was! Tol, de rol, de rol! Oh! you — 



you — I '11 thrash every fellow that says 
a word against you ! 

Ger. You will have plenty of employment 
then. Sir, for I do not know of one just 
now who would speak in my favor! 

True. Not one, eh? Why, where 's your 
dear Mr. Twinkle? I know all about it 
— can't say that I admire your choice of 
a husband ! But there 's no accounting 
for a girl's taste. 

Ger. Mr. Twinkle ! Indeed you are quite 
mistaken ! 

True. No— really? Then you're not 
taken with him, eh? 

Ger. Not even with his rhymes. 

True. Hang that old mother meddle- 
much ! What a fool she has made of me. 
And so you 're quite free, and I may 
choose a husband for you myself? 
Heart-whole, eh? 

Ger. I — I — I trust there is nothing un- 
sound about my heart. 

True. There it is again. Don't prevari- 
cate, girl! I tell you an evasion is a lie 
in contemplation, and I hate lying! 
Out with the truth! Is vour heart free 
or not? 

Ger. Nay, Sir, since you demand an an- 
swer, permit me to demand by what right 
3^ou ask the question? 

(Enter Howard.) 

Colonel Howard here! 

True. I 'm out again ! What 's the Col- 
onel to her? (Retires up.) 

How. (Crosses to her.) I have come, 
Gertrude, to bid you farewell. To-mor- 
row I resign my commission and leave 
this city, perhaps for ever. You, Ger- 
trude, it is you who have exiled me! 
After last evening — 

True. (Coming forward to Howard.) 
What the plague have you got to say 
about last evening? 

How. Mr. Trueman! 

True. What have you got to say about 
last evening? and what have you to say 
to that little girl at all? It's Tiffany's 
precious daughter you 're in love with. 

How. Miss Tiffany? Never! I never 
had the slightest pretension — 

True. That lying old woman ! But I 'm 
glad of it! Oh! Ah! Um! (Look- 
ing significantly at Gertrude and then 
at Howard.) I see how it is. So you 
don't choose to marry Seraphina, eh? 
Well now, whom do you choose to marry? 
{Glancing at Gertrude.) 

How. I shall not marry at all! 



322 



FASHION 



True. You won't? {Looking at them 
hath again.) Why you don't mean to 
say that you don't like — 

{Points with his thumb to Gertrude.) 

Ger. Mr. Trueman, I may have been 
wrong to boast of my good nature, but 
do not presume too far upon it. 

How. You like frankness, Mr. Trueman, 
therefore I will speak plainly. I have 
long cherished a dream from which I 
was last night rudely awakened. 

True. And that *s what you call speaking 
plainly? Well, I differ with you! But 
I can guess what you mean. Last night 
you suspected Gertrude there of — {an- 
grily) of what no man shall ever sus- 
pect her again while I 'm above ground ! 
You did her injustice, — it was a mistake ! 
There, now that matter 's settled. Go, 
and ask her to forgive you, — she 's 
woman enough to do it! Go, go! 

How. Mr. Trueman, you have forgotten 
to whom you dictate. 

True. Then you won't do it? you won't 
ask her pardon? 

How. Most undoubtedly I will not — not 
at any man's bidding. I must first 
know — 

True. You won't do it? Then if I don't 
give you a lesson in politeness — 

How. It will be because you find me your 
tutor in the same science. I am not a 
man to brook an insult, Mr. Trueman! 
but we '11 not quarrel in presence of the 
lady. 

True. Won't we? I don't know that— 

Ger. Pray, Mr. Trueman — Colonel How- 
ward, pray desist, Mr. Trueman, for my 
sake! (Taking hold of his arm to hold 
him hack.) Colonel Howard, if you will 
read this letter it will explain everything. 
{Hands letter to Howard, who reads.) 

True. He don't deserve an explanation! 
Didn't I tell him that it was a mistake? 
Refuse to beg your pardon ! I '11 teach 
him, I '11 teach liim ! 

How. {After reading.) Gertrude, how 
have I wronged you! 

True. Oh, you'll beg her pardon now? 

{Between them.) 

How. Hers, Sir, and yours! Gertrude, 
I fear — 

True. You need n't, — she '11 forgive you. 
You don't know these women as well as 
I do, — they're always ready to pardon; 
it 's tlieir nature, and tliey can't help it. 
Come along, I left Antony and his wife 
in the dining room ; we '11 go and find 
them. I 've a story of my own to tell ! 



As for you, Colonel, you may follow. 
Come along. Come along! 

{Leads out Gertrude, followed by 
Howard. ) 

{Enter Mr. and Mrs. Tiffany, Mr. Tif- 
fany with a bundle of bills in his hand.) 

Mrs. Tif. I beg you won't mention the 
subject again, Mr. Tiffany. Nothing is 
more plebeian than a discussion upon 
economy — nothing more ungenteel than 
looking over and fretting over one's 
bills ! 

Tif. Then I suppose, my dear, it is quite 
as ungenteel to pay one's bills? 

Mrs. Tif. Certainly! I hear the ee-light 
never condescend to do anything of the 
kind. The honor of their invaluable 
patronage is sufficient for the persons 
they employ! 

Tif. Patronage then is a newly invented 
food upon w4iich the w^orking classes fat- 
ten? What convenient appetites poor 
people must have! Now listen to what 
I am going to say. As soon as my 
daughter marries Mr. Snobson — 

{Enter Prudence, a three-cornered note 
in her hand.) 

Pru. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall we 
do ! Such a misfortune ! Such a dis- 
aster! Oh, dear! oh, hear! 

Mrs. Tif. Prudence, you are the most tire- 
some creature! What is the matter? 

Pru. {Pacing up and down the stage.) 
Such a disgrace to the whole family! 
But I always expected it. Oh, dear! oh, 
dear! 

Mrs. Tif. {Following her up and down 
the stage.) What are you talking about, 
Prudence? Will you tell me what has^ 
happened? 

Pru. {Still pacing, Mrs. Tiffany fol- 
lowing.) Oh! I can't, I can't! You'll 
feel so dreadfully! How could she do 
such a thing! But I expected nothing 
else! I never did, I never did! 

Mrs. Tif. {Still following.) Good gra- 
cious! what do you mean. Prudence? 
Tell me, will you tell me? I shall get 
into such a passion! What is the mat- 
ter? 

Pru. {Still pacing.) Oh, Betsy, Betsy! 
That your daughter should have come to 
that ! Dear me, dear me ! 

Tif. Seraphina? Did you say Seraphina? 
What has happened to her? what has 
she done? 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



323 



{Following Prudence wp and down 
the stage on the opposite side from 
Mrs. Tiffany.) 

Mrs. Tif. [Still following.) What has 
she done? what has she clone? 

PRU. Oh! something dreadful — dreadful 
— shocking ! 

Tip. {Still following.) Speak quickly 
and plainly — you torture me by this de- 
lav, — Prudence, be calm, and speak! 
What is it? 

Pru. {Stopping.) Zeke just told nie — 
he carried her travelling trunk himself — 
she gave him a whole dollar! Oh, my! 

Tif. Her trunk? where? where? 

Pru. Round the corner! 

Mrs. Tif. What did she want with her 
trunk? You are the most vexatious 
creature. Prudence! There is no bear- 
ing your ridiculous conduct ! 

Pru. Oh, you will have worse to bear — 
worse ! Seraphina 's gone ! 

Tif. Gone! where? 

Pru. Off! — eloped — eloped with the 
Count! Dear me, dear me! I always 
told you she would ! 

Tif. Then I am ruined! 

{Stands with his face buried in his 
hands.) 

Mrs. Tif. Oh, what a ridiculous girl! 
And she might have had such a splendid 
wedding! What could have possessed 
her? 

Tif. The devil himself possessed her, for 
she has ruined me past all redemption! 
Gone, Prudence, did you say gone? Are 
you sure they are gone? 

Pru. Didn't I tell you so! Just look at 
this note — one might know by the very 
fold of it— 

Tif. {Snatching the note.) Let me see 
it! {Opens the note and reads.) "My 
dear Ma, — When you receive this I shall 
be a countess ! Is n't it a sweet title ? 
The Count and I were forced to be mar- 
ried privately, for reasons which I will 
explain in my next. You must pacify 
Pa, and put him in a good humour be- 
fore I come back, though now I 'm to 
be a countess I suppose I shouldn't 
care!" Undutiful huzzy! "We are go- 
ing to make a little excursion and will 
be back in a week 

"Your dutiful daughter — Seraphina." 
A man's curse is sure to spring up at 
his own hearth, — here is mine ! The sole 
curb upon that villain gone, I am wholly 
in his power! Oh! the first downward 
step from honor — he who takes it can- 



not pause in his mad descent and is sure 
to be hurried on to ruin! 
Mrs. Tif. Why, Mr. Tiffany, how you do 
take on! And I dare say to elope was 
the most fashionable way after all! 

{Enter Trueman, leading Gertrude, and 
followed hy Howard.) 

True. Where are all the folks? Here, 
Antony, you are the man I want. 
We 've been hunting for you all over the 
house. Why — what's the matter? 
There 's a face for a thriving city mer- 
chant ! Ah ! Antony, you never wore 
such a hang-dog look as that when you 
trotted about the country with your pack 
upon your back! Your shoulders are 
no broader now — but they 've a heavier 
load to carry — that 's plain ! 

Mrs. Tif. Mr, Trueman, such allusions 
are highly improper! What would my 
daughter, the Countess, say! 

Ger. The Countess? Oh! Madam! 

Mrs. Tif. Yes, the Countess ! My daugh- 
ter Seraphina, the Countess dee Joli- 
maitre! What have you to say to that? 
No wonder you are surprised after your 
recherche, ahime conduct! I have told 
you already. Miss Gertrude, that you 
were not a proper person to enjoy the 
inestimable advantages of my patron- 
age. You are dismissed — do you under- 
stand ? Discharged ! 

True. Have you done ? Very well, it 's 
my turn now. Antony, perhaps what I 
have to say don't concern you as much as 
some others — but I want you to listen to 
me. You remember, Antony, {his tone 
becomes serious), a blue-eyed, smiling 
girl— 

Tip. Your daughter. Sir? I remember 
her well. 

True. None ever saw her to forget her! 
Give me your hand, man. There — that 
will do ! Now let me go on. I never 
coveted wealth — yet twenty years ago I 
found myself the richest farmer in Cat- 
teraugus. This cursed money made my 
girl an object of speculation. Every idle 
fellow that wanted to feather his nest 
was sure to come courting Ruth. There 
was one — my heart misgave me the in- 
stant I laid eyes upon him — for he was a 
city chap, and not over fond of the 
truth. But Ruth — ah ! she was too pure 
herself to look for guile ! His fine words 
and hi^ fair looks — the old story — she 
was taken with him — I said, "no" — but 
the girl liked her own way better than 



324 



FASHION 



her old father's — girls always do! and 
one morning — the rascal robbed me — not 
of my money, he would have been wel- 
come to that — but of the only treasure I 
cherished — my daughter ! 
TiF. But you forgave her! 
True. I did! I knew she would never 
forgive herself — that was }3unishment 
enough! The scoundrel thought he was 
marr^dng my gold with my daughter — 
he was mistaken! I took care that they 
should never want; but that was all. 
She loved him — what will not woman 
love? The villain l)roke her heart — 
mine w^as tougher, or it would n't have 
stood what it did. A 3'ear after they 
were married, he forsook her! She came 
back to her old home — her old father! 
It could n't last long — she pined — and 
Joined — and — then — she died ! Don't think 
me an old fool — though I am one — for 
grieving won't bring her back. 

(Bursts into tears.) 

TiF. It was a heavy loss! 

True. So heavy, that I should not have 
cared how soon I followed her, but for 
the child she left! As I pressed that 
child in my arms, I swore that my un- 
lucky wealth should never curse it, as it 
had cursed its mother! It was all I had 
to love — but I sent it away — and the 
neighbors thought it was dead. The 
girl was brought up tenderly but hum- 
bly by my wdfe's relatives in Geneva. 
I had her taught true independence — 
she had hands — capacities — and should 
use them! Money should never buy her 
a husband! for I resolved not to claim 
her until she had made her choice, and 
found the man who was willing to take 
her for herself alone. She turned out a 
rare girl ! and it 's time her old grand- 
father claimed her. Here he is to do 
it! And there stands Ruth's child! 
Old Adam's heiress! Gertrude, Ger- 
trude! — my child! 

(Gertrude rushes into Ms arms.) 

Pru. (After a pause.) Do tell; I want 
to know ! But I knew it ! I always said 
Gertrude would turn out somebody, after 
all! 

Mrs. Tif. Dear me! Gertrude an heiress! 
My dear Gertrude, I always thought 
you a very charming girl — quite you- 
NiCK — an heiress! I must give her a 
ball ! I '11 introduce her into society my- 
self — of course an heiress must make a 
sensation! (Aside.) 

How. I am too bewildered even to wish 



her joy. Ah ! there will be plenty to do 
that now — but the gulf between us is 
wider than ever. (Aside.) 
True. Step forward, young man, and let 
us know what you are muttering about. 
I said I would never claim her until 
she had found the man who loved her 
for herself. I have claimed her — yet I 
never break my word — I think I have 
found that man! and here he is. 
(Strikes Howard on the shoulder.) 
Gertrude 's yours ! There — never say a 
word, man — don't bore me with your 
thanks — you can cancel all obligations 
by making that child happy! There — 
take her! — Well, girl, and what do you 
say? 

Ger. That I rejoice too much at having 
found a parent for my first act to be one 
of disobedience! 

(Gives her hand to Howard.) 

True. How very dutiful! and how disin- 
terested ! 

(Tiffany retires up — and paces the 
stage, exhibiting great agitation.) 

Pru. (To Trueman.) All the single 
folks are getting married! 

True. No they are not. You and I are 
single folks, and we 're not likely to get 
married. 

Mrs. Tip. My dear Mr. Trueman — my 
sweet Gertrude, when my daugliter, the 
Countess, returns, she will be delighted 
to hear of this deenooment! I assure 
you that the Countess will be quite 
charmed ! 

Ger. The Countess? Pray, Madam, 
where is Seraphina? 

Mrs. Tif. The Countess dee Jolimaitre, 
my dear, is at this moment on her way 
to — to Washington! Where after visit- 
ing all the fashionable curiosities of the 
day — including the President — she will 
return to grace her native city ! 

Ger. I hope you are only jesting, Madam? 
Seraphina is not married? 

Mrs. Tif. Excuse me, my dear, my daugh- 
ter had this morning the honor of being 
united to the Count dee Jolimaitre! 

Ger. Madam! He is an impostor! 

Mrs. Tif. Good gracious! Gertrude, how 
can you talk in that disrespectful way of 
a man of rank? An heiress, my dear, 
should have better manners! The 
Count — 

(Enter Millinette, crying.) 

Mil. Oh! Madame! I will tell everyting 
— oh ! dat monstre ! He break my heart ! 



ANNA CORA MOW ATT RITCHIE 



325 



Mrs. Tif. Millinette, what is the matter? 

Mil. Oh ! he promise to marry me — I love 
him much — and now Zeke say he run 
away vid Mademoiselle Seraphina! 

Mrs. Tif. What insolence! The girl is 
mad! Count Johmaitre marry my 
femmy de chamber! 

Mil. Oh! Madame, he is not one Count, 
not at all ! Dat is only de title he go by 
in dis country. De foreigners always 
take de large title ven dey do come here. 
His name a Paris vas Gustave Tread- 
mill. But he not one Frenchman at all, 
but he do live one long time a Paris. 
First he live vid Monsieur Vermicelle — 
dere he vas de head cook! Den he live 
vid Monsieur Tire-nez, de barber! 
After dat he live w^id Monsieur le 
Comte Frippon-fin — and dere he vas le 
Comte's valet! Dere, now I tell every- 
ting I feel one great deal better! 

Mrs. Tif. Oh! good gracious! I shall 
faint! Not a Count! What will every- 
body say ? It 's no such thing ! I say 
he is a Count! One can see the foreign 
jenny says quoi in his face ! Don't you 
think I can tell a Count when I see one ? 
I say he is a Count! 

(Enter Snobson, his hat on — his hands 
thrust in his pocket — evidently a little 
intoxicated. ) 

Snob. I won't stand it ! I say I won't ! 

Tif. (Rushing up to him.) Mr. Snob- 
son, for heaven's sake — (Aside.) 

Snob. Keep off ! I 'm a hard customer 
to get the better of! You'll see if I 
don't come out strong! 

True. (Quietly knocking off Snobsox's 
hat with his stick.) Where are your 
manners, man? 

Snob. My business ain't with you, Cat- 
teraugus ; you 've waked up the wrong 
passenger ! — Now the way I '11 put it 
into Tiff will be a caution. I '11 make 
him wince! That extra mint julep has 
put the true pluck in me. Now for it ! 
(Aside.) Mr. Tiffany, Sir — you needn't 
think to come over me, Sir — you '11 have 
to get up a little earlier in the morning 
before you do that, Sir! I'd like to 
know. Sir, how you came to assist your 
daughter in running away with that for- 
eign loafer? It was a downright swin- 
dle, Sir. After the conversation I and 
you had on that subject she was n't your 
property. Sir. 

True. What, Antony, is that the way 
your city clerk bullies his boss? 



Snob. You 're drunk, Catteraugus — don't 
expose your-splf — you 're drunk ! Taken 
a little too much toddy, my old boy! 
Be quiet ! I '11 look after you, and they 
won't find it out. If you want to be 
busy, you may take care of my hat — I 
feel so deuced weak in the chest, I don't 
think I could pick it up myself. — Now 
to put the screw J to Tiff. (Aside.) Mr. 
Tiffany, Sir — you have broken your 
word, as no virtuous individual — no hon- 
orable member — of — the — com — mu — ni 
-ty- 

Tif. Have some pity, Mr. Snobson, I be- 
seech you ! I had nothing to do with my 
daughter's elopement! I will agree to 
anything you desire — your salary shall 
be doubled — trebled — (Aside to him.) 

Snob. (Aloud.) No you don't. No brib- 
ery and corruption. 

Tif. I implore you to be silent. You 
shall become partner of the concern, if 
you please — only do not speak. You are 
not yourself at this moment. 

(Aside to him.) 

Snob. Ain't I, though? I feel twice my- 
self. I feel like two Snobsons rolled 
into one, and I 'm chock full of the 
spunk of a dozen! Now Mr. Tiffany, 
Sir — 

Tif. I shall go distracted! Mr. Snobson, 

if you have one spark of manly feeling — 

(Aside to him.) 

True. Antony, why do you stand disput- 
ing with that drunken jackass? 
Where 's your nigger? Let him kick the 
critter out, and be of use for once in his 
life. 

Snob. Better be quiet, Catteraugus. This 
ain't your hash, so keep your spoon out 
of the dish. Don't expose yourself, old 
boy. 

True. Turn him out, Antony! 

Snob. He daren't do it! Ain't I up to 
him? Ain't he in my power? Can't I 
knock him into a cocked hat with a 
word ? And now he 's got my steam up 
— I will do it! 

Tif. (Beseechingly.) Mr. Snobson — my 
friend — 

Snob. It 's no go — steam 's up — and I 
don't stand at anything! 

True. You won't stand here long unless 
you mend your manners — 3'OU 're not tiie 
first man I 've upset because he did n't 
know his place. 

Snob. I know where Tiff's place is, and 
that 's in the States' Prison! It 's be- 
spoke already. He would have it ! He 



326 



FASHION 



would n't take pattern of me, and behave 
like a gentleman! He's a forger, Sir! 
(Tiffany throws himself into a chair in 
an attitude of despair; the others stand 
transfixed with astonishment.) He's 
been forging Dick Anderson's endorse- 
ments of his notes these ten months. 
He 's got a couple in the bank that will 
send him to the wall anyhow — if he can't 
make a raise. I took them there myself ! 
Now you know what he 's worth. I said 
I 'd expose him, and I have done it ! 
Mrs. Tif. Get out of the house! You 
ugly, little, drunken brute, get out! 
It 's not true. Mr. Trueman, put him 
out; you have got a stick — put him out! 

{Enter Seraphina, in her bonnet and 
shawl — a parasol in her hand.) 

Sera. I hope Zeke hasn't delivered my 
note. 

{Stops in surprise at seeing the per- 
sons assembled.) 

Mrs. Tif. Oh, here is the Countess! 

{Advances to embrace her.) 

Tif. {Starting from his seat, and seizing 
Serafhina violently by the arm.) Are 
— you — married ? 

Sera. Goodness, Pa, how you frighten 
me ! No, I 'm not married, quite. 

Tif. Thank heaven. 

Mrs. Tif. {Drawing Seraphina aside.) 
What 's the matter ? Why did you come 
back? 

Sera. The clergyman was n't at home — 
I came back for my jewels — the Count 
said nobility couldn't get on without 
them. 

Tif. I may be saved yet! Seraphina, my 
child, you will not see me disgraced — 
ruined! I have been a kind father to 
you — at least I have tried to be one — 
although your mother's extravagance 
made a madman of me! The Count is 
an impostor — you seemed to like him — 
{pointing to Snobson). Heaven forgive 
me! {Aside.) Marry him and save 
me. You, Mr. Trueman, you will be my 
friend in this hour of extreme need — 
you will advance the sum which I re- 
quire — I pledge myself to return it. 
My wife — my child — who will support 
them were I — the thought makes me 
frantic! You will aid me? You had a 
child yourself. 

True. But I did not sell her — it was her 
own doings. Shame on you, Antony! 
Put a price on your own flesh and blood ! 
\ Shame on such foul traffic! 



Tif. Save me — I conjure you — for my 
father's sake. 

True. For your father's son's sake I 
will not aid you in becoming a greater 
villain than you are! 

Ger. Mr. Trueman — Father, I should say 
— save him — do not embitter our happi- 
ness by permitting this calamity to fal'^ 
upon another — 

True. Enough — I did not need your 
voice, child. I am going to settle this 
matter my own way. 

{Goes up to Snobson — who has seated 
himself and fallen asleep — tilts him 
out of the chair.) 

Snob. {Waking up.) Eh? Where 's the 
fire ? Oh ! it 's you, Catteraugus. 

True. If I comprehend aright, you have 
been for some time aware of your prin- 
cipal's forgeries? 

{As he says this, he beckons to How- 
ard, who advances as witness.) 

Snob. You 've hit the nail, Catteraugus ! 
Old chap saw that I was up to him six 
months ago; left off throwing dust into 
my eyes — 

True. Oh, he did! 

Snob. Made no bones of forging Ander- 
son's name at my elbow. 

True. Forged at your elbow? You saw 
him do it? 

Snob. I did. 

True. Repeatedly. 

Snob. Re — pea — ted — ly. 

True. Then you. Rattlesnake, if he goes 
to the States' Prison, you'll take up 
your quarters there too. You are an ac- 
complice, an accessory! 

(Trueman walks away and seats him- 
self, Howard rejoins Gertrude. 
Snobson stands for some time be- 
wildered.) 

Snob. The deuce, so I am! I never 
thought of that! t must make myself 
scarce. I'll be off! Tif, I say, Tif! 
{Going up to him and speaking confi- 
dentially) that drunken old rip has got 
us in his power. Let 's give him the slip 
and be off. They want men of genius 
at the West, — we 're sure to get on ! 
You — you can set up for a writing mas- 
ter, and teach copying signatures ; and 
I — I'll give lectures on temperance! 
You won't come, eh? Then I'm off 
without you. Good bye, Catteraugus! 
Which is the way to California? 

{Steals off.) 

True. There 's one debt your city owes 
me. And now let us see what other nui^ 



ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 



327 



sances we can abate. Antony, I 'm not 
given to preaching, therefore I shall not 
say much about what you have done. 
Your face speaks for itself, — the crime 
has brought its punishment along with 
it. 

TiF. Indeed it has, Sir! In one year I 
have lived a century of misery. 

True. I believe you, and upon one con- 
dition I will assist you — 

TiF. My friend — my first, ever kind 
friend, — only name it! 

Teue. You must sell your house and all 
these gew gaws, and bundle your wife 
and daughter off to the country. There 
let them learn economy, true independ- 
ence, and home virtues, instead of for- 
eign follies. As for yourself, continue 
your business — but let moderation, in fu- 
ture, be your counsellor, and let hon- 
esty be your confidential clerk. 

TiF. Mr. Trueman, you have made exist- 
ence once more precious to me! My 
wife and daughter shall quit the city to- 
morrow, and — 

Pru. It 's all coming right ! It 's all 
coming right ! We '11 go to the county 
of Catteraugus. 

{Walking up to Trueman.) 

True. No, you won't, — I make that a 
stipulation, Antony; keep clear of Cat- 
teraugus. None of your fashionable ex- 
amples there! 

(Jolimaitre appears in the Conserva- 
tory and peeps into the room un- 
perceived.) 

Count. What can detain Seraphina? 
We ought to be off ! 

Mil. (Turns rounds perceives him, runs 
and forces him into the room.) Here 
he is! Ah, Gustave, mon cher Gustave! 
I have you now and we never part no 
more. Don't frown, Gustave, don't 
frown — 

True. Come forward, Mr. Count! and 
for the edification of fashionable society 
confess that you 're an impostor. 

Count. An impostor? Why, you abomi- 
nable old — 

True. Oh, your feminine friend has told 
us all about it, the cook — the valet — bar- 
ber and all that sort of thing. Come, 
confess, and something may be done for 
you. 

Count. Well, then, I do confess I am no 
count; but really, ladies and gentlemen, 
I may recommend myself as the most 
capital cook. 

Mrs. Tif. Oh, Seraphina! 



Sera. Oh, Ma ! 

{TKey embrace and retire up.) 

True. Promise me to call upon the whole 
circle of your fashionable acquaintances 
with your own advertisements and in 
your cook's attire, and I will set you up 
in business to-morrow. Better turn 
stomachs than turn heads! 

Mil. But you will marry me? 

Count. Give us your hand, Millinette! 
Sir, command me for the most delicate 
pate — the daintiest croquette a la royale 
— the most transcendent omelette soufflee 
that ever issued from a French pastry- 
cook's oven. I hope you will pardon 
my conduct, but I heard that in America, 
where you pay homage to titles while 
you profess to scorn them — where Fash- 
ion makes the basest coin current — 
where you have no kings, no princes, no 
nobility — 

True. Stop there! I object to your use 
of that word. When justice is found 
only among lawyers — health among 
physicians — and patriotism among poli- 
ticians, then may you say that there is 
no nobility where there are no titles! 
But we have kings, princes, and nobles 
in abundance — of Nature's stamp, if not 
of Fashion's, — we have honest men, 
warm hearted and brave, and we have 
women — gentle, fair, and true, to whom 
no title could add nobility. 



EPILOGUE. 



Pru. I told you so! And now you hear 
and see. 
I told you Fashion would the fashion be ! 

True. Then both its point and moral I 
distrust. 

Count. Sir, is that liberal? 

How. ., Or is it just? 

True. The guilty have escaped! 

Tif. Is, therefore, sin 

Made charming ? Ah ! there 's punish- 
ment within! 
Guilt ever carries his own scourge along. 

Ger. Virtue her own reward ! 

True. You 're right, I 'm wrong. 

Mrs. Tif. How we have been deceived! 

Pru. I told you so. 

Sera. To lose at once a title and a beau! 

Count. A count no more, I 'm no more 
of account. 

True. But to a nobler title you may 
mount, 



328 



FASHION 



And be in time — who knows? — an hon- 
est man! 
Count. Eh, Millinette ? 
Mil. Oh, out — I know you can ! 

Ger. (To audience.) But ere we close 
the scene, a word with you, — 
We charge you answer, — Is this picture 
true? 



Some little mercy to our efforts show, 

Then let the world your honest verdict 
know. 

Here let it see portrayed its ruling pas- 
sion. 

And learn to prize at its just value — 
Fashion. 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 

BY 

George Henry Boker 



Reprinted from the original autograph manuscripts 
through the courtesy of Mrs. George Boker. 



FEANCESCA DA RIMINI 

Francesca da Binmii marks the climax of romantic tragedy in this country. 
It illustrates also the tendency to lay. the scenes of romantic plays in Italy, Spain, 
or France; our playwrights feeling apparently that the removal of the scene of 
such plays from their native land was an essential. With Boker, however, the 
choice was based on broader lines and was justified by his real understanding 
of the characters and their story. 

George Henry Boker was born in Philadelphia, October 6, 1823, coming from 
a well established family, and graduating from Princeton College in 1842. He 
studied law but never practised it, and after marriage and some foreign travel, 
devoted his entire attention to his literary w^ork. His first publication. The 
Lesson of Life and other Poems (1848), consisted of lyric and ethical verse, and 
except for the sonnets gave no indication of his later ability. He next published 
Galaynos, his first play, in 1848. This was played wdthout his permission being 
asked, by Samuel Phelps, at the Sadlers Wells Theatre in London on May 10, 

1849, and was successful. It was first performed in this country by James E. 
Murdoch at the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, January 20, 1851, run- 
ning for nine nights, and was several times played in Chicago, Albany,- and 
Baltimore. E. L. Davenport appeared as "Calaynos" at the Walnut Street 
Theatre in April, 1855. In this first tragedy, Boker showed where his strength 
lay, that is in the representation of strong passion in verse. Galaynos is based 
on the dislike of the Spaniard for ]\Ioorish blood, and in a masterly way he rep- 
resented the pride of race on both sides that resulted inevitably in disaster. 

Anne Boleyn, his next play, w^as intended for the stage, but was not acted. 
It was published in 1850, and there are evidences that Charlotte Cushman was 
considering it, at one time. The Betrothal was first played at the Walnut Street 
Theatre, Philadelphia, on September 25, 1850, where it ran for ten nights, 
according to Durang, "with as brilliant success as ever greeted any production 
within the w^alls of the edifice." It w^as played in New York, November 18, 

1850, and had two successful runs, and was put on in London in 1853. The 
Betrothal is a romantic comedy in verse, concerned with the rescue of Costanza 
di Tiburzzi from the proposed marriage to Marzio, a rich merchant, who has her 
father in his power. It is a distinct advance over Galaynos and Anne Boleyn 
in dramatic effectiveness. 

The World a Mash, a prose comedy, with occasional passages in blank verse, 
was played for eight nights at the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, begin- 

331 



332 INTRODUCTION 



ning April 21, 1851. The scene is laid in London in 1851 and the plot is one 
of intrigue with an accompaniment of social satire. It was never printed and 
exists to-day in manuscript. It is not one of Boker's strong plays. 

The Widoiv's Marriage, written in 1852, was accepted by Marshall, the man- 
ager of the Walnut Street Theatre, but as he was unable to find a proper actress 
to take the leading part of "Lady Goldstraw," the play was not acted. It is 
a comedy, in blank verse, laid in England at the time of George II, the plot 
being concerned with a trick played upon a vain old widow by which she is 
cured of her foolishness. 

Leonor de Guzman, his next play, was a tragedy based on Spanish history, of 
the time of Alphonso XII of Castile, whose mistress, Leonor, is the heroine. 
The hatred of Queen Maria for her rival and her revenge are the main motives 
of the play, which is a pow^erful one. It was first played at the Walnut Street 
Theatre on Monday, October 3, 1853, Avith Julia Dean as "Leonor." It was 
successful both in Philadelphia and New York, where it was put on at the Broad- 
way Theatre, April 24, 1854. 

Francesca da Bimini was played for the first time at the Broadway Theatre, 
New York, September 26, 1855, continuing till October 5th. E. L. Davenport 
acted "Lanciotto," Mme. Ponisi, "Francesca," and M. Lanergan, "Paolo," 
If was well received, but its great vogue came later w^hen it was revived by Law- 
rence Barrett at Haverly's Theatre, Philadelphia, September 14, 1882, Mr. Bar- 
rett playing "Lanciotto," Mr. Otis Skinner, "Paolo," and Miss Marie Wain- 
wright, "Francesca." Mr. Barrett played this part for several years. On 
August 22, 1901, i\Ir. Otis Skinner revived the play at the Grand Opera House, 
Chicago, Mr. Skinner playing "Lanciotto," Mr. Aubrey Boucicault playing 
' ' Paolo, ' ' and Miss IMarcia Van Dresser,- ' ' Francesca. ' ' It was played throughout 
the winter during the season of 1901-02. 

Of all American plays written before the Civil War Francesca da Rimini 
shows the most vitality. This has been due partly to the lofty conception of 
Lanciotto 's character, the sympathetic interpretation of the medieval woman in 
Francesca, and the noble expression in a blank verse that has rarely been 
excelled in English. But in addition to these literary qualities, the strength of 
Francesca da Rimini lies in its qualities as an acting play. It has never been 
put on the stage as it is printed. The printed version represents Boker's best 
judgment of the form in which it should be read, but in 1853 an acting version 
was prepared by Boker, and in 1882 another version was made by ]\Ir. Barrett. 
In preparing the present text, the printed version, checked by the original auto- 
graph manuscript, has been taken as the basis. In indicating how the play was 
actually performed, the acting version of 1853 has been taken as the standard. 
When in this version lines have been omitted, these have been indicated by 
brackets of this character <> and insertions are shown by square brackets. 



INTRODUCTION 333 



Certain changes in entire scenes have been indicated in the notes. To have in- 
dicated also all the changes made in the acting version of 1882 would have led to 
confusion, but some of the most important alterations have been mentioned in 
the notes. The acting version was corrected by Boker so that "Paolo'* should 
be pronounced as two syllables. These corrections have been followed, but in 
those portions of the play which were omitted on the stage, Boker made no 
corrections. There are in consequence certain inconsistencies in the text so far 
as the pronunciation of this word is concerned but the editor has naturally left 
the lines as Boker wrote them. 

Franccsca was the last of Boker 's plays to be actually performed. There is 
an autograph manuscript of a play, The Bankrupt, dated 1853, which is a prose 
melodrama, laid apparently in Philadelphia in 1850, and which is the poorest 
of all the plays. Konigsniark, published in 1869 but written probably before 
1857, is a closet play laid in Hanover in 1694. In 1885 and 1886, encouraged 
by the revival of Francesca da Bimini, Boker wrote two plays on the same theme, 
Nydia and Glaucus. They were written probably for Mr. Barrett, though they 
were never played, and are based on the Last Days of Pompeii of Bulwer. They 
are, however, entirely original in expression and contain some of the best verse 
that Boker wrote. 

Boker 's public career was a distinguished one. From 1871 to 1875 he was 
Minister to Turkey and from 1875 to 1878 Minister to Russia. He took an 
active part on the Union side during the war, his poetry, such as ''The Black 
Regiment" and the "Dirge for a Soldier" being representative. He died in 
Philadelphia, January 2, 1890. 

Boker 's plays and poems were published in two volumes in 1856 and were 
reprinted in 1857, 1883, and 1891. This collected edition contains Calaynos, 
Anne Boleyn, Leonor de Guzman, Francesca da Rimini, The Betrothal, and The 
Widow's Marriage. Koningsmark was published in 1869 and Francesca da 
Rimini has been republished in a popular edition. The other plays exist in 
manuscript in the possession of Mrs. George Boker of Philadelphia, to whose 
courtesy the editor is indebted for an opportunity to collate the manuscripts. 
Among these manuscripts is included biographical material and information 
concerning the plays on which this introduction is based. An interesting con- 
temporary criticism by Charles Godfrey Leland is to be found in Sartain's 
Magazine, Vol. YIII (1851), pp. 369-78. See also R. H. Stoddard, George Henry 
Boker, Lippincott's Magazine, Vol. XLV (1890), p. 856; C. G. Leland, George 
Henry Boker, The American, Vol. XIX (1890), p. 392; E. P. Oberholtzer, The 
Literary History of Philadelphia, Philadelphia, 1906, and A. H. Quinn, The 
Dramas of George Henry Boker, Publications of the Modern Language Associa- 
tion of America, Vol. XXXII, No. 2 (1917). 





















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FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1.^ Bimini. The Garden of^ the 
Palace. Paolo and a number of noble- 
men are discovered, seated under an ar- 
bor, surrounded by Rene and other 
Troubadours, and attendants. 

Paolo. I prithee, Rene, charm our ears 
again 
With the same song you sang me yester- 
day. 
Here are fresh listeners. 
Rene. Really, my good lord, 

My voice is out of joint. A grievous 
cold — ( Coughs. ) 

Paolo. A very grievous, but convenient 
cold, 
Which always racks you when you would 
not sing. 
'Rene. O, no, my lord! Besides, I hoped 
to hear 
My ditty warbled into fairer ears. 
By your own lips ; to better purpose, too. 
{The Noblemen all laugh.) 
<FiRST Nobleman. Rene has hit it. 
Music runs to waste 
In ears like ours. 
Second Nobleman. Nay, nay; chaunt on, 

sweet Count. 
Paolo. {Coughing.) Alack! you hear, 

I 've caught poor Rene's cough. 
First N. That would not be, if we wore 
petticoats. {The others laugh.) 

Paolo. 0, fie! 

First N. So runs the scandal to our ears. 
Second N. Confirmed by all our other 

senses. Count. 
First N. Witnessed by many a doleful 
sigh, poured out 
By many a breaking heart in Rimini. 
Second N. Poor girls! 
First N. {Mimicking a lady.) Sweet 
Count ! sweet Count Paolo ! ! 
Plant early violets upon my grave! 
Thus go a thousand voices to one tune. 
{The others laugh.) 

1 In the acting version of 1853 the play begins 
with Act Second, Scene One. and there is a note 
in Boker's hand, directing that when Lanciotto 
is the prominent part, the whole of that scene is 
to be omitted, and the play is to begin a« in the 
present reading version. 



Paolo. 'Ods mercy ! gentlemen, you do me 

wrong. 
First N. And by how many hundred, more 

or less? 
Paolo. Ah ! rogues, you 'd shift your sins 

upon my shoulders. 
Second N. You 'd bear them stoutly. 
First N. It were vain to give 

Drops to god Neptune. You 're the sea 

of love 
That swallows all things. 
Second N. We the little fish 

That meanly scull about within your 
depths. 
Paolo. Go on, go on! Talk yourselves 
fairly out. 

(Pepe laughs without.)'^ 
But, hark! here comes the fool! Fit 

company 
For this most noble company of wits ! 

{Enter Pepe, laughing violently.) 

Why do you laugh? 

Pepe. I 'm laughing at the world. 

It has laughed long enough at me ; and so 
I '11 turn the tables. Ho ! ho ! ho ! I 've 

heard 
A better joke of Uncle Malatesta's 
Than any I e'er uttered. {Laughing.) 

All. Tell it, fool. 

Pepe. Why, do you know — upon my life, 
the best 
And most original idea on earth: 
A joke to put in practice, too. By Jove ! 
I '11 bet my wit 'gainst the stupidity 
Of the best gentlemen among you all. 
You cannot guess it. 



All. 


Tell us, tell us, fool. 


Pepe. 


Guess it, guess it, fools. 


Paolo 


Come, disclose, disclose! 


Pepe. 


He has a match afoot. — 


All. 


A match! 


Pepe. 


A marriage. 


All. 


Who?— who? 


Pepe. 


A marriage in his family. 


All. 


But, who? 


Pepe. 


Ah ! there 's the point. 


All. 


[Count] Paolo? 


Pepe. 


No. 


First 


N. The others are well wived. 




Shall we turn Turks? 



335 



336 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Pepe. Why, there 's the summit of his 
joke, good sirs. 

By all the sacred symbols of my art — 

By cap and bauble, by my tinkling bell — 

He means to marry Lanciotto ! 

{Laughs violently.) 
All. (Laughing.) Ho! — 
Paolo. Peace! peace! What tongue dare 
echo yon fool's laugh? 

Nay, never raise your hands in wonder- 
ment; 

I '11 strike the dearest friend among ye 
all 

Beneath my feet, as if he were a slave, 

Who dares insult my brother with a 
laugh ! ^ 
<Pepe. By Jove ! ye 're sad enough. 
Here 's mirth's quick cure ! 

Pretty Paolo has a heavy fist, 

I warn you, sirs. Ho ! ho ! I trapped 
them all; (Laughing.) 

Now I '11 go mar old Malatesta's mes- 
sage. (Aside.) (Exit.) 
Paolo. Shame on ye, sirs! I have mis- 
taken you. 

I thought I harboured better friends. 
Poor fops. 

Who 've slept in down and satin all your 
years. 

Within the circle Lanciotto charmed 

Round Rimini with his most potent 
sword ! — 

Fellows whose brows would melt beneath 
a casque, 

Whose hands would fray to grasp a 
brand's rough hilt. 

Who ne'er launched more than braggart 
threats at foes! — 

Girlish companions of luxurious girls! 

Danglers round troubadours and wine- 
cups ! — Men 

"WTiose best parts are their clothes! bun- 
dles of silk. 

Scented like summer! rag-men, nothing 
more ! — 

Creatures as generous as monkeys — 
brave 

As hunted hares — courteous as grinning 
apes — 

1 In the acting versions, the following lines, in 
Boker's hand, are here substituted for the lines 
enclosed in brackets < >. 

All. Pardon, my lord ! 
Paolo. (With a troubled air.) Oh, par- 
don ^s easily said. 

But do you credit if? 
Rene. Almost. The jests 

Of impish Pepe seldom fail in truth. 



Grateful as serpents — useful as lap- 
dogs — 
(During this, the Noblemen steal off.) 
By heaven, I am alone! So let me be. 
Till Lanciotto fill the vacant room 
Of these mean knaves, whose friendship 
is but breath. (Exit.)^ 

Scene 2. The Same. A Hall in the 
Castle. 

(Enter Malatesta and Lanciotto.) 

Malatesta. Guido, ay, Guido of Ravenna, 

son — 
Down on his knees, as full of abject 

prayers 
For peace and mercy as a penitent. 
Lanciotto. His old trick, father. While 

his wearied arm 
Is raised in seeming prayer, it only rests. 
Anon, he '11 deal you such a staggering 

blow. 
With its recovered strength, as shall con- 
vert 
You, and not him, into a penitent. 
Mal. No, no; your last bout leveled him. 

He reeled, 
Into Ravenna, from the battle-field. 
Like a stripped drunkard, and there 

headlong fell — 
<A mass of squalid misery, a thing 
To draw the jeering urchins. I have 

this _ 
From faithful spies. There 's not a hope 

remains 
To break the shock of his great over- 
throw. > 
I pity Guido. 
Lan. 'S death! go comfort him! 

I pity those who fought, and bled, and^ 

died. 
Before the armies of this Ghibelin. 
I pity those who halted home with wounds 
Dealt by his hand. I pity widowed eyes 
That he set running; maiden hearts that 

turn, 
Sick with despair, from ranks thinned 

down by him; 

Paolo. Forgive me my hot temper, gen- 
tlemen, 
I must seek Lanciotto. This strange 

news. 
If true may bring a blessing or a curse ! 
Let us walk on. How fair the morning 
is! 
(Exit thoughtfully, the others follow- 
ing.) 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



337 



Mothers that shriek, as the last stragglers 
flmg 

Their feverish bodies by the fountain- 
side, 

Dumb with mere thirst, and faintly point 
to him, 

Answering the dame's quick questions. 
1 have seen 

Unburied bones, and skulls — that seemed 
to ask. 

From their blank eye-holes, vengeance at 
my hand — 

Shine in the moonlight on old battle- 
tields ; 

And even these — the happy dead, my 
lord— 

I pity more than Guido of Ravenna! 
Mal. What would you have"? 
Lan. I 'd see Ravenna burn, 

Flame into heaven, and scorch the flying 
clouds ; 

I 'd choke her streets with ruined palaces ; 

I 'd hear her women scream with fear 
and grief. 

As I have heard the maids of Rimini. 

All this I 'd sprinkle with old Guido's 
blood. 

And bless the baptism. 
Mal. You are cruel. 

Lan. Not I; 

But these things ache within my fretting 
brain. 

The sight I first beheld was from the 
arms 

Of my wild nurse, her husband hacked 
to death 

By the fierce edges of these Ghibelins. 

One cut across the neck — I see it now. 

Ay, and have mimicked it a thousand 
times, 

Just as I saw it, on our enemies. — 

"Why, that cut seemed as if it meant to 
bleed 

On till the judgement. My distracted 
nurse 

Stooped down, and paddled in the run- 
ning gore 

With her poor fingers ; then a prophetess. 

Pale with the inspiration of the god, 

She towered aloft, and with her drip- 
ping hand 

Three times she signed me with the holy 
cross. 

'T is all as plain as noon-day. Thus she 
spake, — 

"May this spot stand till Guido's dearest 
blood 

Be mingled with thy own !" The sol- 
diers say, 



In the close battle, when my wrath is up, 
The dead 'man's blood flames on my 

vengeful brow 
Like a red planet ; and when war is o'er, 
It shrinks into my brain, defiling all 
My better nature w^ith its slaughterous 

lusts. 
Howe'er it be, it shaped my earliest 

thought, 
And it will shape my last. 
Mal. You moody churl! 

You dismal knot of superstitious dreams ! 
<Do you not blush to empty such a head 
Before a sober man ? Why, son, the 

world 
Has not given o'er its laughing humour 

yet. 

That you should try it with such vaga- 
ries. — Poh !> 
I'll get a wife to teach you common 

sense. 
Lan. a wife for me! (LaugJiing.) 

Mal. Ay, sir, a wife for you. 

<You shall be married, to insure your 

wits.> 
Lan". 'T is not your wont to mock me. 
Mal. <How now, son ! 

I am not given to jesting.> I have 

chosen 
The fairest wife in Italy for you. 
<You won her bravely, as a soldier 

should : 
And when you 'd woo her, stretch your 

gauntlet out 
And crush her fingers in its steely grip.> 
If you will plead, I w^een, she dare not 

say— 
'^^f by your leave. < Should she refuse, 

howe'er. 
With that same iron hand you shall go 

knock 
Upon Ravenna's gates, till all the town 
Ring with your courtship. > I have 

made her hand 
The price and pledge of Guido's future 

peace. 
Lan. All this is done ! 
Mal. Done, out of hand; and now 

I wait a formal answer, nothing more. 
<Guido dare not decline. No, by the 

saints, 
He'd send Ravenna's virgins here in 

droves. 
To buy a ten days' truce. 
Lan". Sir, let me say. 

You stretch paternal privilege too far. 
To pledge my hand without my own con- 
sent. 
Am I a portion of your household stuff, 



338 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



That you should trade me off to Guido 
thus'?> 

Who is the lady I am bartered for"? 
Mal. Franeesea, Guido's daughter. — 
Never frown; 

It shall be so! 
Lan. By heaven, it shall not be ! 

My blood shall never mingle with his race. 
Mal. According to your nurse's prophecy, 

Fate orders it. 
LAN. Ha! 

Mal. Now, then, I have struck 

The chord that answ^ers to your gloomy 
thoughts. 

Bah ! on your sibyl and her prophecy ! 

<Put Guido's blood aside, and yet, I say, 

Marry you shall. 
Lan. 'T is most distasteful, sir.> 

Mal. Lanciotto, look ye ! You brave gen- 
tlemen, 

So fond of knocking out poor people's 
brains. 

In time must come to have your own 
knocked out: 

What, then, if you bequeath us no new 
hands. 

To carry on your business, and our house 

Die out for lack of princes'? 
Lan. Wed my brothers : 

They '11 rear you sons, I '11 slay you 
enemies. 

Paolo and [fair] Franeesea! Note their 
names; 

They chime together like sweet marriage- 
bells. 

A proper match. 'T is said she 's beau- 
tiful; 

And he is the delight of Rimini, — 

The pride and conscious centre of all 
eyes. 

The theme of poets, the ideal of art, 

The earthly treasury of Heaven's best 
gifts ! 

I am a soldier ; from my very birth. 

Heaven cut me out for terror, not for 
love. 

<I had such fancies once, but now — > 
Mal. Pshaw! son, 

<My faith is bound to Guido; and if 
you 

Do not throw off your duty, and defy, 

Through sickly scruples, my express 
commands. 

You '11 yield at once.> No more : I '11 

have it so! {Exit.) 

Lan. Curses upon my destiny ! What, I — 

Ho! I have found my use at last — 
What. I. (Laughing.) 

Ij the great twisted monster of the wars, 



The brawny cripple, the herculean dwarf, 

The spur of panic, and the butt of 
scorn — 

I be a bridegroom! Heaven, was I not 
cursed 

More than enough, when thou didst fash- 
ion me 

To be a type of ugliness, — a thing 

By whose comparison all Rimini 

Holds itself beautiful ? Lo ! here I stand, 

A gnarled, blighted trunk! There's not 
a knave 

So spindle-shanked, so wry-faced, so in- 
firm, 

Who looks at me, and smiles not on him- 
self. 

<And I have friends to pity me — great 
Heaven ! 

One has a favorite leg that he bewails, — 

Another sees my hip with doleful 
plaints, — 

A third is sorry o'er my huge swart 
arms, — 

A fourth aspires to mount my very 
hump, 

And thence harangue his weeping broth- 
erhood !> 

Pah ! it is nauseous ! Must I further 
bear 

The sidelong shuddering glances of a 
wife*? 

The degradation of a showy love. 

That over-acts, and proves the mummer's 
craft 

Untouched by nature ■? And a fair wife, 
too!— 

Franeesea, whom the minstrels sing 
about ! 

<Though, by my side, what woman were 
not fair? 

Circe looked well among her swine, no 
doubt ; 

Next me, she 'd pass for Venus. Ho ! 
ho! ho! {Laughing.) 

Would there were something merry in my 
laugh !> 

Now, in the battle, if a Ghibelin 

Cry, "Wry-hip ! hunchback !" I can tram- 
ple him 

Under my stallion's hoofs ; or haggle him 

Into a monstrous likeness of myself : 

But to be pitied, — to endure a sting 

Thrust in by kindness, with a sort of 
smile ! — 

'S death ! it is miserable ! 

{Enter Pepe.) 

Pepe. My lord — 

Lan. My fool! 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



339 



Pepe. We'll change our titles when your 
bride's bells ring — 
<Ha, cousin? 
IjAn. Even this poor fool has eyes, 

To see the wretched plight in which 1 
stand. (Aside.) 

How, gossip, howf 
Pepe. I, being the court-fool, 

Am lord of fools by my prerogative.> 
Lan. Who told you of my marriage •? 
Pepe. Rimini ! 

A frightful liar; but true for once, I 

fear. 
The messenger from Guido has returned, 
And the whole town is wailing over him. 
Some pity you, and some the bride ; but I, 
Being more catholic, I pity both. 
Lan. Still, pity, pity! {Aside. Bells 

toll.) Ha! whose knell is that? 
Pepe. Lord Malatesta sent me to the 
tower. 
To have the bells rung for your mar- 
riage-news. 
How, he said not ; so I, as I thought fit. 
Told the deaf sexton to ring out a knell. 

{Bells toll.) 
How do you like if? 
Lan. Varlet, have you bones, 

To risk their breaking ? I have half a mind 
To thrash you from your motley coat! 

{Seizes him.) 

Pepe. Pardee ! 

Respect my coxcomb, cousin. Hark! ha, 

ha! {Laughing.) 

{Bells ring a joyful peal.) 

Some one has changed my music. 

Heaven defend! 
How the bells jangle! Yonder gray- 
beard, now, 
Rings a peal vilely. <He 's more used 

to knells, 
And sounds them grandlj^> Only give 

him time, 
And, I '11 be sworn, he '11 ring your knell 
out yet. 
<Lax. Pepe, you are but half a fool. 
Pepe. My lord, 

I can return the compliment in full. 
Lan. So, you are ready. 
Pepe. truth is always so.> 

Lan. I shook you rudely; here's a florin. 

{Offers money.) 
Pepe. No : 

My wit is merchandise, but not my hon- 
our. 
Lan. Your honour, sirrah ! 
Pepe. Why not? You great lords 

Have something you call lordly honour; 
pray. 



May not a fool have foolish honour too ? 
Cousin, you laid your hand upon my 

coat — 
'T was the first sacrilege it ever knew — 
And you shall pay it. Mark! I promise 

you. 
Laist. {Laughing.) Ha, ha! you bluster 

well. Upon my life. 
You have the tilt-yard jargon to a breath. 
Pepe, if I should smite you on the 

cheek — 
Thus, gossip, thus — (Strikes him) what 

would you then demand? 
Pepe. Your life! 
Lan". (Laughing). Ha, ha! there is tht, 

camp-style, too — 
A very cut-throat air! How this shrewd 

fool 
Makes the punctilio of honor show! 
Change helmets into coxcombs, swords to 

baubles, 
And what a figure is poor chivalry ! 
Thanks for your lesson, Pepe. (Exit.) 
Pepe. Ere I 'm done, 

You'll curse as heartily, you limping 

beast ! 
<Ha! so we go — Lord Lanciotto, look! 
(Walks ah out J mimicking him.) 
Here is a leg and camel-back, forsooth, 
To match your honour and nobility! 
You miscreated scarecrow, dare you 

shake, 
Or strike in jest, a natural man' like 

me?— 
You cursed lump, you chaos of a man. 
To buffet one whom Heaven pronounces 

good!> (Bells ring.) 

There go the bells rejoicing over you : 
I'll change them back to the old knell 

again. 
You marry, faugh! Beget a race of 

elves ; 
Wed a she-crocodile, and keep within 
The limits of your nature ! Here we go, 
Tripping along to meet our promised 

bride. 
Like a rheumatic elephant! — ha, ha! 

(Laughing.) 
(Exit J mimicking Lanciotto.) 



Scene 3.i Tht 



Same. A Boom in the 
Same. 



1 There was no scene change in the acting ver- 
sion. There is a clash of arms indicated without 
and Lanciotto begins his speech 

Was that a signal, made by heaven itself 
To warn my soul against this coming 
marriage? 



340 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



{Enter Lanciotto, hastily.) 

Lanciotto. <Wliy do these prodigies en- 
viron me? 
In ancient Rome, the words a fool might 

drop, 
From the confusion of his vagrant 

thoughts. 
Were held as omens, prophecies; and 

men 
Who made earth tremble with majestic 

deeds. 
Trembled themselves at fortune's lightest 

threat. > 
I like it not. My father named this 

match 
While I boiled over with vindictive 

wrath 
Towards Guido and Ravenna. Straight 

my heart 
Sank down like lead; a w^eakness seized 

on me, 
A dismal gloom that I could not resist; 
I lacked the power to take my stand, and 

say — 
Bluntly, I will not ! <Am I in the toils? 
Has fate so weakened me, to work its 

end? 
There seems a fascination in it, too, — 
A morbid craving to pursue a thing 
Whose issue may be fatal. > Would 

that I 
Were in the wars again! These mental 

weeds 
Grow on the surface of inactive peace. 
I 'm haunted by myself. Thought preys 

on thought. 
My mind seems crowded in the hideous 

mould 
That shaped my body. What a fool am I 
To bear the burden of my wretched life, 
To sweat and toil under the world's 

broad eye, 
Climb into fame, and find myself — 0, 

what ?— 
A most conspicuous monster ! Crown my 

head, 
Pile Ca3sar's pariDle on me — and what 

then? 
My hump shall shorten the imperial robe, 
<My leg peep out beneath the scanty 

hem. 
My broken hip shall twist the gown 

awry;> 
And pomp, instead of dignifying me, 
Shall be by me made quite ridiculous. 
The faintest cowaa^d would not bear all 

this: 
Prodigious courage must be mine, to live; 



To die asks nothing but weak will,i <and 

Feel like a craven. Let me skulk away 
Ere life o'ertask me. 

{Offers to stab himself. )'> 

{Enter Paolo.) 

Paolo. {Seizing his hand.) Brother! 

what is this? 
Lanciotto, are you mad? Kind Heaven!' 

look here — 
Straight in my eyes. Now answer, do^ 

you know 
How near you were to murder? Dare^ 

you bend 
Your wicked hand against a heart I love f 
Were it for you to mourn your wilful 

death. 
With such a bitterness as would be ours. 
The wish would ne'er have crossed you. 

<While we 're bound 
Life into life, a chain of loving hearts, 
Were it not base in you, the middle link, 
To snap, and scatter all?> Shame, 

brother, shame! 
<I thought you better metal.> 
Lan. [Nay, Paolo, you mistake, 

I did but think upon Death's sweet relief; 
I dare not practise it. But spare your 

words.] 
I know the seasons of our human grief, 
And can predict them without almanac. 
A few sobs o'er the body, and a few 
Over the coffin ; then a sigh or two. 
Whose windy passage dries the hanging 

tear; 
Perchance, some wandering memories, 

some regrets; 
Then a vast influx of consoling 

thoughts — 
Based on the trials of the sadder days 
Which the dead missed; and then a smil- 
ing face 
Turned on to-morrow. Such is mortal 

grief. 
It writes its histories within a span. 
And never lives to read them. 
Paolo. Lanciotto, 

I heard the bells of Rimini, just now, 
Exulting o'er your coming marriage-day, 

1 In the acting version of 1853 these lines are 
insei'ted here. 

{Draws and gazes upon his dagger.) 
What floods 
Of joy might enter through the wound. 

thou 'dst give 
Had I but hardihood. 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



341 



<While you conspire to teach them 

gloomier sounds. > 
Why are you sad 1 
Lan. [Sad] Paolo, I am wretched; 

Sad 's a faint word. But of my mar- 
riage-bells — 
Heard you the knell that Pepe rang? 
Paolo. 'T was strange : 

<A sullen antic of his crabbed wit.> 
Lan. It was portentous. All dumb things 

find tongues 
Against this marriage. As I passed the 

hall, 
My armour glittered on the wall, and I 
Paused by the harness, as before a friend 
Whose well-known features slack our 

hurried gait; 
Francesca's name was fresh upon my 

mind. 
So I half-uttered it. Instant, my sword 
Leaped from its scabbard, as with sud- 
den life. 
Plunged down and pierced into the oaken 

floor, 
Shivering with fear ! Lo ! while I gazed 

upon it — 
Doubting the nature of the accident — 
Around the point appeared a spot of 

blood. 
Oozing upon the floor, that spread and 

spread — 
As I stood gasping by in speechless hor- 
ror — 
Ring beyond ring, until the odious tide 
Crawled to my feet, and lapped them, 

like the tongues 
Of angry serpents! <0, my God! I 

fled 
At the first touch of the infernal stain !> 
Go — you may see — go to the hall! 
<Paolo. Fie! man. 

You have been ever played on in this 

sort 
By your wild fancies. When your heart 

is hio-h. 
You make them playthings; but in lower 

moods. 
They seem to sap the essence of your 

soul. 
And drain your manhood to its poorest 

dregs. 
Lan. Go look, go look !> 
Paolo. {Goes to the door, and returns.) 
There sticks the sword, indeed, 
Just as your tread detached it from its 

sheath ; 
Looking more like a blessed cross, I think, 
Than a bad omen. As for blood — Ha, 

ha! {Laughing.) 



It sets mine dancing. Pshaw ! away with 

this! ' 
Deck up your face with smiles. Go trim 

yourself 
For the young bride. New velvet, gold, 

and gems. 
Do wonders for us. Brother, come ; I '11 

be 
Your tiring-man, for once. 
Lan. Array this lump — 

Paolo, bark! There are some human 

thoughts 
Best left imprisoned in the aching heart. 
Lest the freed malefactors should dis- 

pread 
Infamous ruin with their liberty. 
There 's not a man — the fairest of ye 

all— 
Who is not fouler than he seems. This 

life 
Is one unending struggle to conceal 
Our baseness from our fellows. Here 

stands one 
In vestal whiteness w^ith a lecher's lust ; — 
There sits a judge, holding law's scales 

in hands 
That itch to take the bribe he dare not 

touch ; — 
Here goes a priest with heavenward eyes, 

whose soul 
Is Satan's council-chamber; — there a doc- 
tor. 
With nature's secrets wrinkled round a 

brow 
Guilty with conscious ignorance; — and 

here 
A soldier rivals Hector's bloody deeds — 
Out-does the devil in audacity — 
With craven longings fluttering in a 

heart 
That dares do aught but fly! Thus are 

we all 
Mere slaves and alms-men to a scornful 

world, 
That takes us at our seeming. 
Paolo. Say 'tis true; 

What do you drive at? 
Lan. At myself, full tilt. 

I, like the others, am not what I seem. 
Men call me gentle, courteous, brave. — 

They lie! 
I'm harsh, riade, and a coward. Had I 

nerve 
To cast my devils out upon the earth, 
I 'd show this laughing planet what a 

hell 
Of envy, malice, cruelty, and scorn, 
It has forced back to canker in the heart 
Of one poor cripple ! 



342 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Paolo. <Ha!> [Cripple!] 

Lan. Ay, now 't is out ! 

A word I never breathed to man before. 

Can you, who are a miracle of grace, 

Feel what it is to be a wreck like me"? 

Paolo, look at me. Is there a line, 

In my whole bulk of wretched contraries, 

That nature in a ni^^htmare ever used 

Upon her shapes till now? Find me the 
man. 

Or beast, or tree, or rock, or nameless 
thing. 

So out of harmony with all things else, 

And I '11 go raving with bare happi- 
ness, — 

Ay, and I '11 marry Helena of Greece, 

And swear I do her honor ! 
<Paolo. Lanciotto, 

I, who have known you from a stripling 
up, 

Never observed, or, if I did, ne'er 
weighed 

Your special difference from the rest of 
men. 

You 're not Apollo — 
Lan". No ! 

Paolo. Nor yet are you 

A second Pluto. Could I change with 
you — 

My graces for your nobler qualities — 

Your strength, your courage, your re- 
nown — by heaven. 

We'd e'en change persons, to the finest 
hair. 
Lan. You should be flatterer to an em- 
peror. 
Paolo. I am but just.> Let me beseech 
you, brother, 

To look with greater favor on yourself; 

<Nor suffer misty phantoms of your 
brain 

To take the place of sound realities> 

Go to Ravenna, wed your bride, and lull 

Your cruel delusions in domestic peace. 

<Ghosts fly a fireside : 't is their wont to 
stalk 

Through empty houses, and through 
empty hearts. 

I know Francesca will be proud of you. 

Women admire you heroes. Rusty sages. 

Pale poets, and scarred warriors, have 
been 

Their idols ever; while we fair plump 
fools 

Are elbowed to the wall, or only used 

For vacant pastime. > 
Lan. To Ravenna f — no! 

In Rimini they know me; at Ravenna 

I 'd be a new-come monster, and exposed 



To curious wonder. <There will be pa- 
rade 
Of all the usual follies of the state; 
Fellows with trumpets, tinselled coats, 

and wands, 
Would strut before me, like vain mounte- 
banks 
Before their monkeys. Then, I should be 

stared 
Out of my modesty ;> and when they 

look. 
How can I tell if 'tis the bridegroom's 

face 
Or hump that draws their eyes'? I will 

not go. 
To please you all, I'll marry; but to 

please 
The wonder-mongers of Ravenna — Ha! 
[Dear] Paolo, now I have it. You shall 

go, 
To bring Francesca ; and you '11 speak of 

me, 
Not as I ought to be, but as I am. 
If she draw backward, give her rein ; and 

say_ 
That neither Guido nor herself shall feel 
The weight of my displeasure. You may 

say, 
I pity her — 
Paolo. For what? 

Lan. For wedding me. 

In sooth, she '11 need it. Say — 
Paolo. Nay, Lanciotto, 

I '11 be a better orator in your behalf, 
Without your promptings. 
Lan. She is fair, 't is said ; 

And, [my] dear Paolo, if she please your 

eye. 
And move your heart to anything like 

love. 
Wed her yourself. The peace would 

stand as firm 
By such a match. 
Paolo. (Laughing.) Ha ! that is right : 

be gay ! 
Ply me with jokes ! I 'd rather see you 

smile 
Than see the sun shine. 
Lan. I am serious, 

I '11 find another wife, less beautiful. 
More on my level, and — 
Paolo. An empress, brother. 

Were honoured by your hand. You are 

by much 
Too humble in your reckoning of your- 
self. 
I can count virtues in you, to supply 
Half Italy, if they were parcelled out. 
Look up ! 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



343 



Lan. I cannot : Heaven has bent me down. 
[But] to you, Paolo, I could look, how- 



ever. 
Were my hump made a mountain. Bless 

him, God! 
Pour everlasting bounties on his head! 
<Make Croesus jealous of his treasury, 
Achilles of his arms, Endymion 
Of his fresh beauties, — though the coy 

one lay 
Blushing beneath Diana's earliest kiss,. 
On grassy Latmos; and may every good, 
Beyond man's sight, though in the ken 

of heaven, > 
Round his fair fortune to a perfect end ! 
0, you have dried the sorrow of my eyes ; 
My heart is beating with a lighter pulse ; 
The air is musical; the total earth 
Puts on new beauty, and within the arms 
Of girdling ocean dreams her time away. 
And visions bright to-morrows! 

(Enter Malatesta and Pepe.) 

Malatesta. Mount, to horse ! 

<Pepe. (Aside.) Good Lord! he's smil- 
ing ! What 's the matter now ? 
Has anybody broken a leg or back'? 
Has a more monstrous monster come to 

life? 
Is hell burst open? — heaven burnt up? 

What, what 
Can make yon eyesore grin? — I say, my 

lord. 
What cow has calved? 
Paolo. |Your mother, by the bleat. 

Pepe. Right fairly answered — for a gen- 
tleman ! 
When did you take my trade up ? 
Paolo. When your wit 

Went begging, sirrah. 
Pepe. Well again ! My lord, 

I think he '11 do. 
Mal. For what? 

Pepe. To take my place. 

Once fools were rare, and then my office 

sped; 
But now the world is overrun with them : 
One gets one's fool in one's own family, 
Without much searching. 
Mal. Pepe, gently now.> 

Lanciotto, you are waited for. The train 
Has passed the gate, and halted there for 
you. 
Lan. I go not to Ravenna. 
Mal. Hey ! why not ? 

Paolo. For weighty reasons, father. 
Will you trust 
Your greatest captain, hope of all the 
Guelfs, 



With crafty Guido? Should the Ghibe- 

lins 
Break faith, and shut Lanciotto in their 

walls — 
Sure the temptation would be great 

enough — 
What would you do? 
Mal. I 'd eat Ravenna up ! 

Pepe. Lord! what an appetite! 
Paolo. But Lanciotto 

Would be a precious hostage. 
Mal. True ; you 're wise ; 

Guido 's a fox. Well, have it your own 

way. 
What is your plan ? 
Paolo. I go there in his place. 

Mal. Good! I will send a letter with the 

news. 
Lan. I thank you, brother. 

(Apart to Paolo.) 
Pepe. Ha ! ha ! ha !— ! ! (Laughing.) 
Mal. Pepe, what now? 
Pepe. 0! lord, 0!— ho! ho! ho! 

(Laughing.) 
< Paolo. Well, giggler? 
Pepe. Hear my fable, uncle. 

Mal. Ay. 

Pepe. Once on a time, Vulcan sent Mer- 
cury 
To fetch dame Venus from a romp in 

heaven. 
Well, they were long in coming, as he 

thought ; 
And so the god of spits and gridirons 
Railed like himself — the devil. But — 

now mark — 
Here comes the moral. In a little while, 
Vulcan grew proud, because he saw plain 

signs 
That he should be a father; and so he 
Strutted through hell, and pushed the 

devils by. 
Like a magnifico of Venice. Ere long. 
His heir was born; but then — ho! ho! — 

the brat 
Had wings upon his heels, and thievish 

ways, 
And a vile squint, like errant Mer- 
cury's, 
Which honest Vulcan could not under- 
stand ; — 
Can you ?> 
Paolo. 'S death! fool, I'll have 

you in the stocks. 
Father, your fool exceeds his privilege. 
Pepe. (Apart to Paolo.) Keep your 
own bounds, <Paolo. In the stocks 
I 'd tell more fables than you 'd wish to 
hear. 



344 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



And so ride forth. > But, cousin, don't 

forget 
To take Laneiotto's picture to the bride. 
Ask her to choose between it and your- 
self. 
I '11 count the moments, while she hesi- 
tates. 
And not grow gray at it. 
<Paolo. Peace, varlet, peace! 

Pepe. {Apart to him.) Ah, now I have 
it. There 's an elephant 
Upon the scutcheon; show her that, and 

say- 
Here 's Lanciotto in our heraldry !> 
Paolo. Here 's for your counsel ! 

{Strikes Pepe, who runs behind Mala- 

TESTA.) 

Mal. Son, son, have a care! 

We who keep pets must bear their peeks 

sometimes. 

Poor knave ! Ha ! ha ! thou 'rt growing 

villainous. (Laugh and pats Pepe.) 

Pepe. Another blow! another life for 

that! {Aside.) 

Paolo. Farewell, Lanciotto. You are 

dull again. 
Lax. Nature will rule. 
Mal.. Come, come! 

Lan. God speed you, brother ! 

I am too sad; my smiles all turn to 
sighs. 
Paolo. More cause to haste me on my 
happy work. 

{Exit with Malatesta.) 
Pepe. I 'm going, cousin. 
Lan. Go. 

Pepe. Pray, ask me where. 

Lax. Where, then? 

Pepe. To have my jewel carried home : 

And, as I 'm wise, the carrier shall be 
A thief, a thief, by Jove ! The fashion 's 
new. ( Exit. ) 

Lan". In truth, I am too gloomy and ir- 
rational. 
[And] Paolo must be ridit. I always 

had 
These moody hours and dark presenti- 
ments. 
Without mischances following after 

them. 
The camp is my abode. A neighing 

steed, 
A fiery onset, and a stubborn fight. 
Rouse my dull blood, and tire my body 

down 
To quiet slumbers when the day is o'er. 
And night above me spreads her span- 
gled tent, 
Lit by the dying cresset of the moon. 



Ay, that is it ; I 'm homesick for the 
camp. {Exit.) 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. Ravenna. A Room in Guido's 
Palace. 

{Enter Guido and a Cardinal.) 

Cardinal. I warn thee, Count. 
Guido. I '11 take the warning, father, 

On one condition : show me but a way 
For safe escape. 
Car. I cannot. 

GuL There's the point. 

<We Ghibelins are fettered hand and 

foot. 
There 's not a florin in my treasury ; 
Not a lame soldier, I can lead to war; 
Not one to man the walls. A present 

siege. 
Pushed with the wonted heat of Lanci- 
otto, 
Would deal Ravenna such a mortal blow 
As ages could not mend. Give me but 

time 
To fill the drained arteries of the land.> 
The Guelfs are masters, we their slaves; 

<and we 
Were wiser to confess it, ere the lash 
Teach it too sternly.> It is well <for 

you> 
To say you love Francesca. So do I ; 
But neither you nor I have any voice 
For or against this marriage. 
Car. 'T is too true. 

GuL Say we refuse: Why, then, before 
a week, 
We'll hear Lanciotto rapping at our 

door. 
With twenty hundred ruffians at his 

back. 
What 's to say then '? My lord, we waste 

our breath. 
<Let us look fortune in the face, and 

draw 
Such comfort from the wanton as we 
may.> 
Car. And yet I fear — 
GuL You fear! and so do I. 

I fear Lanciotto as a soldier, though. 
More than a son-in-law\ 
Car. But have you seen him? 

Gui. Ay, ay, and felt him, too. I 've seen 
him ride 
The best battalions of my horse and foot 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



345 



Down like mere stubble: I have seen his 

sword 
Hollow a square of pikemen, with the 

ease 
You 'd scoop a melon out. 
Car. Report declares him 

A prodigy of strength and ugliness. 
Gui. Were he the devil — But why talk of 
this*?— 
Here comes Francesea. 
<Car. Ah, unhappy chiM! 

Gui. Look you, my lord ! you '11 make the 
best of it; 
You will not whimper.> Add your 

voice to mine, 
Or woe to poor Ravenna ! 

(Enter Francesca and Ritta.) 

Francesca. Ha! my lord — 

And you, my father! — But do I intrude 
Upon your counsels? How severe you 

look! 
Shall I retire'? 
Gui. No, no. 

<Fran. You moody men 

Seem leagued against me. As I passed 

the hall, 
I met your solemn Dante, with huge 

strides 
Pacing in measure to his stately verse. 
The sweeping sleeves of his broad scarlet 

robe 
Blew out behind, like wide-expanded 

wings. 
And seemed to buoy him in his level 

flight. 
Thinking to pass, without disturbing him, 
I stole on tip-toe ; but the poet paused, 
Subsiding into man, and steadily 
Bent on my face the lustre of his eyes. 
Then, taking both my trembling hands 

in his — 
You know how his God-troubled fore- 
head awes — 
He looked into my eyes, and shook his 

head. 
As if he dared not speak of what he saw ; 
Then muttered, sighed, and slowly turned 

away 
The weight of his intolerable brow. 
When I glanced back, I saw him, as 

before. 
Sailing adown the hall on out-spread 

wings. 
Indeed, my lord, he should not do these 

things : 
They strain the weakness of mortality 
A jot too far. As for poor Ritta, she 
Fled like a doe, the truant. 



Yes, forsooth: 
terrible about the 



Ritta. 

There 's something 
man. 

Ugh! if he touched me, I should turn to 
ice.> ^ 

I wonder if Count Lanciotto looks — 
Gui. Ritta, come here. {Takes her apart.) 
RiT. My lord. 

Gui. 'T was my command. 

You should say nothing of Count Lan- 
ciotto. 
RiT. Nothing, my lord. 
Gui. You have said nothing, then'? 

RiT. Indeed, my lord. 
Gui. 'T is well. Some years ago, 

My daughter had a very silly maid, 

Who told her sillier stories. So, one 

This maiden whispered something I for- 
bade— 
In strictest confidence, for she was sly: 
What happened, think you*? 
RiT. I know not, my lord. 

Gui. I boiled her in a pot. 
RiT. Good heaven! my lord. 

Gui. She did not like it. I shall keep 
that pot 
Ready for the next boiling. 

(Walks hack to the others.) 

RiT. Saints above! 

I wonder if he ate her! Boil me — me! 

I '11 roast or stew with pleasure ; but to 

boil 
Implies a want of tenderness, — or rather 
A downright toughness — in the matter 

boiled. 
That's slanderous to a maiden. What, 

boil me — 
Boil me ! ! mercy, how ridiculous ! 

(Retires, laughing.) 

K (Enter a Messenger.) 

Messenger. Letters, my lord, from great 

Prince Malatesta. 

(Presents them, and exit.) 
Gui. (Aside.) Hear him, ye gods! — ■ 

''from great Prince Malatesta!" 

1 In place of the above speech, the acting 
version continues Guide's speech as follows: 

We spoke of you, 
Francesca, your betrothed is on the way : 
Perhaps, even now, he 's riding toward 

Ravenna. 
Count Lanciotto is not used to wait, 
And looks to find you in your fairest 

trim. 
I have his father's hand to this effect. 



346 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Greeting, no doubt, his little cousin 

Guido. 
Well, well, just so we see-saw up and 
down. {Beads.) 

"Fearing our treachery/' — by heaven, 

that 's blunt. 
And Malatesta-like ! — "he will not send 
His son, Lanciotto, to Ravenna, hut" — 
But what? — a groom, a porter*? or will 

he 
Have his prey sent him in an iron 

cage? 
By Jove, he shall not have her ! ! 

no, no; 
"He sends his younger son, the Count 

Paolo, 
To fetch Francesca hack to Rimini." 
That 's well, if he had left his reasons 

out. 
And, in a postscript — by the saints, 't is 

droll !— 
" 'T would not he icorth your lordship's 

while, to shut 
Paolo in a prison; for, my lord, 
I'll only pay his ransom in plain steel: 
Besides, he 's not worth having." Is 

there one. 
Save this ignoble offshoot of the Goths, 
Who 'd write such garbage to a gentle- 
man? 
Take that, and read it. 

{Gives letter to Cardinal.) 
Car. I have done the most. 

She seems suspicious. 
Gui. Ritta's work. 

Car. Farewell! {Exit.) 

Fran. Father, you seem distempered. 
Gui. No, my child, 

I am but vexed. Your husband 's on the 

road. 
Close to Ravenna. What 's the time of 
day? 
Fran. Past noon, my lord. 
Gui. We must be stirring, then.> 

Fran. I do not like this marriage. 
Gui. But I do. 

Fran. But I do not. Poh! to be given 
away. 
Like a fine horse or falcon, to a man 
Whose face I never saw ! 
RiT. That 's it, my lady. 

Gui. Ritta, <run down, and see if my 
great pot 
Boils to your liking.> 
RiT. <{ Aside.) 0! that pot again !> 

My lord, my heart betrays me; but you 

know 
How true 'tis to my lady {Exit.) 

Fran. What ails Ritta? 



Gui. The ailing of your sex, a running 
tongue. 

Francesca, 'tis too late to beat retreat. 

Old Malatesta has me — you, too, child — 

Safe in his clutch. <If you are not 
content, 

I must unclose Ravenna, and allow 

His son to take you.> Poh, poh! have 
a soul 

Equal with your estate. A prince's child 

Cannot choose husbands. Her desires 
must aim, 

Not at herself, but at the public good. 

<Both as your prince and father, I com- 
mand; 

As subject and good daughter, you'll 
obey. 
Fran. I knew that it must be my des- 
tiny. 

Some day, to give my hand w^ithout my 
heart ; 

But— 
Gui. But, and I will butt you back 
again ! 

When Guido da Polenta says to you, 

Daughter, you must be married, — what 
were best? 
Fran. 'T were best Francesca, of the self- 
same name. 

Made herself bridal-garments. 

{Laughing.) 
Gui. Right ! ' 

Fran. My lord,> 

Is Lanciotto handsome — ugly — fair — 

Black — sallow — crabbed — kind — or what 
is he? 
Gui. <You '11 know ere long. I could not 
alter him, 

To please your taste.> 
Fran. You always put me off; 

You never have a whisper in his prais^. 
Gui. The world reports it. — Count my sol- 
diers' scars. 

And you may sum Lanciotto's glories 
up. 
Fran. I shall be dutiful, to please you, 
father. 

<If aught befall me through my blind 
submission, 

Though I may suffer, you must bear the 
sin. 

Beware, my lord, for your own peace of 
mind!> 

My part has been obedience ; and now 

I play it over to complete my task ; 

And it shall be with smiles upon my 
lips,— 

Heaven only knows with what a sinking 
heart ! {Exeunt. ) 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



347 



Scene 2. The Same. Before the Gates of 
the City. The walls hung with banners 
and flowers, and crowded ivith citizens. 
At the side of the scene is a canopied 
dais, with chairs of state upon it. 
Music, bells, shouts, and other sounds of 
rejoicing, are occasionally heard. 

{Enter Guido, the Cakdinal, Noblemen, 
Knights, Guards, with banners and 
arms.) 

Guido. My lord, I'll have it so. You 

talk in vain. 
Paolo is a marvel in his way : 
I 've seen him often. If Franeesca take 
A fancy to his beauty, all the better; 
For she may think that he and Laneiotto 
Are like as blossoms of one parent 

branch. 
<In truth, they are, so far as features 

go- 
Heaven help the rest! Get her to 

Rimini, 
By any means, and I shall be content.> 
The fraud cannot last long; but long 

enough 
To win her favor to the family. 
<Cardixal. 'T is a dull trick. Thou hast 

not dealt with her 
Wisely nor kindly, and I dread the end 
If, when this marriage was enjoined on 

thee, 
Thou hadst informed Franeesca of the 

truth, 
And said, now, daughter, choose between 
Thy peace and all Ravenna's; who that 

knows 
The constant nature of her noble heart 
Could doubt the issue ? There 'd have 

been some tears. 
Some frightful fancies of her husband's 

looks ; 
And then she'd calmly walk up to her 

fate. 
And bear it bravely. Afterwards, per- 
chance, 
Laneiotto might prove better than her 

fears, — 
No one denies him many an excellence, — 
And all go happily. But, as thou 

wouldst plot. 
She '11 be prepared to see a paragon. 
And find a satyr. It is dangerous. 
Treachery with enemies is bad enough, 
AVith friends 't is fatal. 
Gui. Has your lordship done'? 

Car. Never, Count Guido, with so good a 

text. 



Do not stand looking sideways at the 

truth; ^ 
Craft has become thy nature. Go to her. 
Gui. I have not heart. 
Car. I have. (Going.) 

Go. Hold, Cardinal! 

My plan is better. Get her off my hands. 
And I care not. 
Car. What will she say of thee. 

In Rimini, when she detects the cheat ? 
Gui. I '11 stop my ears up. 
Car. Guido, thou art weak, 

And lack the common fortitude of man. 
Gui. And you abuse the license of your 
garb. 
To lessen me. My lord, I do not dare 
To move a finger in these marriage-rites. 
Franeesca is a sacrifice, I know, — 
A limb delivered to the surgeon's knife. 
To save our general health. A truce to 

this. 
Paolo has the business in his hands : 
Let him arrange it as he will ; for I 
Will give Count Malatesta no pretext 
To recommence the war. 
Car. Farewell, my lord. 

I '11 neither help nor countenance a fraud. 
You crafty men take comfort to your- 
selves. 
Saying, deceit dies with discovery. 
'T is false; each wicked action spawns a 

brood, 
And lives in its succession. You, who 

shake 
Man's moral nature into storm, should 

know 
That the last wave which passes from 

your sight 
Rolls in and breaks upon eternity ! 

(Exit.) 
Gui. Why, that 's a very grand and solemn 
thought : 
I '11 mention it to Dante. Gentlemen,> 
What see they from the wall? 

Nobleman. The train, my lord. 

Gui. Inform my daughter. 

Nob. She is here, my lord. 

(Enter Francesca, Ritta, Ladies and At- 
tendants. ) 

Francesca. See, father, what a merry face 
I have, 
And how my ladies glisten ! I will try 
To do my utmost, in my love for you 
And the good people of Ravenna. Now, 
As the first shock is over, I expect 
To feel quite happy. X will wed the 
Count, 



348 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Be he whate'er he may. <I do not speak 
In giddy recklessness. I 've weighed it 

all,— 
'Twixt hope and fear, knowledge and ig- 
norance, — 
And reasoned out my duty to your wish. 
I have no yearnings towards another love : 
So, if I show my husband a desire 
To fill the place with which he honors me. 
According to its duties, even he — 
Were he less noble than Count Lan- 

ciotto — 
Must smile upon my efforts, and reward 
Good will Tvith willing grace.> One 

pang remains. 
Parting from home and kindred is a thing 
None but the heartless, or the miserable, 
Can do without a tear. This home of 

mine 
Has filled my heart with two-fold happi- 
ness. 
Taking and giving love abundantly. 
Farewell, Ravenna! If I bless thee not, 
'T is that thou seem'st too blessed; and 

't were strange 
In me to offer what thou 'st always given. 
<Gui. {Aside.) This is too much! If 
she would rail a while 
At me and fortune, it could be endured.> 
{Shouts and music within.) 
Fran. Ha! there's the van just breaking 
through the wood ! 
Music ! that 's well ; a welcome forerunner. 
Now, Ritta — here — come talk to me. 

Alas! 
How my heart trembles! What a world 

to me 
Lies 'neath the glitter of yon cavalcade! 
Is that the Count "? 
Ritta. Upon the dapple-gray? 

Fran. Yes, yes. 
RiT. No ; that 's his — 

Gui. {Apart to her.) Ritta! 
RiTT. Ay ; that 's — that 's — 

<Gui. Ritta, the pot! {Apart to her.) 
RiT. ! but this lying chokes ! 

{Aside.) > 
Ay, that 's Count Somebody, from 
Rimini. 
Fran. I knew it was. Is that not glori- 
ous*? 
RiT. My lady, what ? 

Fran. To see a cavalier 

Sit on his steed with such familiar grace. 
RiT. To see a man astraddle on a horse ! 

It don't seem much to me. 
Fran. Fie! stupid girl! 

<But mark! the minstrels thronging 
round the Count! 



Ah! that is more than gallant horseman- 
ship. 
The soul that feeds itself on poesy, 
Is of a quality more fine and rare 
Than H^eaven allows the ruder multitude. 
I tell you, Ritta, when you see a man 
Beloved by poets, made the theme of 

song, 
And chaunted down to ages, as a gift 
Fit for the rich embalmment of their 

verse. 
There 's more about him than the patron's 

gold.> 
If that 's the gentleman my father chose, 
He must have picked him out from all 

the world. 
The Count alights. Why, what a noble 

grace 
Runs through his slightest action! Are 

you sad? 
You, too, my father? Have I given you 

cause ? 
I am content. If Lanciotto's mind 
Bear any impress of his fair outside, 
We shall not quarrel ere our marriage- 
day. 
<Can I say more? My blushes speak 

for me : 
Interpret them as modesty's excuse 
For the short-comings of a maiden's 

speech. > 
RiT. Alas! dear lady! {Aside.) 
Gui. {Aside.) <'Sdeath! my plot has 

failed, 
By overworking its design.> Come, 

come; 
Get to your places. See, the Count draws 

nigh. 
(GuiDO and Francesca seat themselves 

upon the dais, surrounded by Ritta, 

Ladies, Attendants , and Guards. 

Music, shouts, ringing of bells. 

Enter Men-at-arms, with banners; 

Pages bearing costly presents on 

cushions; then Paolo, surrounded by 

Noblemen, Knights, Minstrels, and 

followed by other Men-at-arms. 

They range themselves opposite the 

dais. ) 
Gui. Ravenna welcomes you, my lord, 

and I 
Add my best greeting to the general voice. 
This peaceful show of arms from Rimini 
Is a new pleasure, stranger to our sense 
Than if the East blew zephyrs, <or the 

balm 
Of Summer loaded rough December's 

gales. 
And turned his snows to roses.> 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



349 



Paolo. 



Noble sir, 



We looked for welcome from your cour- 
tesy, 
Not from your love, <but this unhoped 

for sight 
Of smiling faces, and the gentle tone 
In which you greet us, leave us naught to 

win 
Within your hearts. > I need not ask, 

my lord. 
Where bides the precious object of" my 

search ; 
For I was sent to find the fairest maid 
Ravenna boasts, among her many fair. 
I might extend my travel many a league. 
And yet return, to take her from your 

side. 
I blush to bear so rich a treasure home. 
As pledge and hostage of a sluggish 

peace; 
For beauty such as hers was meant by 

Heaven 
To spur our race to gallant enterprise. 
And draw contending deities around 
The dubious battles of a second Troy. 
Gui. Sir Count, you please to lavish on my 

child 
The high-strained courtesy of chivalry; 
<Yet she has homely virtues that, I hope. 
May take a deeper hold in Rimini, 
After the fleeting beauty of her face 
Is spoiled by time, or faded to the eye 
By its familiar usage. 
Paolo. As a man 

Who ever sees Heaven's purpose in its 

works,> 
I must suppose so rare a tabernacle 
Was framed for rarest virtues. Pardon 

me 
<My public admiration. If my praise 
Clash with propriety, and bare my words 
To cooler judgment, 't is not that I wish 
To win a flatterer's grudged recompense. 
And gain by falsehood what I'd win 

through love.> 
When I have brushed my travel from my 

garb, 
I '11 pay my court in more befitting style 
(Music. Exit with his train.) 
Gui. (Advancing.) Now, by the saints, 

Lanciotto's deputy 
Stands in this business with a proper 

grace. 
Stretching his lord's instructions till they 

crack. 
<A zealous envoy! Not a word said he 
Of Lanciotto — not a single word ; 
But stood there, staring in Francesca's 

face 



With his devouring eyes. — By Jupiter,> 
I but half Ifke it ! 
Fran. (Advancing.) Father? 
GuL Well, my child. 

Fran. How do you like — 
Gui. The coxcomb ! I 've done well ! 

Fran. No, no ; Count Lanciotto ? 
Gui. Well enough. 

But hang this fellow — hang your depu- 
ties! 
I '11 never woo by proxy. 
Fran. Deputies ! 

And woo by proxy ! 
Gui. Come to me anon. 

I 'U strip this cuckoo of his gallantry ! 

(Exit with Guards.) 
Fran. Ritta, my father has strange ways 

of late. 
RiT. I wonder not. 
Fran. You wonder not ? 

RiT. No, lady: 

<He is so used to playing double games. 
That even you must come in for your 

share. 
Plague on his boiling! I will out with 

it. (Aside.)'^ 
Lady, the gentleman who passed the 
gates — 
Fran. Count Lanciotto? As I hope for 
grace, 
A gallant gentleman! How well he 

spoke ! 
With what sincere and earnest courtesy 
The rounded phrases glided from his lips ! 
He spoke in compliments that seemed like 

truth. 
Methinks I'd listen through a summer's 

day, 
To hear him woo. — And he must woo to 

me — 
I '11 have our privilege — ^he must woo a 

space, 
Ere I '11 be won, I promise. 
RiT. But, my lady, 

Hb '11 woo you for another. 
Fran. He?— ha! 

ha! (Laughing.) 
1 should not think it from the prologue, 
Ritta. 
RiT. Nor. I. 

Fran. Nor any one. 

RiT. 'T is not the Count— 

'T is not Count Lanciotto. 
Fran. Gracious saints! 

Have you gone crazy? Ritta, speak 

again. 
Before I chide you. 
RiT. 'T is the solemn 

truth. 



350 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



That gentleman is [the] Count Paolo, 

lady, 
Brother to Lanciotto, and no more 
Like him than — t)ian — 
Frax. Than what "? 

<KiT. Count Guido's pot. 

For boiling waiting-maids, is like the bath 
Of Venus on the arras. > 
Fran. [But] Are j'ou mad, — 

Quite mad, poor Rittaf 
RiT. Yes; perhaps I am, 

<Perhaps Lanciotto is a proper man — 
Perhaps I lie — jDerhaps I speak the 

truth— 
Perhaps I gabble like a fool. ! heavens. 
That dreadful pot!> 
Fran. Dear Ritta ! — 

RiT. By the mass. 

They shall not cozen you, <my gentle 

mistress ! 
If my lord Guido boiled me, do you think 
I should be served up to the garrison. 
By way of pottage? Surely they would 
not waste me. 
Fran. You are an idle talker. Pranks like 
these 
Fit your companions. You forget your- 
self. 
RiT. Not you, though, lady.> Boldly I 
repeat. 
That he who looked so fair, and talked so 

sweet. 
Who rode from Rimini upon a horse 
Of dapple-gray, and walked through yon- 
der gate, 
Is not Count Lanciotto. 
Fran. This you mean ? 

RiT. I do, indeed ! 

Fran. Then I am more abused — 

More tricked, more trifled with, more 

played upon — 
By him, my father, and by all of you. 
Than anything, suspected of a heart. 
Was ever yet ! 
RiT. [But] in Count Paolo, lady, 

Perchance there was no meditated fraud. 
Fran. How, dare you plead for him ? 
RiT. I but suppose : 

Though in your father — ! I dare not 
say. 
Fran. I dare. It was ill usage, gross 
abuse. 
Treason to duty, meanness, craft — dis- 
honour ! 
What if I 'd thrown my heart before the 

feet 
Of til is sham husband ! cast my love away 
Upon a counterfeit ! <I was prepared 
To force affection upon any man 



Called Lanciotto. Anything of silk, 
Tinsel, and gewgaws, if he bore that 

name. 
Might have received me for the askinsr. 

Yes, 
I was inclined to venture more than half 
In this base business — shame upon my 

thoughts ! — 
All for my father's peace and poor 

Ravenna's. 
And this Paolo, with his cavalcade, 
His minstrels, music, and his pretty airs, 
His showy person, and his fulsome talk, 
Almost made me contented with my lot. 
! what a fool> in faith, I merit it — 
<Trapped by mere glitter! What, an 

easy fool !> 
Ha ! ha ! I 'm glad it went no further, 

girl; {Laughing.) 

I 'm glad I kept my heart safe, after all. 
There was my cunning. I have paid 

them back, 
I warrant you ! I '11 marry Lanciotto ; 
<I '11 seem to shuffle by this treachery. 

No! 
I '11 seek my father, put him face to face 
With his own falsehood ; and I '11 stand 

between, 
Awful as justice, meting out to him 
Heaven's dreadful canons 'gainst his con- 
scious guilt. 
I '11 marry Lanciotto. On my faith, 
I would not live another wicked day 
Here, in Ravenna, only for the fear 
That I should take to lying, with the 

rest.> 
Ha ! ha ! it makes me merry, when I think 
How safe I kept this little heart of mine ! 

(Laughing.) 
(Exit, with Attendants.) 
<RiT. So, 'tis all ended — all except my^ 

boiling. 
And that will make a holiday for some. 
Perhaps I'm selfish. Fagot, axe, and 

gallows. 
They have their uses, after all. They 

give 
The lookers-on a deal of harmless sport. 
Though one may suffer, twenty hundred 

laugh ; 
And that 's a point gained. I have seen a 

man — 
Poor Dora's uncle — shake himself with 

glee. 
At the bare thought of the ridiculous 

style 
In which some villain died. "Dancing," 

quoth he, 
"To the poor music of a single string ! 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



351 



Biting," quoth he, "after his head was of£ ! 
What use of that?" Or, "Shivering," 

quoth he, 
"As from an ague, with his beard afire !" 
And then he 'd roar until his ugly mouth 
Split at the corners. But to see me boil — 
! that will be the queerest thing of all ! 
I wonder if they '11 put me in a bag. 
Like a great suet-ball ? I '11 go, and tell 
Count Guido, on the instant. How he '11 

laugh 
To think his pot has got an occupant ! 
I wonder if he really takes delight 
In such amusements'? Nay, I have kept 

faith : 
I only said the man was not Lanciotto; 
No word of Lanciotto's ugliness. 
I may escape the pot, for all. Pardee! 
I wonder if they '11 put me in a bag ! 

{Exit, laughing.)^ 



Scene 3. The Same. A Boom in Guido's 
Palace. 

{Enter Guido and Ritta.) 

<RlTTA. There now, my lord, this is the 
whole of it : 
I love my mistress more than I fear you. 
If I could save her finger from the axe, 
I 'd give my head to do it. So, my lord, 
I am prepared to stew. 
Guido. Boil, Ritta, boil. 

RiT. No ; I prefer to stew. 
Gui. And I to boil. 

RiT. 'T is very hard, my lord, I cannot 
choose 
My way of cooking. I shall laugh, I vow. 
In the grim headsman's face, when I re- 
member 
Thai I am dying for my lady's love. 
I leave no one to shed a tear for me ; 
Father nor mother, kith nor kin, have I, 
To say, "Poor Ritta!" o'er my lifeless 

clay. 
They all have gone before me, and 't were 

well 
If I could hurry after them. 
Gui. Poor child! {Aside.) 

But, baggage, said you aught of Lan- 
ciotto? 
RiT. No, not a word; and he's so ugly, 

too! 
Gui. Is he so ugly? 
RiT. Ugly ! he is worse 

Than Pilate on the hangings. 
Gui. Hold your tongue 

Here, and at Rimini, about the Count, 



And you shall prosper. 



RiT. 



Am I not to boil? 



Gui. No, child. But be discreet at Rimini. 
Old Malatesta is a dreadful man — 
Far worse than I — he bakes his people, 

Ritta; 
Lards them, like geese, and bakes them in 

an oven. 
RiT. Fire is my fate, I see that. 
Gui. Have a care 

It do not follow you beyond this world. 
Where is your mistress ? 
RiT. In her room, my lord. 

After I told her of the Count Paolo, 
She flew to have an interview with you; 
But on the way — I know not why it was — 
She darted to her chamber, and there 

stays 
Weeping in silence. It would do you 

good — 
More than a hundred sermons — just to 

see 
A single tear, indeed it would, my lord. 
Gui. Ha ! you are saucy. I have humored 

you 
Past prudence, malpert! Get you to 

your room ! {Exit Ritta.) 

More of my blood runs in yon damsel's 

veins 
Than the world knows. Her mother to a 

shade ; 
The same high spirit, and strange martyr- 
wish 
To sacrifice herself, body and soul, 
For some loved end. All that she did for 

me; 
And yet I loved her not. ! memory ! 
The darkest future has a ray of hope, 
But thou art blacker than the sepulchre! 
Thy horrid shapes lie round, like scattered 

bones. 
Hopeless forever ! I am sick at heart. 
The past crowds on the present: as I 

sowed, 
So am I reaping. Shadows from myself 
Fall on the picture, as I trace anew 
These rising spectres of my early life. 
And add their gloom to what was dark 

before. 
0! memory, memory! How my temples 

throb! {Sits.) 

{Enter Francesca, hastily.) 

Francesca. My lord, this outrage — {He 
looks up.) Father, are you ill? 
You seem unhappy. Have I troubled 

you? 
You heard how passionate and bad I was, 
When Ritta told me of the Count Paolo. 



352 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Dear father, calm yourself; and let me 
ask 

A child's forgiveness. 'T was undutiful 

To doubt your wisdom. It is over now, 

I only thought you might have trusted 
me 

With any counsel. 
Gui. (Aside.) Would I had ! 
Fran. Ah ! well, 

I understand it all, and you were right. 

Only the danger of it. Think, my lord, 

If I had loved this man at the first sight : 

We all have heard of such things. Think, 
again. 

If I had loved him — as I then supposed 

You wished me to — 't would have been 
very sad. 

But no, dear sir, I kept my heart secure. 

Nor will I loose it till you give the word. 

I 'm wiser than you thought me, you per- 
ceive. 

But when we saw him, face to face, to- 
gether. 

Surely you might have told me then. 
Gui. Francesca, 

My eyes are old — I did not clearly see — 

Faith, it escaped my thoughts. Some 
other things 

Came in my head. I was as ignorant 

Of Count Paolo's coming as yourself. 

The brothers are so like. 
Fran. Indeed ? 

Gui. Yes, yes. 

One is the other's counterpart, in fact ; 

And even now it may not be — ! shame ! 

I lie by habit. (Aside.)'^ 
Fran. Then there is hope? [Ritta may be 
deceived.] 

He may be Lanciotto, after all? 

! joy— 

[Enter a Servant.) 

Servant. The Count Paolo. (Exit.) 

Fran. [Ah.] Misery ! 

That name was not Lanciotto ! 

<Gui. Farewell, child. 

I '11 leave you with the Count : he '11 make 

it plain. 
It seems 't was Count Paolo. (Going.) 

Fran. Father ! 

Gui. Well. 

Fran. You knew it from the first ! (Exit 
GuiDO.) Let me begone: 
I could not look him in the face again 
With the old faith. Besides, 't would 

anger him 
To have a living witness of his fraud 
Ever before him; and I could not trust — 
Strive as I might — my happiness to him, 



As once I did. I could not lay my hand 
Upon his shoulder, and look up to him. 
Saying, dear father, pilot me along 
Past this dread rock, through yonder nar- 
row strait. 
Saints, no! The gold that gave my life 

away 

Might, even then, be rattling in his purse, 

• Warm from the buyer's hand. Look on 

me, Heaven ! 

Him thou didst sanctify before my eyes. 

Him thou didst charge, as thy great 

deputy, 
With guardianship of a weak orphan 

girl. 
Has fallen from grace, has paltered with 

his trust ; 
I have no mother to receive thy charge, — 

! take it on thyself ; and when I err, 
Through mortal blindness. Heaven, be 

thou my guide !> 

Worse cannot fall me. Though my hus- 
band lack 

A parent's tenderness, he yet may have 

Faith, truth, and honour — the immortal 
bonds 

That knit together honest hearts as one. 

Let me away to Rimini. Alas! 

It wring? my heart to have outlived the day 

That I can leave my home with no re- 
gret! (Weeps.) 

(Enter Paolo.) 

Paolo. Pray, pardon me. (Going.) 

Fran. You are quite welcome. Count. 

A foolish tear, a weakness, nothing more : 

But present weeping clears our future 

sight. 
They tell me you are love's commissioner, 
A kind of broker in the trade of hearts : 
Is it your usual business? or may I 
Flatter myself, by claiming this essay 
As your first effort? 
Paolo. Lady, I believed 

My post, at starting, one of weight and 

trust ; 
When I beheld you, I concluded it 
A charge of honor and high dignity. 

1 did not think to hear you underrate 
Your own importance, by dishonouring 

me. 

<Fran. You are severe, my lord. 

Paolo. No, not severe; 

Say candid, rather. I am somewhat hurt 
By my reception. If I feel the wound, 
'T is not because I suffer from the jest. 
But that your lips should deal it. 

Fran. Compliments 

Appear to be the staple of your speech. 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



353 



You ravish one with courtesy, you pour 
Fine words upon one, till the listening 

head 
Is bowed with sweetness. Sir, your talk 

is drugged; 
There 's secret poppy in your sugared 

phrase. 
I '11 taste before I take it. 
Paolo. Gentle lady — 

Fran. I am not gentle, or I missed my 

aim. 
I am no hawk to fly at every lure. 
You courtly gentlemen draw one broad 

rule — 
All girls are fools. It may be so, in 

truth, 
Yet so I '11 not be treated. 
Paolo. Have you been ? 

If I implied such slander by my words, 
They wrong my purpose. If I compli- 
ment, 
'T is not from habit, but because I 

thought 
Your face deserved my homage as its due. 
When I have clearer insight, and you 

spread 
Your inner nature o'er your lineaments. 
Even that face may darken in the shades 
Of my opinion. For mere loveliness 
Needs inward light to keep it always 

bright. 
All things look badly to unfriendly eyes. 
I spoke my first impression ; cooler 

thought 
May work strange changes. 
Fran. Ah, Sir Count, at length 

There 's matter in your words. 
Paolo. Unpleasant stuff. 

To judge by your dark brows. I have 

essayed 
Kindness and coldness, yet you are not 

pleased. 
Fran. How can I be ? 
Paolo. How, lady*? 

Fran. Ay, sir, how'?> 

Your brother — my good lord that is to 

be— 
Stings me with his neglect; and in the 

place 
He should have filled, he sends a go-be- 
tween, 
A common carrier of others' love; 
How can the sender, or the person sent, 
Please overmuch'? Now, were I such as 

you, 
I 'd be too proud to travel round the land 
With other people's feelings in my heart ; 
Even to fill the void which you confess 
By such employment. 



Paolo. Lady, 't is your wish 

To nettle me,4o break my breeding down. 
And see what natural passions I have 

hidden 
Behind the outworks of my etiquette. 
I neither own nor feel the want of 

heart 
With which you charge me. You are 

more than cruel; 
<You rouse my nerves until they ache 

with life. 
And then pour fire upon them. For my- 
self 
I would not speak, unless you had com- 

pelled.> 
My task is odious to me. Since I came, 
Heaven bear me witness how my traitor 

heart 
Has fought against my duty; and how 

oft 
I wished myself in Lanciotto's place. 
Or him in mine. 
Fran. You riddle. 

Paolo. Do I? Well, 

Let it remain unguessed. 
<Fran. You wished yourself 

At Rimini, or Lanciotto here'? 
You may have reasons. 
Paolo. Well interpreted! 

The Sphinx were simple in your skilful 
hands ! 
Fran. It has become your turn to sneer. 
Paolo. But I 

Have gall to feed my bitterness, while 

you 
Jest in the wanton ease of happiness. 
Stop ! there is peril in our talk. 
Fran. As how? 

Paolo. 'T is dangerous to talk about one's 
self; 
It panders selfishness. > My duty waits. 
Fran. My future lord's affairs'? I quite 
forgot 
Count Lanciotto. 
Paolo. I, too, shame upon me. (Aside.) 
Fran. Does he resemble you? 
Paolo. Pray, drop me, lady. 

Fran. Nay, answer me. 
Paolo. Somewhat — in feature. 

Fran. Ha ! 

Is he so fair? 
Paolo. No, darker. He was tanned 

In long campaigns, and battles hotly 

fought. 
While I lounged idly with the trouba- 
dours. 
Under the shadow of his watchful sword. 
Fran. In person? 
Paolo. He is shorter, I believe. 



354 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



But broader, stronger, more compactly 
kiiit. 
Fran. What of his mind'? 
Paolo. Ah, now you strike the key ! 

A mind just fitted to his history, 
An equal balance 'twixt desert and fame. 
<No future chronicler shall say of him. 
His fame outran his merit; or his merit 
Halted behind some adverse circum- 
stance. 
And never won the glory it deserved. > 
My love might weary you, if I rehearsed 
The simple beauty of his character; 
His grandeur and his gentleness of heart, 
His warlike fire and peaceful love, his 

faith, 
His courtesy, his truth. <I '11 not deny 
Some human weakness, to attract our 

love. 
Harbors in him, as in the rest of us. 
Sometimes against our city's enemies 
He thunders in the distance, and devotes 
Their homes to ruin. When the brand 

has fallen, 
He ever follows with a healing rain, 
And in his pity shoulders by revenge. 
A thorough soldier, lady. He grasps 

crowns. 
While I pick at the laurel. 
Fran. Stay, my lord I 

I asked your brother's value, with no 

wish 
To hear you underrate yourself. Your 

worth 
May rise in passing through another's 

lips.> 
Lanciotto is perfection, then? 
Paolo. To me: 

Others may think my brother over- 
nice 
Upon the point of honour; over-keen 
To take offence where no offence is 

meant ; 
A thought too prodigal of human life, 
Holding it naught when weighed against 

a wrong; 
<Suspicious of the motives of his 

friends ; 
Distrustful of his own high excellence; 
And with a certain gloom of tempera- 
ment. 
When thus disturbed, that makes him 

terrible 
And rash in action. I have heard of 

this. 
I never felt it. I distress you, lady'?> 
Perhaps I throw these points too much 

in shade. 
By catching at an enemy's report. 



But, then, Lanciotto said, "You '11 speak 

of me. 
Not as I ought to be, but as I am." 
He loathes deceit. 
Fran. That's noble! Have you done? 

I have observed a strange reserve, at 

times, 
<An over-carefulness in choosing 

words,> 
Both in my father and his nearest 

friends. 
When speaking of your brother; as if 

they 
Picked their way slowly o'er rocky 

gTound, 
<Fearing to stumble. Ritta, too, my 

maid, 
WTien her tongue rattles on in full career, 
Stops at your brother's name, and with a 

sigh 
Settles herself to dismal silence. 

Count,> 
These things have troubled me. From 

you I look 
For perfect frankness. Is there naught 

withheld? 
<Paolo. {Aside.) 0, base temptation! 

What if I betray 
His crippled person — imitate his limp — 
Laugh at his hip, his back, his sullen 

moods 
Of childish superstition? — tread his 

heart 
Under my feet, to climb into his place ? — 
Use his own warrant 'gainst himself ; and 

say, 
Because I loved her, and misjudged your 

jest. 
Therefore I stole her? Why, a common 

thief 
Would hang for just such thinking t 

Ha! ha! ha! {Laughing.) 

1 reckon on her love, as if I held 
The counsels of her bosom. No, I sweai 
Francesea w^ould despise so mean a deed. 
Have I no honour either? Are my 

thoughts 
All bound by her opinion? 
Fran. This is strange ! 

Is Lanciotto's name a spell to all? 
I ask a simple question, and straight you 
Start to one side, and mutter to your- 
self. 
And laugh, and groan, and play the 

lunatic. 
In such a style that you astound me more 
Than all the others. It appears to me 
I have been singled as a common dupe 
By every one, What mystery is this 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



355 



Surrounds Count Lanciotto 1 If there be 

A single creature in the universe 

Who has a right to know him as he is, 

I am that one. 
Paolo. I grant it. You shall see, 

And shape your judgment by your own 
remark. > 

All that my honour calls for I have said. 
Fran. <I am content. Unless I greatly 
err, 

Heaven made your breast the seat of 
honest thoughts. > 

You know, my lord, that, once at Ri- 
mini, 

There can be no retreat for me. By you, 

Here at Ravenna, in your brother's name, 

I shall be solemnly betrothed. And 
now 

I thus extend my maiden hand to you; 

If you are conscious of no secret guilt. 

Take it. 
Paolo. I do. {Takes her hand.) 

Fran. You tremble! 

Paolo. With the hand. 

Not with the obligation. 
Fran. Farewell, Count! 

T' were cruel to tax your stock of com- 
pliments, 

That waste their sweets upon a tram- 
melled heart; 

Go fly your fancies at some freer game. 

{Exit.) 
Paolo. 0, heaven, if I have faltered and 
am weak, 

'Tis from my nature! Fancies, more 
accursed 

Than haunt a murderer's bedside, throng 
my brain — 

Temptations, such as mortal never bore 

Since Satan whispered in the ear of 
Eve. 

Sing in my ear — and all, all are ac- 
cursed ! 

At heart I have betrayed my brother's 
trust, 

Francesca's openly. Turn where I 
will. 

As if enclosed within a mirrored hall, 

I see a traitor. Now to stand erect. 

Firm on my base of manly constancy; 

Or, if I stagger, let me never quit 

The homely path of duty, for the ways 

That bloom and glitter with seductive 
sin! {Exit.) 

^ [In the acting version of 1882, everybody 
was sent on and the act ended with Paolo 
taking Francesca's hand and speaking the 
words, "On to Rimini!"] 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene 1.^ Rimini. A room in the Castle. 
Lanciotto discovered reading. 

Lanciotto. ! fie, philosophy ! This 
Seneca 
Revels in wealth, and whines about the 

poor! 
Talks of starvation while his banquet 

waits. 
And fancies that a two hours' appetite 
Throws light on famine! Doubtless he 

can tell. 
As he skips nimbly through his dancing- 
girls. 
How sad it is to limp about the world 
A sightless cripple! Let him feel the 

crutch 
Wearing against his heart, and then I 'd 

hear 
This sage talk glibly; or provide a pad. 
Stuffed with his soft philosophy, to ease 
His aching shoulder. Pshaw; he never 

felt, 
Or pain would choke his frothy utter- 
ance. 
<'T is easy for the doctor to compound 
His nauseous simples for a sick man's 

health ; 
But let him swallow them, for his disease. 
Without wry faces. Ah! the tug is 

there.> 
Show me philosophy in rags, in want, 
Sick of a fever, with a back like mine. 
Creeping to wisdom on these legs, and I 
Will drink its comforts. Out! away 

with you! 
There 's no such thing as real philosophy ! 
{Throws down the hook.) 

{Enter Pepe.) 

Here is a sage who '11 teach a courtier 

The laws of etiquette, a statesman rule, 

A soldier discipline, a poet verse. 

And each mechanic his distinctive trade; 

Yet bring him to his motley, and how 
wide 

He shoots from reason! We can under- 
stand 

All business but our own, and thrust ad- 
vice 

In every gaping cranny of the world ; 

While habit shapes us to our own dull 
work. 

And reason nods above his proper task. 

Just so philosophy would rectify 

1 In the acting version of 1853 this scene is 
placed in Act Second. 



356 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



All things abroad, and be a jade at home. 
<Pepe, what think you of the Emperor's 

aim 
Towards Hungary? 
Pepe, a most unwise design; 

For mark, my lord — 
Lan". Why, there ! the fact cries out. 

Here 's motley thinking for a diadem ! — 
Ay, and more wisely in his own regard. 
Pepe. You flout me, cousin. 
Lan. Have you aught that's new? — 

Some witty trifle, some absurd conceit? 
Pepe. Troth, no. 

Lan. Why not give up the Emperor, 

And bend your wisdom on your duties, 

Pepe? 
Pepe. Because the Emperor has more 

need of wisdom 
Than the most barren fool of wit. 
Lan. Well said! 

Mere habit brings the fool back to his 

art.> 
This jester is a rare philosopher. 
Teach me philosophy, good fool. 
Pepe. No need. 

You '11 get a teacher when you take a 

wife. 
If she do not instruct you in more arts 
Than Aristotle ever thought upon. 
The good old race of woman has de- 
clined 
Into a sort of male stupidity. 
<I had a sweetheart once, she lectured 

grandly; 
No matter on what subject she might hit, 
'T was all the same, she could talk and 

she would, 
She had no silly modesty; she dashed 
Straight in the teeth of any argument. 
And talked you deaf, dumb, blind. 

Whatever struck 
Upon her ear, by some machinery, 
Set her tongue wagging. Thank the 

Lord, she died ! — 
Dropped in the middle of a fierce 

harangue. 
Like a spent horse. It was an even 

thing, 
Whether she talked herself or me to 

death. 
The latest sign of life was in her tongue ; 
It wagged till sundown, like a serpent's 

tail. 
Long after all the rest of her was cold. 
Alas ! poor Zippa ! 
Lan. Were you married, fool? 

Pepe. Married! Have I the scars upon 

me? No; 
I fell in love ; and that was bad enough, 



And far enough for a mere fool to go. 
Married ! why, marriage is love's purga- 
tory. 
Without a heaven beyond. 



Lan. 



Fie, atheist! 



Would you abolish marriage? 
Pepe. Yes. 

LAN. What? 

Pepe. Yes. 

Lan. Depopulate the world? 
Pepe. No fear of that. 

I 'd have no families, no Malatesti, 

Strutting about the land, with pedigrees 

And claims bequeathed them by their an- 
cestors ; 

No fellows vapouring of their royal 
blood ; 

No one to seize a whole inheritance. 

And rob the other children of the earth. 

By Jove, you should not know your fa- 
thers, even! 

I 'd have you spring, like toadstools, from 
the soil — 

Mere sons of women — nothing more nor 
less — 

All base-born, and all equal. There, my 
lord, 

There is a simple commonwealth for you ! 

In which aspiring merit takes the lead, 

And birth goes begging. 
Lan. It is so, in truth ; 

And by the simplest means I ever heard. 
Pepe. Think of it, cousin. Tell it to your 
friends. 

The statesmen, soldiers, and philoso- 
phers ; 

Noise it about the earth, and let it stir 

The sluggish spirits of the multitudes. 

Pursue the thought, scan it, from end to 
end. 

Through all its latent possibilities. 

It is a great seed dropped, I promise yoU^ 

And it must sprout. Thought never 
wholly dies; 

It only wants a name — a hard Greek 
name — 

Some few apostles, who may live on it — 

A crowd of listeners, with the average 
dulness 

That man possesses — and we organize; 

Spread our new doctrine, like a general 
plague ; 

Talk of man's progress and development, 

Wrongs of society, the march of mind. 

The Devil, Doctor Faustus, and what not; 

And, lo! this pretty world turns upside 
down. 

All with a fool's idea ! 
Lan. By Jupiter, 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



357 



You hit our modern teachers to a hair! 

I knew this fool was a philosopher. 

Pepe is right. Mechanic means advance ; 

Nature bows down to Science' haughtj^ 
tread, 

And turns the wheel of smutty artifice ; 

New governments arise, dilate, decay, 

And foster creeds and churches to their 
tastes : 

At each advance, we cry, "Behold, the 
end!" 

Till some fresh wonder breaks upon the 
age. 

But man, the moral creature, midst it all 

Stands still unchanged; noT moves to- 
wards virtue more. 

Nor comprehends the mysteries in him- 
self. 

More than when Plato taught academies. 

Or Zeno thundered from bis Attic porch. 
Pepe. I know not that; I only want my 
scheme 

Tried for a while. I am a politician, 

A wrongs-of-man man. Hang philoso- 
phy! 

Let metaphysics swallow, at a gulp, 

Its last two syllables, and purge itself 

Clean of its filthy humours ! I am one 

Ready for martyrdom, for stake and fire. 

If I can make my gTeat idea take root ! 

Zounds! cousin, if I had an audience, 

I 'd make you shudder at my eloquence ! 

I have an itching to reform the world. 
Lan". Begin at home, then. 
Pepe. Home is not my sphere ; 

Heaven picked me out to teach my fel- 
low-men. 

I am a very firebrand of truth — 

A self -consuming, doomed, devoted 
brand — 

That burns to ashes while I light the 
world ! 

I feel it in me. I am moved, inspired. 

Stirred into utterance, by some mystic 
power 

Of which I am the humble instrument. 
Lan". a bad digestion, sage, — a bilious 
turn, 

A gnawing stomach, or a pinching shoe. 
Pepe. ! hear, but spare the scoffer ! 
Spare the wretch 

Who sneers at the anointed man of truth ! 

When we reached that, I and my fol- 
lowers 

Would rend you limb from limb. There ! 
— ha! ha! ha! (Laughing.) 

Have I not caught the slang these fel- 
lows preach; 

A grand, original idea, to back it; 



And all the stock in trade of a reformer 1 
Lan. You have indeed; nor do I wonder, 
Pepe. 
Fool as you are, I promise you success 
In your new calling, if you '11 set it up. 
The thing is far too simple.> 

{Trumpet sounds within.) 

Pepe. Hist! my lord. 

Lan. That calls me to myself. 

Pepe. At that alarm. 

All Rimini leaped up upon its feet. 

Cousin, your bridal-train. You groan! 

'Ods wounds! 
Here is the bridegroom sorely malcon- 
tent— 
The sole sad face in Rimini. Since 

morn, 
A quiet man could hardly walk the 

streets, 
For flowers and streamers. All the town 

is gay. 
Perhaps 't is merry o'er your misery. 
Lax. Perhaps; but that it knows not. 
Pepe. Yes, it does: 

It knows that when a man's about to 

wed. 
He 's ripe to laugh at. Cousin, tell me, 

now. 
Why is [Count] Paolo on the way so 

long? 
Ravenna 's but eight leagues from Ri- 
mini — 
Lan. That 's just the measure of your 
tongue, good fool. 
You trouble me. I 've had enough of 

you— 
Begone ! 
<Pepe. I 'm going ; but you see I limp. 

Have pity on a cripple, gentle Count. 

{Limps.) 
Lan. Pepe ! 
Pepe. A miracle, a miracle ! 

See, see, my lord, at Pepe's saintly name 
The lame jog on.> 
Malatesta. {Without.) Come, Laneiotto! 
Lan. Hark ! 

My father calls. 
Pepe. If he were mine, I 'd go — 

That 's a good boy ! 

{Pats Lanciotto's hack.) 

Lan. {Starting.) Hands off! you 'U rue 

it else! {Exit.) 

Pepe. {Laughing.) Ha! ha! I laid my 

hand upon his hump ! 

Heavens, how he squirmed! And what 

a wish I had 
To cry, Ho! camel! leap upon his back, 
And ride him to the devil! <So, we've 
had 



358 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



A pleasant flitting round philosophy! 
The Count and fool bumped heads, and 

struck ideas 
Out by the contact! Quite a pleasant 

talk— 
A friendly conversation, nothing more — 
'Twixt nobleman and jester.> Ho! my 

bird, 
I can toss lures as high as any man. 
So, I amuse you with my harmless wit? 
Pepe 's your friend now — you can trust 

in him — 
An honest, simple fool ! Just try it once, 
You ugly, misbegotten clod of dirt ! 
Ay, but the hump — the touch upon the 

hump — 
The start and wriggle — that was rare! 

Ha! ha! {Exit, laughing.) 



Scene 2.^ The Same. The Grand Square 
before the Castle. Soldiers on guard, 
with banners. Citizens, in holiday 
dresses, cross the scene. The houses are 
hung with trophies, banners, and gar- 
lands. 

{Enter Malatesta, with guards, attend- 
ants. ) 

Malatesta. Captain, take care the streets 

be not choked up 
By the rude rabble. Send to Csesar's 

bridge 
A strong detachment of your men, and 

clear 
The way before them. <See that noth- 
ing cheek 
The bride's first entrance into Rimini. 
Station your veterans in the front. 

Count Guido 
Comes with his daughter, and his eyes 

are sharp. 
Keep up a show of strength before him, 

sir; 
And set some laborers to work upon 
The broken bastion. > Make all things 

look bright; 
As if we stood in eager readiness, 
And high condition, to begin a war. 
Captain. I will, my lord. 
Mal. Keep Guido in your eye ; 

And if you see him looking over-long 
On any weakness of our walls, just file 
Your bulkiest fellows round him; <or 

get up 
A scuffle with the people; anything — 

1 In both acting versions this scene begins the 
Third Act. 



Even if you break a head or two — to 

draw 
His vision oif. But where our strength 

is great. 
Take heed to make him see it.> You 
conceive ? 
Capt. Trust me, my lord. 

{Exit with guards.) 

{Enter Pepe.) 

Pepe. Room, room ! A hall ; a hall ! 

I pray you, good man, has the funeral 
passed'? 
Mal. Who is it asks? 
Pepe. Pepe of Padua, 

A learned doctor of uncivil law. 
Mal. But how a funeral? 
Pepe. You are weak of wit. 

Francesca of Ravenna 's borne to church. 

And never issues thence. 
Mal. How, doctor, pray? 

Pepe. Now, for a citizen of Rimini, 

You're sadly dull. Does she not issue 
thence 

Fanny of Rimini? A glorious change, — 

A kind of resurrection in the flesh! 
<Mal. {Laughing.) Ha! ha! thou cun- 
ning villain ! I was caught. 

I own it, doctor. 
Pepe. {Aside.) This old fool would laugh 

To see me break a straw, because the bits 

Were of unequal length. My character 

Carries more dulness, in the guise of wit. 

Than would suffice to break an ass's 
back.> {Distant shouts and music.) 

Hark! here comes Jeptha's daughter, 
jogging on 

With timbrels and with dances. 
Mal. Jeptha's daughter! 

How so? 
Pepe. Her father's sacrifice. 

Mal. {Laughing.) <Ho! ho! 

You '11 burst my belt ! ! you outrage- 
ous wretch. 

To jest at Scripture ! 
Pepe. You outlandish heathen, 

'T is not in Scripture ! 
Mal. Is it not? 

Pepe. No more 

Than you are in heaven. Mere Hebrew 
history. 

She went up to the mountains, to bewail 

The too-long keeping of her honesty. 

There 's woman for you ! there 's a char- 
acter ! 

What man would ever think of such a 
thing? 

Ah ! we of Rimini have little cause 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



359 



For such a sorrow. Would she 'd been 

my wife! 
I '11 marry any woman in her case. 
Mal. Why, Pepe? 

Pepe. Why? because, in two months' 

time, 
Along comes father Jeptha with his 

knife, 
And there 's an end. Where is your sac- 
rifice ? 
Where 's Isaac, Abraham '? Build your 

altar up: 
One pile will do for both. 
Mal. That 's Scripture, sure. 

Pepe. Then I'm a ram, and you may 
slaughter me 
In Isaac's stead.> 
Mal. Here comes the vanguard. Where, 

Where is that laggard? 
Pepe. At the mirror, uncle, 

Making himself look beautiful. He 
comes, {Looking out.) 

Fresh as a bridegroom! Mark his dou- 
blet's fit 
Across the shoulders, and his hose! — 
By Jove, he nearly looks like any other 
man! 
Mal. You'd best not let him hear you- 
Sirrah, knave, 
I have a mind to swinge you ! 

{Seizes his ear.) 

Pepe. <Loose my ear! 

You've got the wrong sow, swineherd !> 

You 're unjust. 
Being his father, I was fool sufficient 
To think you fashioned him to suit your- 
self. 
By way of a variety. The thought 
Was good enough, the practice damnable. 
Mal. Hush! or I'll clap you in the pil- 
lory. 

<, {Enter Lanciotto.)> 

Pepe. {Sings.) Ho, ho, ho, ho! — old 
Time has wings — 
We 're born, we mourn, we wed, we bed. 
We have a devilish aching head ; 
So down we lie, 
And die, and fry; 
And there 's a merry end of things ! 

{Music, within.) 
Here come Ravenna's eagles for a roost 
In Rimini! The air is black with them. 
When go they hence? Wherever yon 

bird builds, 
The nest remains for ages. Have an eye. 
Or Malatesta's elephant may feel 
The eagle's talons. 



Lanciotto.^ You 're a raven, croaker. 

Pepe. And you no white crow, to insure 

us luck. 
Mal. There 's matter in his croak. 
Pepe. There always is ; 

But men lack ears. 
Mal. Then eyes must do our work. 

<01d Guido shall be looked to. If his 

force 
Appear too great, I '11 camp him out of 
town. 
Lan. Father, you are a sorry host. 
Mal. Well, well, 

I 'm a good landlord, though.> I do not 

like 
This flight of eagles more than Pepe. 

_ 'S death! 
Guido was ever treacherous. 
<Lan. My lord. 

You mar my holiday by such a thought. 
My holiday! Dear saints! it seems to 

me 
That all of you are mocking me.> 
Pepe. So — -so — 

Guido was ever treacherous? — so — so! 
Mal. So — so ! How so ? 
Pepe. What if this treachery 

Run in the blood? We'll tap a vein 
then — so ! 
Mal. Sew up your mouth, and mind your 

fooling, fool! 
Pepe. Am I not fooling? Why, my lord, 
I thought 
The fooling exquisite. 
<LA]sr. {Aside.) This thoughtless knave 
Hits near us sometimes with his random 

shafts. 
Marriage for me ! I cannot comprehend, 
I cannot take it to my heart ; the thing 
Seems gross, absurd, ridiculous. Ah! 

well. 
My father bears the folly of it all ; 
I 'm but an actor in his comedy. 
My part is bad, but I must through with 
it. {Betires.)^ 

{Shouts and music within.) 
Pepe. Look ! here 's the whole parade ! 
<Mark yonder knave — 
The head one with the standard. Nature, 

nature ! 
Hadst thou a hand in such a botch-work? 

Why, 
A forest of his legs would scarcely make 
A bunch of fagots. > Mark old Guido, 

too! 
He looks like Judas with his silver. Ho ! 
Here 's news from sweet Ravenna ! 

1 In tlie acting version Malatesta has this line 
as Lanciotto is not on the stage. 



360 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Mal. (Laughing.) Ha! ha! ha! 

Pepe. Ah ! now the bride ! — that 's some- 
thmg — she is toothsome. 
Look you, my lord — now, while the prog- 
ress halts — 
Cousin Paolo, has he got the damps'? 
Mercy! to see him, one might almost 

think 
'T was his own marriage. What a dole- 
ful face! 
The boy is ill. He caught a fever, uncle. 
Travelling across the marshes. Physic! 

physic ! 
<If he be really dying, get a doctor. 
And cut the matter short. 'T were mer- 
ciful.> 
Mak For heaven's sake, cease your 
clamor! I shall have 
No face to meet them else. 'T is strange, 

for all: 
What ails [poor] Paolo? 
Pepe. Dying, by this hand! 

Mal. Then I will hang you. 
Pepe. Don't take up my craft. 

Wit's such a stranger in your brain 

that I 
Scarce knew my lodger venturing from 

your mouth. 
Now they come on again. 
Mal. Stand back ! 

<Pepe. {Looking round.) The bridegroom? 
He flies betimes, before the bride shows 
fight. 
[Walks hack, looking for Lanci- 

OTTO.)> 

(Music, shouts, ringing of hells. En- 
ter Men-at-arms^ with banners, 
GuiDO, Cardinal, Knights, Attend- 
ants; then Paolo, conducting Fran- 
CESCA, followed hy Ritta, Ladies, 
Pages, and other Men-at-Arms. 
They file around the stage, and halt.) 

Mal. Welcome to Rimini, Count Guido ! 
Welcome. 
And fair impressions of our poor abode, 
To you, my daughter! You are well re- 
turned. 
My [dear] son, Paolo! Let me bless 
you, son. 

(Paolo approaches.) 
How many spears are in old Guido's 
train? (Apart to Paolo.) 

Paolo. Some ten-score. 
Mal. Footmen ? 

Paolo. Double that. 

Mal. 'T is well. 

Again I bid you welcome! Make no 
show 



Of useless ceremony with us. Friends 
Have closer titles than the empty name. 
<We have provided entertainment, 

Count, 
For all your followers, in the midst of 

us. 
We trust the veterans of Rimini 
May prove your soldiers that our cour- 
tesy 
Does not lag far behind their warlike 

zeal.> 
Let us drop Guelf and Ghibelin hence- 
forth. 
Coupling the names of Rimini and Ra- 
venna 
As bridegroom's to his bride's. 
Guido. Count Malatesta, 

<I am no rhetorician, or my words 
Might keep more even with the love I 

feel:> 
Simply, I thank you. With an honest 

hand 
I take the hand which you extend to me. 
And hope our grasp may never lose its 

warmth. — 
You marked the bastion by the water- 
side? 
Weak as a bulrush. 

(Apart to a Knight.) 
Knight. Tottering weak, my lord. 

Gui. Remember it ; and when you 're pri- 
vate, sir, 
Draw me a plan. 
Knight. I will, my lord. 

GuL How's this? 

I do not see my future son-in-law. 
Mal. Lanciotto ! 

Lan. (Advancing.) I am here, my lord.^ 
Francesca. (Starting.) ! heaven ! 

Is that my husband, [fair] Count Paolo? 

You, 
You then, among the rest, have played 

me false! 
He is — (Apart to Paolo.) 

Paolo. My brother. 

Lan. (Aside.) Ha! she turns from me. 
<Pepe. (Approaching Lanciotto, sings.) 
Around, around the lady turned, 

She turned not to her lord; 
She turned around to a gallant, gallant 
knight. 
Who ate at his father's board. 
A pretty ballad ! all on one string though. 
Lan. Pepe, go hence! (Pepe retires.) 

(Aside.) I saw her start and pale,> 
Turn[s] off with horror; as if she had 
seen — 

1 In the acting versions, Lanciotto comes on here 
for the first time in this act, 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



361 



What? — simply me. For, am I not 

enough, 
And something- over, to make ladies quail, 
Start, hide their faces, whisper to their 

friends. 
Point at me — dare she"? — and perform 

such tricks 
As women will when monsters blast their 

sight? 
! saints above me, have I come so low f 
<Yon damsel of Ravenna shall bewait 
That start and shudder. I am mad, mad, 

mad!> 
I must be patient. They have trifled 

with her : 
Lied to her, lied! <There 's half the 

misery 
Of this broad earth, all crowded in one 

word. 
Lied, lied ! — Who has not suffered from a 

lie'?> 
They're all aghast — all looking at me, 

too. 
Francesca 's whiter than the brow of 

fear; 
<Paolo talks. — Brother, is that well 

meant ?> 
What if I draw my sword, and fight my 

way 
Out of this cursed town? 'T would be 

relief. 
<Has shame no hiding-place? I\e 

touched the depth 
Of human infamy, and there I rest.> 
By heaven, I '11 brave this business out ! 

Shall they 
Say at Ravenna that Count Laneiotto, 
Who 's driven their shivering squadrons 

to their homes. 
Haggard with terror- turned before their 

eyes 
And slunk away ? They '11 look me from 

the field. 
When we encounter next. Why should 

not I 
Strut with my shapeless body, as old 

Guido 
Struts with his shapeless heart ? I '11 do 

it! {Offers, hut shrinks hack.) 

'S death ! 
<Am I so false as to forswear myself ?> 
Lady Francesca ! 

{Approaches Francesca.) 
Fran. Sir — my lord — 

Lan. Dear lady, 

I have a share in your embarrassment. 
And know the feelings that possess you 

now. 
Fran. 0! you do not. 



Paolo. {Advancing.) My lady — 
Lan. Gentle brother. 

Leave this to me. (Paolo retires.) 

Fran. Pray do not send him off. 

Lan. 'T is fitter so. 
Fran. He comforts me. 

Lan. Indeed? 

Do you need comfort? 
Fran. No, no — pardon me! 

But then — he is — you are — 
Lan. Take breath, and speak. 

Fran. I am confused, 'tis true. But, 
then, my lord. 
You are a stranger to me; and [Count] 

Paolo 
I 've known so long ! 
Lan. Since yesterday. 

Fran. Ah! well: 

But the relationship between us two 
Is of so close a nature, while the knowl- 
edge. 
That each may have of each, so slender is 
That the two jar. Besides, [Count] 

Paolo is 
Nothing to me, while you are everything. 
Can I not act? {Aside.) 

Lan. I scarcely understand. 

You say your knowledge of me, till to- 
day, 
Was incomplete. Has naught been said 

of me 
[Either] by Count Paolo or your father? 
Fran. Yes ; 

But nothing definite. 
Lan. Perchance, no hint 

As to my ways, my feelings, manners, 

or — 
Or — or — as I was saying — ha ! ha ! — or — 

{Laughing.) 
As to my person? 
Fran. 

Lan. To what? 
Fran. Your — person. 

Lan. That's the least of all. 

{Turns aside.) 
Now, had I Guido of Ravenna's head 
Under this heel, I 'd grind it into dust ! 
<False villain, to betray his simple child ! 
And thou, Paolo — not a whit behind--- 
Helping his craft with inconsiderate 

love !> 
Lady Francesca, when my brother left, 
I charged him, as he loved me, to conceal 
Nothing from you that bore on me: and 

now 
That you have seen me, and conversed 

with me. 
If you object to anything in me, — 
Go, I release you. 



Nothing, as to that. 



362 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Fran. But Ravenna's peace'? 

Lan. Shall not be periled. 

Gui. {Coming behind, whispers her.) 

Trust liim not, my child; 
I know his ways; he'd rather fight than 

wed. 
'T is but a wish to have the war afoot. 
Stand firm for poor Ravenna ! 
Lan. Well, my lady, 

Shall we conclude a lasting- peace be- 
tween us 
By truce or marriage rites'? 
Gui. {Whispers her.) The devil tempts 
thee: 
Think of Ravenna, think of me! 
Lan. My lord, 

I see my father waits you. 

(GuiDO retires.) 
Fran. Gentle sir. 

You do me little honour in the choice. 
Lan. My aim is justice. 
Fran. Would you cast me off? 

Lan. Not for the world, if honestly ob- 
tained ; 
Not for the world would I obtain you 
falsely. 
Fran. The rites were half concluded ere 

we met. 
Lan. Meeting, would you withdraw"? 
Fran. No. Bitter word! {Aside.) 

Lan. No ! Are you dealing fairly "? 
Fran. I have said. 

Lan. 0! rapture, rapture! Can it be 
that I— 
Now I '11 speak plainly; for a choice like 

thine 
Implies such love as woman never felt. 
Love me ! Then monsters beget miracles, 
And Heaven provides where human 

means fall short. 
Lady, I '11 worship thee ! I '11 line thy 

path 
With suppliant kings! Thy waiting- 
maids shall be 
Unransomed princesses! Mankind shall 

bow 
One neck to thee, as Persia's multitudes 
Before the rising sun! From this small 

town. 
This centre of my conquests, I will spread 
An empire touching the extremes of 

earth ! 
I'll raise once more the name of ancient 

Rome; 
And what she swayed she shall reclaim 

again ! 
If I grow mad because you smile on me. 
Think of the glory of thy love ; and know 
How hard it is, for such an one as I, 



To gaze unshaken on divinity! 

There 's no such love as mine alive in 

man. 
From every corner of the frowning earth, 
It has been crowded back into my heart. 
Now, take it all ! If that be not enough. 
Ask, and thy wish shall be omnipotent ! 
Your hand. {Takes her hand.) It wavers. 
Fran. So does not my heart. 

Lan. Bravo! Thou art every way a sol- 
dier's wife; 
Thou shouldst have been a Caesar's ! Fa- 
ther, hark! 
I blamed your judgment, only to perceive 
The weakness of my own. 
Mal. What means all this"? 

Lan. It means that this fair lady — though 
I gave 
Release to her, and to Ravenna — placed 
The liberal hand, which I restored to her. 
Back in my own, of her own free good- 
will. 
Is it not wonderful? 
Mal. How so"? 

Lan. How so ! 

<Paolo. Alas ! 't is as I feared ! 

( Aside.) "> 

Mal. You 're humble ?— How <? 

Lan. <Now shall I ci-y aloud to all the 

world. 

Make my deformity my pride, and say, 

Because she loves me, I may boast of if? 

{ Aside. )y' 
No matter, father, I am happy; you, 
As the blessed cause, shall share my hap- 
piness. 
Let us be moving. Revels, dashed with 

wine, 
Shall multiply the joys of this sweet day ! 
There 's not a blessing in the cup of life 
I have not tasted of within an hour! .^ 
<Fran. {Aside.) Thus I begin the prac- 
tice of deceit. 
Taught by deceivers, at a fearful cost. 
The bankrupt gambler has become the 

cheat. 
And lives by arts that erewhile ruined 

me. 
Where it will end, heaven knows; but 

I— 
I have betrayed the noblest heart of 
all!i> 
Lan. Draw down thy dusky vapours, sul- 
len night — 
Refuse, ye stars, to shine upon the 

world — 
Let everlasting blackness wrap the sun, 

1 Both acting versions omit this speech, which is 
essential to the tragedy. 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



363 



And whisper terror to the universe! 
We need ye not ! we '11 blind ye, if ye 

dare 
Peer with lack-lustre on our revelry ! 
I have at heart a passion, that would 

make 
All nature blaze with recreated light ! 

(Exeunt.) 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene 1. The Same. An Apartment in 
the Castle. 

(Enter Lanciotto.) 

Lanciotto. It cannot be that I have 

duped myself. 
That my desire has played into the hand 
Of my belief ; yet such a thing might be. 
We palm more frauds upon our simple 

selves 
Than knavery puts upon us. Could I 

trust 
The open candor of an angel's brow, 
I must believe Francesca's. But the 

tongue 
Should consummate the proof upon the 

brow. 
And give the truth its word. The fault 

lies there. 
I 've tried her. Press her as I may to it, 
She will not utter those three little 

words — 
"I love thee." She will say, "I '11 marry 

you;— 
I '11 be your duteous wife ; — I '11 cheer 

your days ; — 
I '11 do whate'er I can." But at the point 
Of present love, she ever shifts the 

ground. 
Winds round the word, laughs, calls me 

^^nfidel!— 
How can I doubt f So, on and on. 

But yet. 
For all her dainty ways, she never says, 
Frankly, I love thee. I am jealous — 

true! 
Suspicious — true! distrustful of my- 
self ; — 
She knows all that. <Ay, and she like- 
wise knows, 
A single waking of her morning breath 
Would blow these vapours off. I would 

not take 
The barren offer of a heartless hand, 
If all the Indies cowered under it.> 



Perhaps she loves another"? No; she 

said, 
"I love you. Count, as well as any man" ; 
<And laughed, as if she thought that 

precious wit. 
I turn her nonsense into argument, 
And think I reason. Shall I give her 

up^ 
Rail at her heartlessness, and bid her go 
Back to Ravenna^ But she clings to me. 
At the least hint of parting.> Ah ! 't is 

sweet, 
Sweeter than slumber to the lids of pain. 
To fancy that a shadow of true love 
May fall on this God-stricken mould of 

woe. 
From so serene a nature. <Beautiful 
Is the first vision of a desert brook. 
Shining beneath its palmy garniture, 
To one who travels on his easy way; 
What is it to the blood-shot, aching eye 
Of some poor wight who crawls with 

gory feet. 
In famished madness, to its very brink; 
And throws his sun-scorched limbs upon 

the cool 
And humid margin of its shady strand. 
To suck up life at every eager gasp? 
Such seems Francesca to my thirsting 

soul; 
Shall I turn off and die?> 

(Enter Pepe.) 

Pepe. Good-morning, cousin! 

Lan. Good-morning to your foolish maj- 
esty! 
Pepe. The same to your majestic foolerjM 
Lan. You compliment! 
Pepe. I am a troubadour, 

A ballad-monger of fine mongrel ballads, 

And therefore running o'er with elegance. 

Wilt hear my verse? 
Lan. With patience? 

Pepe. No, with rapture. 

You must go mad — weep, rend your 
clothes, and roll 

Over and over, like the ancient Greeks, 

When listening to the Iliad. 
Lan. Sing, then, sing! 

And if you equal Homer in your song. 

Why, roll I must, by sheer compulsion. 
Pepe. Nay, 

You lack the temper of the fine-eared 
Greek. 

You will not roll; but that shall not dis- 
grace 

My gallant ballad, fallen on evil times. 

(Sings.) 



364 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



My father had a blue-black head, 

My uncle's head was reddish — maybe, 

My mother's hair was noways red, 
Sing high ho! the pretty baby! 

Mark the simplicity of that ! 'T is called 
"The Babe's Confession," spoken just 

before 
His father strangled Lim. 
Lan. Most marvellous! 

You struggle with a legend worth your 

art. 
Pepe. Now to the second stanza. Note 

the hint 
I drop about the baby's parentage: 
So delicately too! A maid might sing, 
And never blush at it. <Girls love these 

songs 
Of sugared wickedness. They '11 go 

miles about, 
To say a foul thing in a cleanly way. 
A decent immorality, my lord, 
Is art's specific. Get the passions up, 
But never wring the stomach. > 
Lan. Triumphant art! 

(Pepe sings.) 

My father combed his blue-black head, 
My uncle combed his red head — maybe, 

My mother combed my head, and said. 
Sing high ho! my red-haired baby. 

Lan. Fie, fie! go comb your hair in pri- 



Pepe. 



vate. 



the 



CPE. What ! 

Will you not hear"? Now comes 

tragedy. {Sings.) 

My father tore my red, red head. 
My uncle tore my father's — maybe, 

My mother tore both till they bled — 
Sing high ho! your brother's baby! 

Lan. Why, what a hair-rending! 

Pepe. Thence wigs arose; 

A striking epoch in man's history. 
<But did you notice the concluding line, 
Sung by the victim's mother"? There's 
a hit ! 

"Sing high ho! your brother's baby!" 

Which brother's, pray you 9 That's the 
mystery. 

The adumbration of poetic art, 

And there I leave it to Derplex man- 
kind.> 

It has a moral, fathers should regard, — 

A black-haired dog breeds not a red- 
haired cur. 

<Treasure this knowledge : you 're about 
to wive; 

And no one knows what accident — 



Lan. Peace, fool!> 

So all this cunning thing was wound 

about, 
To cast a jibe at my deformity? 

{Tears of Pepe's cap.) 
There lies your cap, the emblem that pro- 
tects 
Your head from chastisement. Now, 

Pepe, hark! r 

Of late you 've taken to reviling me ; 
Under your motley, you have dared to 

jest 
At God's inflictions. Let me tell you, 

fool. 
No man e'er lived, to make a second jest 
At me, before your time! 
Pepe. Boo! Bloody-bones! 

If you're a coward — which I hardly 

think— 
You '11 have me flogged, or put into a cell, 
Or fed to wolves. If you are bold of 

heart. 
You '11 let me run. Do not ; I '11 work 

you harm ! 
I, Beppo Pepe, standing as a man, 
Without my motley, tell you, in plain 

terms, 
I '11 work you harm — I '11 do you mischief, 

man! 
Lan. I, Lanciotto, Count of Rimini, 

Will hang you, then. Put on your jin- 
gling cap ; 
You please my father. But remember, 

fool. 
No jests at me! 
Pepe. I will try earnest next. 

Lan. And I the gallows. 
Pepe. Well, cry quits, cry quits ! 

I '11 stretch your heart, and you my neck 

— quits, quits! 
Lan. Go, fool ! Your weakness bounds 

your malice. 
Pepe. Yes. 

So you all think, you savage gentlemen, 
Until you feel my sting. Hang, hang 

away! 
It is an airy, wholesome sort of death. 
Much to my liking. When I hang, my 

friend. 
You '11 be chief mourner, I can promise 

you. 
Hang me! I've quite a notion to be 

hung: 
I '11 do my utmost to deserve it. Hang ! 

{Exit.) 
Lan. I am bemocked on all sides. My 

sad state 
Has given the licensed and unlicensed 

fool 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



365 



Charter to challenge me at every turn. 
The jester's laughing bauble blunts my 

sword, 
His gibes cut deeper than its fearful 

edge ; 
And I, a man, a soldier, and a prince. 
Before this motley patchwork of a man. 
Stand all appalled, as if he were a glass 
Wherein I saw my own deformity. 

Heaven ! a tear — one little tear — to 

wash 
This aching dryness of the heart away ! 

{Enter Paolo.) 

<Paolo. What ails the fool*? He passed 

me, muttering 
The strangest garbage in the fiercest tone. 
"Ha ! ha !" cried he, "they made a fool of 

me — 
A motley man, a slave ; as if I felt 
No stir in me of manly dignity ! 
Ha! ha! a fool — a painted plaything, 

toy— 
For men to kick about this dirty world ! — 
My world as well as theirs. — God's world, 

I trow ! 

1 will get even with them yet — ^lia ! ha ! 
In the democracy of death we '11 square. 
Ill crawl and lie beside a king's own 

son; 
Kiss a young princess, dead lip to dead 

lip; 
Pull the Pope's nose; and kick down 

Charlemagne, 
Throne, crown, and all, where the old 

idiot sprawls. 
Safe as he thinks, rotting in royal state !" 
And then he laughed and gibbered, as if 

drunk 
With some infernal ecstasy. 
Lan. Poor fool! 

That is the groundwork of his malice, 

then, — 
His conscious difference from the rest of 

men? 
I, of all men, should pity him the most. 
Poor Pepe! I'll be kinder. I have 

wronged 
A feeling heart. Poor Pepe !> 
Paolo. [What, Lanciotto, art thou] Sad 



agam 



Where has the rapture gone of yester- 
day"? 
Lan. Where are the leaves of summer"? 
Where the snows 

Of last year's Winter? Where the joys 
and griefs 

That shut our eyes to yesternight's re- 
pose, 



And woke not on the morrow"? <Joys 

and griefs, 
Huntsmen and hounds, ye follow us as 

game. 
Poor panting outcasts of your forest- 
law! 
Each cheers the others, — one with wild 

halloos, 
And one with whines and howls. — A 

dreadful chase. 
That only closes when horns sound a 
mort! 
Paolo. Thus ever up and down !> Arouse 
yourself. 
Balance your mind more evenly, and 

hunt 
For honey in the wormwood. 
Lan. Or find gall 

Hid in the hanging chalice of the rose : 
Which think you better"? If my mood 

otfend. 
We '11 turn to business, <to the empty 

cares 
That make such pother in our feverish 

life.> 
When at Ravenna, did you ever hear 
Of any romance in Francesca's life"? 
A love-tilt, gallantry, or anything 
That might have touched her heart"? 
Paolo. Not lightly even. 

I think her heart as virgin as her hand. 
Lan. Then there is hope. 
Paolo. Of what"? 

Lan. Of winning her. 

Paolo. Grammercy! Lanciotto, are you 
sane"? 
You boasted yesterday — 
Lan. And changed to-day. 

Is that so strange"? I always mend the 

fault 
Of yesterday with wisdom of to-day. 
She does not love me. 
Paolo. Pshaw! she marries you: 

'T were proof enough for me, 
Lan. Perhaps, she loves you. 

Paolo. Me, Lanciotto, me! For mercy's 
sake, 
Blot out such thoughts — they madden 

me! What, love — 
She love — yet marry you ! 
Lan. It moves you much. 

'T was but a fleeting fancy, nothing more. 
Paolo. You have such wild conjectures ! 
Lan. Well, to me 

They seem quite tame; they are my bed- 
fellows. 
Think, to a modest woman, what must be 
The loathsome kisses of an unloved man — 
A gross, coarse ruffian ! 



366 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Paolo. 0, good heavens, forbear ! ^ 

Lan. What shocks you sof 

Paolo. The picture which you draw, 

Wronging yourself by horrid images. 
Lan. Until she love me, till I know, be- 
yond 
The cavil of a doubt, that she is mine — 
Wholly, past question — do you think 

that I 
Could so afflict the woman whom I love? 
Paolo. You love her, Lanciotto! 
Lan. Next to you. 

Dearer than anything in nature's scope. 
Paolo. {Aside.) 0! Heaven, that I must 
bear this! <Yes, and more, — 
More torture than I dare to think up- 
on, 
Spreads out before me with the coming 

years. 
And holds a record blotted with my 

tears, 
As that which I must suffer !> 
Lan. Come, Paolo, [come] 

<Come> help me [to] woo. I need your 

guiding eye, 
To signal me, if I should sail astray. 
Paolo. 0! torture, torture! (Aside.) 

1 The following lines in Boker's handwriting 
were substituted in the acting version of 1853 for 
the remainder of the scene, which had already been 
cut as indicated. 

Paolo.^ Oh ! good heaven, forbear ! 

But this is idle talk. {Bells ring.) 
Your marriage bells 

Are pealing on the air. The guests at- 
tend. 

Bestir you, if you are not yet attired 

Quite to your liking. 
Lanciotto. Does he mock me, too"? 

Nay, I more wrong myself in wronging 
him. (Aside.) 

{Enter Rene, Troubadours and Noble- 
men.) 

Rene. Bestir yourselves, good gentlemen. 
The church 
Awaits your presence, Count Lanciotto, 

come! 
Can you be slow to win so fair a prized 
1st Nobleman. Go fetch the bride. Count 
Paolo. This command 
Your father bade me bear you. 
Paolo. Break, my heart ! 

Why stretch the torture through another 

day? (Aside.) 
Come, brother, hasten! (Exit.) 

Lanciotto. As you will. In sooth, 

You all look joyous. Are you honest, 
then, 



Lan. You and I, perchance, 

Joining our forces, may prevail at last. 
They call love like a battle. As for me, 
I 'm not a soldier equal to such wars. 
Despite my arduous schooling. <Tutor 

me 
In the best arts of amorous strategy. 
I am quite raw, Paolo. Glances, sighs, 
Sweets of the lip, and arrows of the eye. 
Shrugs, cringes, compliments, are new 

to me; 
And I shall handle them with little art.> 
Will you instruct me*? 
Paolo. < Conquer for yourself. 

Two captains share one honour: keep it 

all. 
What if I ask to share the spoils'? 
Lan. (Laughing.) Ha! ha! 

I '11 trust you, brother. > Let us go to 

her : 
Francesca is neglected while we. jest. 
I know not how it is, but your fair face. 
And noble figure, always cheer me up. 
More than your words ; there 's healing in 

them, too. 
For my worst griefs. Dear brother, let 

us in. (Exeunt.) 



To urge this marriage? If I once say, 

no! 
Not all the fathers that begot their kind 
Since man was man can shake my uttered 

will. 
1st. Nobleman. Think of the bride, my 

lord. 
Rene. Oh! such a slight. 

To hurl your no against her whispered 

yes. 
Lan. So be it then, I have called in the 

Avorld 
To counsel with me, and you all approve 
The love-sick yearnings of my heart. 

God, 
I trust I do no creature shaped by thee. 
In thy own image — not in mine — a wrong 
By mating with the fairest of them all! 
Marriage! why, marriage is, like birth 

and death 
The common lot of all. Then why should 

I, 

Who never feared the sternest mood of 

man, 
Fear woman at her tenderesf? Gently, 

sirs: 
Let us walk softly to the sacred church; 
Mindful that other rites than marriages 
Make it a portal opening into Heaven. 

{Exeunt.) 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



367 



Scene 2.^ The Same. A Chamber in the 
Same. Fraxcesca and Ritta discovered 
at the bridal toilet. 

<RiTTA. {Sings.) 

Ring high, ring high! to earth and sky; 

A lady goes a-wedding; 
The people shout, the show draws out. 
And smiles the bride is shedding. 

No bell for you, ye ragged few; 

A beggar goes a-wedding; 
The people sneer, the thing 's so queer, 

And tears the bride is shedding. 

Ring low, ring low! dull bell of woe. 
One tone will do for either; 

The lady glad, and beggar sad. 
Have both lain down together. 

Fbancesca. a mournful ballad! 
RiT. I scarce knew I sang.> 

I 'm weary of this wreath. These orange- 
flowers 
Will never be adjusted to my taste: 
Strive as I will, they ever look awry. 
<My fingers ache ! 
Fran. Not more than my poor head. 

There, leave them so. 
RiT. That 's better, yet not well. 

Fran. They are but fading things, not 
worth your pains: 
They '11 scarce outlive the marriage merri- 
ment. > 
Ritta, these flowers are hypocrites; they 

show 
An outside gayety, yet die within. 
Minute by minute. You shall see them 

fall, 
Black with decay, before the rites are 
o'er. 
RiT. How beautiful you are ! 
Fran. Fie, flatterer! 

White silk and laces, pearls and orange- 
flowers, 
Would do as much for any one. 
RiT. No, no ! 

You give them grace, they nothing give 

to you. 
<Why, after all, you make the wreath 

look well; 
But somewhat dingy, where it lies against 
Your pulsing temple, sullen with dis- 
grace. > 
Ah! well, your Coun^ should be the 

proudest man 
That ever led a lady into church, 
Were he a modern Alexander. Poh ! 
What are his trophies to a face like that "? 

1 This scene was omitted in the 1882 version, and 
a portion of it put in Scene 1. 



Fran. I seem^ to please you, Ritta. 
RiT. Please yourself, 

And you will please me better. You are 

sad: 
T marked it ever since you saw the Count. 
I fear the splendor of his victories. 
And his sweet grace of manner — for, in 

faith. 
His is the gentlest, grandest character. 
Despite his — 
Fran. Well? 

RiT. Despite his — 

Fran. Ritta, what? 

RiT. Despite his difference from Count 
Paolo, [lady].— 

(Francesca staggers.) 

What is the matter? {Supporting her.) 

Fran. Nothing; mere fatigue. 

Hand me my kerchief. I am better now. 

What were you saying? 

RiT. <That I fear the Count 

Has won your love. 
Fran. Would that be cause for fear? 

{Laughing.) 

RiT. ! yes, indeed ! Once — long ago — I 

was 

Just fool enough to tangle up my heart 

With one of these same men. 'T was 

terrible ! 
Morning or evening, waking or asleep, 
I had no peace. Sighs, groans, and 

standing tears, 
Counted my moments through the blessed 

day. 
And then to this there was a dull, strange 

ache 
Forever sleeping in my breast, — a numb- 
ing pain, 
That would not for an instant be forgot. 
! but I loved him so, that very feeling 
Became intolerable. And I believed 
This false Giuseppe, too, for all the 

sneers. 
The shrugs and glances, of my intimates. 
They slandered me and him, yet I be- 
lieved. 
He was a noble, and his love to me 
Was a reproach, a shame, yet I believed. 
He wearied of me, tried to shake me off, 
Grew cold and formal, yet I would not 

doubt. 
! lady, I was true ! Nor till I saw 
Giuseppe walk through the cathedral door 
With Dora, the rich usurer's niece, upon 
The very arm to which I clung so oft. 
Did I so much as doubt him. Even 

then — 
More is my shame — I made excuses for 
him. 



368 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



''Just this or that bad forced him to the 

course : 
Perhaps, he loved me yet — a little yet. 
His fortune, or his family, had driven 
My poor Giuseppe thus against his heart. 
The low are sori'y judges for the great. 
Yes, yes, Giuseppe loved me!" But at 

last 
I did awake. It might have been with 

less: 
There was no need of crushing me, to 

break 
My silly dream up. In the street, it 

chanced, 
Dora and he went by me, and he 

laughed — 
A bold, bad laugh — right in my poor pale 

face. 
And turned and whispered Dora, and she 

laughed. 
Ah ! then I saw it all. I 've been awake, 
Ever since then, I warrant you. And 

now 
I only pray for him sometimes, when 

friends 
Tell his base actions towards his hapless 

wife. 
! I am lying — I pray every night ! 

(Weeps.) 
Fran. Poor Ritta. (Weeping.) 

RiT. No ! blest Ritta ! Thank kind 

heaven. 
That kept me spotless when he tempted 

me. 
And my weak heart was pleading with his 

tongue. 
Pray, do not weep. You spoil your eyes 

for me. 
But never love; oh! it is terrible! 
Fran. I '11 strive against it. 
RiT. Do: because, my lady. 

Even a husband may be false, you know ; 
Ay, even to so sweet a wife as you. 
Men have odd tastes. They '11 surfeit on 

the charms 
Of Cleopatra, and then turn aside 
To woo her blackamoor. 'T is so, in 

faith; 
Or Dora's uncle's gold had ne'er outbid 
The boundless measure of a love like 

mine. 
Think of it, lady, to weigh love with gold ! 
What could be meaner"? 
Fran. Nothing, nothing, Ritta. 

Though gold 's the standard measure of 

the world. 
And seems to lighten everything beside. 
Yet heap the other passions in the 

scale, 



And balance them 'gainst that which gold 

outweighs — 
Against this love — and you shall see how 

light 
The most supreme of them are in the 

poise ! 
I speak by book and history; for love 
Slights my high fortunes. Under cloth 

of state 
The urchin cowers from pompous eti- 
quette, 
Waiving his function at the scowl of 

power. 
And seeks the rustic cot to stretch his 

limbs 
In homely freedom. I fulfill a doom. 
We who are topmost on this heap of life 
Are nearer to heaven's hand than you 

below ; 
And so are used, as ready instruments. 
To work its purposes. Let envy hide 
Her witless forehead at a prince's name, 
And fix her hopes upon a clown's content. 
You, happy lowly, know not what it is 
To groan beneath the crowned yoke of 

state. 
And bear the goadings of the sceptre. 

Ah! 
Fate drives us onward in a narrow way. 
Despite our boasted freedom.> 

(Enter Paolo, with Pages hearing torches.) 

Gracious saints! [my lord] 
What brought you here? 
Paolo. The bridegroom waits. 

Fran. He does? 

Let him wait on forever ! I '11 not go ! 
! dear [dear] Paolo — 
Paolo. Sister ! 

Fran. It is well. , 

I have been troubled with a sleepless | 
night. ' 

My brain is wild. I know not what I 

say. 
Pray, do not call me sister ; it is cold. 
<I never had a brother, and the name 
Sounds harshly to me. When you speak 

to me,> 
Call me Francesca. 
Paolo. You shall be obeyed. 

Fran. I would not be obeyed. I 'd have 
you do it 
Because — because you love me — as a sis- 
ter — 
And of your own good-will, not my com- 
mand. 
Would please me, — Do you understand? 
Paolo. Too well! (Aside.) 

'T is a nice difference. 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



369 



Fran. Yet you understand? 

Say that you do. 
Paolo. I do. 

Fran. That pleases me. 

'T is flattering if our — friends appreciate 
Our nicer feelings. 
Paolo. I await you, lady. 

Fran. Ritta, my gloves. — Ah, yes, I have 
them on; 
Though I 'm not quite prepared. Ar- 
range my veil ; 
It folds too closely. That will do ; retire. 
(Ritta retires.) 
[And] So, Count Paolo, you have come, 

hot haste, 
To lead me to the church, — to have your 

share 
In my undoing? And you came, in 

sooth, 
Because they sent you? You are very 

tame! 
And if they sent, was it for you to come ? 
Paolo. Lady, I do not understand this 
scorn. 
I came, as is my duty, to escort 
My brother's bride to him. When next 

you 're called, 
I '11 send a lackey. 
<rRAN. I have angered you. 

Paolo. With reason: I would not appear 
to you 

Low and contemptible. 
Fran. Why not to me? 

Paolo. Lady, I '11 not be catechized. 
Fran. Ha! Count! 

Paolo. No ! if you press me further, I will 
say 
A word to madden you. — Stand still! 

You stray 
Around the margin of a precipice. 
I know what pleasure 't is to pluck the 

flowers 
That hang above destruction, and to gaze 
• Into the dread abyss, to see such things 
As may be safely seen. 'T is perilous : 
The eye grows dizzy as we gaze below, 
And a wild wish possesses us to spring 
Into the vacant air. Beware, beware! 
Lest this unholy fascination grow 
Too strong to conquer ! 
Fran. You talk wildly. Count; 

There 's not a gleam of sense in what you 

say; ^ 
I cannot hit your meaning. 
Paolo. Lady, come!> 

Fran. Count, you are cruel ! (Weeps.) 
Paolo. ! no ; I would be kind. 

<But now, while reason over-rides my 
heart 



And seeming anger plays its braggart 

part — > 
In heaven's name, come ! 
Fran. One word — one question more : 

Is it your wish this marriage should pro- 
ceed? 
Paolo. It is. 
Fran. Come on! You shall not take 

my hand : 
I '11 walk alone — now, and forever ! 
Paolo. {Taking her hand.) Sister! 

{Exeunt Paolo and Francesca, with 

Pages. ) 
<RiTTA. ! misery, misery ! — it is plain 

as day — 
She loves Paolo ! Why will those I love 
Forever get themselves ensnared, and 

heaven 
Forever call on me to succor them? 
Here was the mystery, then — the sighs 

and tears. 
The troubled slumbers, and the waking 

dreams ! 
And now she 's walking through the 

chapel-door. 
Her bridal robe above an aching heart. 
Dressed up for sacrifice. 'T is terrible ! 
And yet she '11 smile and do it. Smile, 

for years, 
Until her heart breaks; and the nurses 

ask 
The doctor of the cause. He '11 answer 

too. 
In hard thick Latin, and believe himself. 

! my dear mistress ! Heaven, pray tor- 

ture me ! 
Send back Giuseppe, let him ruin me. 
And scorn me after; but, sweet heaven, 

spare her ! 

1 '11 follow her. ! what a world is this I 

{Exit.)> 



Scene 3. The Same. Interior of the 
Cathedral. Lanciotto, Francesca, Pa- 
olo, Malatesta, Guido, Ritta, Pepe, 
Lords, Knights, Priests, Pages, a hridal- 
train of Ladies, Soldiers, Citizens, At- 
tendants, discovered before the High 
Altar. Organ music. The rites being 
over, they advance. 

Malatesta. By heaven — 
Pepe. ! uncle, uncle, you 're in church ! 
Mal. I '11 break your head, knave ! 
Pepe. I claim sanctuary. 

Mal. Why, bridegroom, will you never 
kiss the bride? 
We all are mad to follow you. 



370 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Pepe. Yes, yes ; 

<Here was [Count] Paolo wetting his 

red lips 
For tlie last minute. Kiss, and> give 
<him> [us] room. 
Mal. You heaven-forsaken imp, be quiet 

now! 
Pepe. Then there 'd be naught worth hear- 
ing. 
Mal. Bridegroom, come! 

Pepe. Lord! he don't like it! Hey! — I 
told you so — 
He backs at the first step. Does he not 

know 
His trouble 's just begun'? 
Lanciotto. Gentle Francesca, 

Custom imposes somewhat on thy lips : 
I'll make my levy. {Kisses her. The 
others follow.) (Aside.) Ha! she 
shrank! I felt 
Her body tremble, and her quivering lips 
Seemed dying under mine! I heard a 

sigh, 
Such as breaks hearts — 0! no, a very 

groan ; 
And then she turned a sickly, miserable 

look 
On pallid Paolo, and he shivered, too! 
There is a mystery hangs around her, — 

ay, 

[And] Paolo knows it, too. — By all the 
saints, 

I'll make him tell it, at the dagger's 
point ! 

Paolo! — here! [here!] I do adjure you, 
brother. 

By the great love I bear you, to reveal 

The secret of Francesca's grief. 
Paolo. I cannot. 

Lan. She told you nothing? 
Paolo. Nothing. 

Lan. Not a word'? 

Paolo. Not one. 

Lan. What heard you at Ravenna, then *? 
Paolo. Nothing. 
Lan. Here? 

Paolo. Nothing. 

Lan. Not the slightest hint?— 

Don't stammer, man! Speak quick! I 
am in haste. 
Paolo. Never. 
Lan. What know you? 

Paolo. Nothing that concerns 

Your happiness, Lanciotto. If I did. 

Would I not tell unquestioned? 
Lan. Would you not? 

You ask a question for me : answer it. 
Paolo. I have. 
Lan. You juggle, you turn deadly pale. 



Fumble your dagger, stand with head 

lialf round, 
Tapping your feet. — You dare not look 

at me! 
By Satan! [now,] Count Paolo, let me 

say. 
You look much like a full-convicted thief ! 
Paolo. Brother ! — 
Lan. Pshaw ! brother ! You deceive me, 

sir: 
You and that lady have a devil's league. 
To keep a devil's secret. Is it thus 
You deal with me? Now, by the light 

above, 
I 'd give a dukedom for some fair pretext 
To fly you all! She does not love me? 

Well, 
I could bear that, and live away from 

her. 
Love would be sweet, but want of it be- 
comes 
An early habit to such men as I. 
But you — ah ! there 's the sorrow — whom 

I loved 
An infant in your cradle; you who grew 
Up in my heart, with every inch you 

gained ; 
You whom I loved for every quality. 
Good, bad, and common, in your natural 

stock; 
Ay, for your very beauty ! It is strange, 

you'll say. 
For such a crippled horror to do that. 
Against the custom of his kind ! ! yes, 
I love, and you betray me! 
Paolo. Lanciotto, 

This is sheer frenzy. Join your bride. 
Lan. I '11 not ! 

What, go to her, to feel her very flesh 
Crawl from my touch? to hear her sigh 

and moan. 
As if God plagued her? Must I come to 

that? 
<Must I endure your hellish mysteiy • 
With my own wife, and roll my eyes away 
In sentimental bliss ?> No, no! until 
I go to her, with confident belief 
In her integrity and candid love, 
I '11 shun her as a leper. 

[Alarm-bells toll.) 
Mal. What is that? 

{Enter, hastily, a Messenger in disorder.) 

Messenger. My lord, the Ghibelins are 

up— 
Lan. And I 

Will put them down again ! I thank thee, 

heaven, 
For this unlooked-for aid! {Aside.) 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



371 



[GuiDO. My lord, believe 

I had no hand nor heart m this new trial. 
Malatesta. We do not doubt you. 
GuiDO. Else I must depart. 

Mal. Pray you remain. He longs to lead 
the war 
Despite his protest.] Friend, what force 
have they? {To Messenger.) 

Lan. It matters not, — nor yet the time, 
place, cause, 
Of their rebellion. I would throttle it, 
Were it a riot, or a drunken brawl ! 
Mal. Nay, son, your bride — 
Lan. My bride will pardon me ; 

Bless me, perhaps, as I am going forth : — 
Thank me, perhaps, if I should ne'er re- 
turn. _ (Aside.) 
A soldier's duty has no bridals in it. 
Paolo. Laneiotto, this is folly. Let me 
take 
Your usual place of honour. 
Lan. [Laughing.) Ha! ha! ha! 
What! thou, a tilt-yard soldier, lead my 

troops ! 
My wife will ask it shortly. Not a word 
Of opposition from the new-made bride? 
Nay, she looks happier. 0! accursed 

day. 
That I was mated to an empty heart! 

(Aside.) 
<Mal. But, son — 
LAN. Well, father? 

Pepe. Uncle, let him go. 

He '11 find it cooler on a battle-field 
Than in his — 
Lan. Hark ! the fool speaks oracles.> 

You, soldiers, who are used to follow me. 
And front our charges, emulous to bear 
The shock of battle on your forward 

arms, — 
Why stand ye in amazement? Do your 

swords 
Stick to their scabbards with inglorious 

rust? 
Or has repose so weakened your big 

hearts. 
That you can dream with trumpets at 

your ears? 
Out wdth your steel! It shames me to 

behold 

Such tardy welcome to my war-worn 

blade! (Draws.) 

(The Knights and Soldiers draw.) 

Ho! draw our forces out! Strike camp, 

sound drums. 
And set us on our marches! As I live, 
I pity the next foeman who relies 
On me for mercy ! Farewell ! to you 
all— 



To all alike — a soldier's short farewell! 

(Going.) 

(Paolo stands before him.) 

Out of my way, thou juggler! (Exit.) 

Paolo. He is gone 1 



ACT FIFTH. 

<ScENE 1.1 The Same. The Garden of 
the Castle. 

(Enter Pepe, singing.) 

Pepe. 'T is jolly to walk in the shady green- 
wood 
With a damsel by your side; 
'T is jolly to walk from the chapel- 
door, 
With the hand of your pretty bride ; 
'T is jolly to rest your weary head, 
When life runs low and hope is fled, 

On the heart where you confide: 
'T is jolly, jolly, jolly, they say, 
They say — but I never tried. 

Nor shall I ever till they dress their girls 
In motley suits, and pair us, to increase 
The race of fools. 'T would be a noble 

thing, 
A motley woman, had she wit enough 
To bear the bell. But there 's the misery : 
You may make princes out of any stuff; 
Fools come by nature. She '11 make fifty 

kings — 
Good, hearty tyrants, sound, cruel gov- 
ernors — 
For one fine fool. There is Paolo, now, 
A sweet-faced fellow with a wicked 

heart — 
Talk of a flea, and you begin to scratch. 
Lo! here he comes. And there's fierce 

crookback's bride 
Walking beside him — 0, how gingerly ! 
Take care, my love ! that is the very pace 
We trip to hell with. Hunchback is 

away — 
That was a fair escape for you; but, 

then. 
The devil's ever with us, and that's 

worse. 
See, the Ravenna gigglet. Mistress Ritta, 
And melancholy as a cow. — How's this? 
I '11 step aside, and watch you, pretty 

folks. 

(Hides behind the bushes.) 

(Enter Paolo and Francesca, followed by 

1 In the 1853 version, this entire scene was 
omitted. It was restored in the 1882 version. 



372 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



RiTTA. Re seats himself in an arhor, and 
reads.) 
Francesca. Ritta. 
RiTTA. My lady. 

Fran. You look tired. 

RiT. I 'm not. 

Fran. Go to your chamber. 
RiT. I would rather stay, 

If it may please you. I require a walk 
And the fresh atmosphere of breathing 

flowers, 
To stir my blood. I am not very well. 
Fran. I knew it, child. Go to your cham- 
ber, dear. 
Paolo has a book to read to me. 
RiT. What, the romance? I should so love 
to hear! 
I dote on poetry; and Count Paolo 
Sweetens the Tuscan with his mellow 

voice. 
I 'm weary now, quite weary, and would 
rest. 
Fran. Just now you wished to walk. 
RiT. Ah! did I so? 

Walking-, or resting, I would stay with 
you. 
Fran. The Count objects. He told me, 
yesterday. 
That you were restless while he read to 

me; 
And stirred your feet amid the grass, and 

sighed, 
And yawned, until he almost paused. 
RiT. Indeed 

I will be quiet. 
Fran. But he will not read. 

RiT. Let me go ask him. 

{Runs toward Paolo.) 
Fran. Stop ! Come hither, Ritta. 

{She returns.) 
I saw your new embroidery in the hall, — 
The needle in the midst of Argus' eyes; 
It should be finished. 
RiT. I will bring it here. — 

0, no ! my finger 's sore ; I cannot work. 
Fran. Go to your room. 
RiT. Let me remain, I pray. 

'T is better, lady; you may wish for me; 
I know you will be sorry if I go. 
Fran. I shall not, girl. Do as I order 
you. 
Will you be headstrong? 
RiT. Do you wish it, then? 

Fran. Yes, Ritta. 
RiT. Yet you made pretexts enough. 

Before you ordered. 
Fran. You are insolent. 

Will you remain against my will? 
RiT. Yes, lady ; 



Rather than not remain. 
Fran. Ha ! impudent ! 

RiT. You wrong me, gentle mistress. 
Love like mine 
Does not ask questions of propriety. 
Nor stand on manners. I would do you 

good. 
Even while you smote me; I would push 

you back. 
With my last effort, from the crumbling 

edge 
Of some high rock o'er which you toppled 
me. 
Fran. What do you mean? 
RiT. I know. 

Fran. Know what? 

RiT. Too much 

Pray, do not ask me. 
Fran. Speak ! 

RiT. I know — dear lady, 

Be not offended — 
Fran. Tell me, simpleton ! 

RiT. Y^ou know I worship you; you know 
I 'd walk 
Straight into ruin for a whim of yours; 
You know — 
Fran. I know you act the fool. Talk 

sense ! 
RiT. I know Paolo loves you. 
Fran. Should he not ? 

He is my brother. 
RiT. More than brother should. 

Fran. Ha ! are you certain ? 
RiT. Yes, of more than that. 

Fran. Of more ? 

RiT. Yes, lady ; for you love him, too. 

I Ve said it ! Fling me to the carrion 

crows, 
Kill me by inches, boil me in the pot 
Count Guido promised me, — but, 0, be- 
ware ! 
Back, while you may ! Make me the suf- 
ferer. 
But save yourself! 
Fran. Now, are you not ashamed 

To look me in the face with that bold 

brow ? 
I am amazed ! 
RiT. I am a woman, lady; 

I too have been in love; I know its ways. 
Its arts, and its deceits. Your frowning 

face. 
And seeming indignation, do not cheat. 
Your heart is in my hand. 
Paolo. {Calls.) Francesca! 

Fran. Hence,, 

Thou wanton-hearted minion ! hence, I 

say !— 
And never look me in the face again ! — 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



373 



Hence, thou insulting slave ! 
RiT. {Clinging to her.) lady, lady — 

Fran. Begone. {Throws her o/f.) 

RiT. I have no friends — no one to love — 

0, spare me ! 
Fran. Hence ! 

RiT. Was it for this I loved — 

Cared for you more than my own hap- 
piness — 
Ever at heart your slave — without a wish 
For greater recompense than your stray 
smiles ? 
Paolo. {Calls.) Franeesca! 
Fran. Hurry ! 

RiT. I am gone. Alas! 

God bless you, lady! God take care of 

you, 
When I am far away ! Alas, alas ! 

{Exit weeping.) 
Fran. Poor girl! — but were she all the 
world to me. 
And held my future in her tender grasp, 
I 'd cast her off, without a second thought. 
To savage death, for dear Paolo's sake! 
Paolo, hither ! Now he comes to me ; 
I feel his presence, though I see him not. 
Stealing upon me like the fervid glow 
Of morning sunshine. Now he comes too 

near — 
He touches me — heaven! 
Paolo. Our poem waits. 

I have been reading while you talked with 

Ritta. 
How did you get her off? 
Fran. By some device. 

She will not come again. 
Paolo. I hate the girl : 

She seems to stand between me and the 

light. 
And now for the romance. Where left 
we off? 
Fran. Where Lancelot and Queen Gue- 
nevra strayed 
Along the forest, in the youth of May. 
You marked the figure of the birds that 

sang 
Their melancholy farewell to the sun — 
Rich in his loss, their sorrow glorified — 
Like gentle mourners o'er a great man's 

grave. 
Was it not there? No, no; 'twas where 

they sat 
Down on the bank, by one impulsive wish 
That neither uttered. 
Paolo. {Turning over the hook.) Here 
it is. {Beads.) 

"So sat 
Guenevra and Sir Lancelot" — 'T were 
well 



To follow them in that. 

{They sit upon a hank.) 
Fran. I listen : read. 

Nay, do not; I can wait, if you desire. 

Paolo. My dagger frets me; let me take it 

off. {Rises.) 

In thoughts of love, we '11 lay our 

weapons by. 

{Lays aside his dagger, and sits again.) 

Draw closer: I am weak in voice to-day. 

{Reads.) 
"So sat Guenevra and Sir Lancelot, 

Under the blaze of the descending sun, 
But all his cloudy splendors were forgot. 
Each bore a thought, the only secret 
one. 
Which each had hidden from the other's 
heart. 
That with sweet mystery well-nigh 
overrun. 
Anon, Sir Lancelot, with gentle start, 

Put by the ripples of her golden hair, 
Gazing upon her with his lips apart. 
He marvelled human thing could be so 
fair; 
Essayed to speak ; but, in the very deed. 
His words expired of self-betrayed 
despair. 
Little she helped him, at his direst need. 
Roving her eyes o'er hill, and wood, 
and sky. 
Peering intently at the meanest weed; 
Ay, doing aught but look in Lancelot's 
eye. 
Then, with the small pique of her velvet 
shoe. 
Uprooted she each herb that blossomed 
nigh; 
Or strange wild figures in the dust she 
drew; 
Until she felt Sir Lancelot's arm 
around 
Her waist, upon her cheek his breath like 
dew. 
While through his fingers timidly he 
wound 
Her shining locks; and, haply, when he 
brushed 
Her ivory skin, Guenevra nearly 
swound : 
For where he touched, the quivering sur- 
face blushed, 
Firing her blood with most contagious 
heat. 
Till brow, cheek, neck, and bosom, all 
were flushed. 
Each heart was listening to the other 
beat. 
As twin-born lilies on one golden stalk, 



374 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Drooping with Summer, in warm lan- 
guor meet, 
So met their laces. Down the forest 
walk 
Sir Lancelot looked — he looked east, * 
west, north, south — 
No soul was nigh, his dearest wish to 
balk : 
She smiled ; he kissed her full upon the 
mouth." {Kisses Francesca.) 

I '11 read no more ! 

{Starts up, dashing down i'he hook.) 

Fran. Paolo ! 

Paolo. I am mad ! 

The torture of unnumbered hours is o'er, 

The straining cord has broken, and my 

heart 
Riots in free delirium ! 0, heaven ! 
I struggled with it, but it mastered me ! 
I fought against it, but it beat me down ! 
I prayed, I w^pt, but heaven was deaf 

to me; 
And every tear rolled backward on my 

heart. 
To blight and poison! 
Frax. And dost thou regret 1 

Paolo. The love*? No, no! I'd dare it 
all again, 
Its direst agonies and meanest fears, 
For that one kiss. Away with fond re- 
morse ! 
Here, on the brink of ruin, we two stand ; 
Lock hands wdth me, and brave the fear- 
ful plunge! 
Thou canst not name a terror so profound 
That I will look or falter from. Be 

bold ! 
I know thy love — I knew it long ago — 
Trembled and fled from it. But now I 

clasp 
The peril to my breast, and ask of thee 
A kindred desperation. 
Fran. {Throwing herself into his arms.) 

Take me all, — 
Body and soul. The women of our clime 
Do never give away but half a heart : 
I have not part to give, part to with- 
hold. 
In selfish safety. When I saw thee first. 
Riding alone amid a thousand men, 
Sole in the lustre of thy majesty, 
And Guido da Polenta said to me, 
"Daughter, behold thy husband!" with a 

bound 
My heart went forth to meet thee. He 

deceived. 
He lied to me — ah ! that 's the aptest 

word — 
And I believed. Shall I not turn again, 



And meet him, craft with craft? Paolo, 

love, 
Thou 'rt dull — thou 'rt dying like a feeble 

fire 
Before the sunshine. Was it but a blaze, 
A flash of glory, and a long, long night ? 
Paolo. No, darling, no! You could not 

bend me back; 
My course is onward; but my heart is 

sick 
With coming fears. 
Fran. Away with them ! Must I 

Teach thee to love*? and reinform the ear 
Of thy spent passion with some sorcery 
To raise the chilly dead ? 
Paolo. Thy lips have not 

A sorceiy to rouse me as this spell. 

{Kisses her.) 

Fran. I give thy kisses back to thee again : 

And, like a spendthrift, only ask of thee 

To take while I can give. 

Paolo. Give, give forever! 

Have w^e not touched the height of human 

bliss? 
And if the sharp rebound may hurl us 

back 
Among the prostrate, did we not soar 

once ? — 
Taste heavenly nectar, banquet with the 

gods 
On high Olympus ? If they cast us, now. 
Amid the furies, shall we not go down 
With rich ambrosia clinging to our lips. 
And richer memories settled in our 

hearts? 
Francesca. 
Fran. Love ? 

Paolo. The sun is sinking low 

Upon the ashes of his fading pyre, 
And gray possesses the eternal blue; 
The evening star is stealing after him. 
Fixed, like a beacon, on the prow of 

night ; ^ 
The world is shutting up its heavy eye 
Upon the stir and bustle of to-day ; — 
On what shall it awake? 
Fran. On love that gives 

Joy at all seasons, changes night to day. 
Makes sorrow smile, plucks out the 

barbed dart 
Of moaning anguish, pours celestial balm 
In all the gaping wounds of earth, and 

lulls 
The nervous fancies of unsheltered fear 
Into a slumber sweet as infancy's ! 
On love that laughs at the impending- 
sword. 
And puts aside the shield of caution : 

cries, 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



375 



To all its enemies, "Come, strike me 

now! — 
Now, while I bold my kingdom, while my 

crown 
Of amaranth and myrtle is yet green, 
Undimmed, un withered; for I cannot 

tell 
That I shall e'er be happier!" Dear 

Paolo, 
Would you lapse down from misery to 

death. 
Tottering through sorrow and infirmity'? 
Or would you perish at a single blow. 
Cut off amid your wildest revelry. 
Falling among the wine-cups and the 

flowers. 
And tasting Bacchus when your drowsy 

sense 
First gazed around eternity? Come, 

love! 
The present whispers joy to us; we'll 

hear 
The voiceless future when its turn arrives, 
Paolo. Thou art a siren. Sing, forever 

sing; 
Hearmg thy voice, I cannot tell what fate 
Thou hast provided when the song is 

o'er ; — 
But I will venture it. 
Feaist. In, in, my love! 

{Exeunt. ) 

(Pepe steals from behind the hushes.) 

Pepe. 0, brother Lanciotto! — 0, my 

stars ! — 
If this thing lasts, I simply shall go 

mad! 
{Laughs, and rolls on the ground.) 

Lord ! to think my pretty lady puss 
Has tricks like this, and we ne'er know 

of it! 

1 teU you, Lanciotto, you and I 
Must have a patent for our foolery! 
"She smiled ; he kissed her full upon the 

mouth !" — 

There 's the beginning ; where 's the end 
of it? 

poesy ! debauch thee only once. 

And thou 'rt the greatest wanton in the 
world ! 

cousin Lanciotto — ho, ho, ho ! 

{Laughing.) 

Can a man die of laughter? Here we 
sat; 

Mistress Francesca so demure and calm; 

Paolo grand, poetical, sublime! — 

Eh! what is this? Paolo's dagger? 
good ! 

Here is more proof, sweet cousin broken- 
back. 



"In thoughts of love, we '11 lay our 
weapons by !" 

{Mimicking Paolo.) 

That 's very pretty ! Here 's its counter- 
part : 

In thoughts of hate, we '11 pick them up 
again! {Takes the dagger.) 

Now for my soldier, now for crook- 
backed Mars! 

Ere long all Rimini will be ablaze. 

He '11 kill me ? Yes : what then ? That 's 
nothing new, 

Except to me : I '11 bear for custom's sake. 

More blood will follow; like the royal 
sun, 

I shall go down in purple. Fools for 
luck ; 

"IChe proverb holds like iron. I must run, 

Ere laughter smother me. — 0, ho, ho, ho ! 
{Exit, laughing.)'^ 



Scene 2. A camp among the Hills. Be- 
fore Lanciotto's tent. 

{Enter, from the tent, Lanciotto.) 

Lanciotto. The camp is strangely quiet. 

Not a sound 
Breaks nature's high solemnity. <The 

sun 
Repeats again his every-day decline ; 
Yet all the world looks sadly after him. 
As if the customary sight were new. 
Yon moody sentinel goes slowly by, 
Through the thick mists of evening, with 

his spear 
Trailed at a funeral hold. Long shadows 

creep 
From thing beyond the furthest range of 

sight. 
Up to my very feet. These mystic 

shades 
Are of the earth; the light that causes 

them, 
And teaches us the quick comparison, 
Is all from heaven. Ah! restless man 

might crawl 
With patience through his shadowy des- 
tiny, 
If he were senseless to the higher light 
Towards which his soul aspires. > How 

grand and vast 
Is yonder show of heavenly pageantry ! 
How mean and narrow is the earthly 

stand 
From which we gaze on it! <Magnifi- 

cent, 
God, art thou amid the sunsets ! Ah,> 



376 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



What heart in Rimini is softened now, 
Towards my defects, by this grand 

spectacle ? 
Perchance, [deai'] Paolo now forgives the 

wrong' 
Of my hot spleen. Perchance, Francesca 

now 
Wishes me back, and turns a tenderer eye 
On my poor person and ill-mannered 

ways; 
Fashions excuses for me, schools her heart 
Through duty into love, and ponders o'er 
The sacred meaning in the name of wife. 
Dreams, dreams! Poor fools, we squan- 
der love away 
On thankless borrowers; when bankrupt 

quite. 
We sit and wonder of their honesty. 
Love, take a lesson from the usurer, 
And never lend but on security. 
<Captain ! 

(Enter a Captain.) 

Captain. My lord. 

Lan. They worsted us to-day. 

Capt. Not much, my lord. 
Lan. With little loss, indeed. 

Their strength is in position. Mark you, 

sir. 
(Draws on the ground with his sword.) 
Here is the pass; it opens towards the 

plain, 
With gradual widening, like a lady's fan. 
The hills protect their flanks on either 

hand; 
And, as you see, we cannot show more 

front 
Than their advance may give us. Then, 

the rocks 
Are sorry footing for our horse. Just 

here. 
Close in against the left-hand hills, I 

marked 
A strip of wood, extending down the 

gorge : 
Behind that wood dispose your force ere 

dawn. 
I shall begin the onset, then give ground, 
And draw them out; while you, behind the 

wood, 
Must steal along, until their flank and 

rear 
Oppose your column. Then set up a 

shout. 
Burst from the wood, and drive them on 

our spears. 
They have no outpost in the wood, I 

know; 



'T is too far from their centre. On the 

morrow. 
When they are flushed with seeming vic- 
tory. 
And think my whole division in full rout, 
They will not pause to scrutinize the 

wood; 
So you may enter boldly. We will use 
The heart to-day's repulse has given to 

them, 
For our advantage. Do you understand? 
Capt. Clearly, my lord. 
Lan. If they discover you. 

Before you gain your point, wheel, and 

retreat 
Upon my rear. If your attack should 

fail 
To strike them with a panic, and they 

turn 
In too great numbers on your small com- 
mand. 
Scatter your soldiers through the wood: 
Let each seek safety for himself. 
Capt. I see> 

Lan. [What, Marco! ho! (To Page who 
enters.)] 
Have Pluto shod; he cast a shoe to-day: 
Let it be done at once. My helmet, too. 
Is worn about the lacing ; look to that. 
< Where is my armorer? 
Capt. At his forge. 

Lan. Your charge 

Must be at sunrise — just at sunrise, sir — 
Neither before nor after. You must 

march 
At moonset, then, to gain the point ere 

dawn. 

That is enough. 

Capt. Good-even! (Going.) 

Lan. Stay, stay, stay!> 

My sword-hilt feels uneasy in my grasp; 

(Gives his sword.) 

Have it repaired; and grind the point. 

< Strike hard! 
I 'U teach these Ghibelins a lesson. 

(Loud laughter within.) 
What is that clamor? Ha !> 

(Enter hastily Pepe, tattered and travel- 
stained.) 

Pepe. News from Rimini ! 

(Falls exhausted.) 

Lan. Is that you, Pepe? <Captain, a 

good-night! (Exii? Captain. )> 

I never saw you in such straits before. 

Wit without words ! 

Pepe. That 's better than— !— !— 

(Panting.) 
Words without wit. 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



377 



Lan. (Laughing.) You'll die a jester, 

Pepe. 
Pepe. If so, I '11 leave the needy all my wit. 
You, you shall have it, cousin. — ! ! ! 

(Panting.) 

Those devils in the hills, the Ghibelins, 

Ran me almost to death. My lord — ha! 

ha! (Laughing.) 

It all comes back to me — ! Lord 'a 

mercy — 
The garden, and the lady, and the Count ! 
Not to forget the poetry — ho! ho! 

(Laughing.) 
! cousin Lanciotto, such a wife. 
And such a brother! Hear me, ere I 
burst ! 
Lan. You 're pleasant, Pepe ! 
Pepe. Am I ?— Ho ! ho ! ho ! 

(Laughing.) 
You ought to be; your wife's a — 
LAN. What^ 

Pepe. A lady — 

A lady, I suppose, like all the rest. 
I am not in their secrets. Such a fellow 
As [fine] Count Paolo is your man for 

that. 
I '11 tell you something, if you '11 swear a 
bit. 
Lan. Swear whaf? 

Pepe. First, swear to listen till the 

end. — 
! you may rave, curse, howl, and tear 

your hair; 
But you must listen. 
Lan. For your jest's sake? Well. 

Pepe. You swear f 
Lan. I do. 

Pepe. Next, swear to know the truth. 

Lan. The truth of a fool's story ! 
Pepe. You mistake. 

Now, look you, cousin! You have often 

marked — 
I know, for I have seen — strange glances 



Between [Count] Paolo and your lady 
wife. — 
Lan. Ha! Pepe! 
Pepe. Now I touch you to the quick. 

I know the reason of those glances. 
Lan. Ha ! 

Speak ! or I '11 throttle you ! 

(Seizes him.) 

Pepe. Your way is odd. 

Let go my <gullet> [throat then] and 

I '11 talk you deaf. 
Swear my last oath: only to know the 
truth. 
Lan. But that may trouble me. 
Pepe, Your honour lies — 



Your precious honour, cousin Chivalry — 
Lies bleeding -with a terrible great gash. 
Without its knowledge. Swear! 
Lan. My honour"? Speak! 

Pepe. You swear ■? 

Lan. I swear. Your news is ill, per- 
chance*? 
Pepe. III! would I bring it else"? Am I 
inclined 
To run ten leagues with happy news for 

you? 
0, Lord, that's jolly! 
Lan. You infernal imp, 

Out with your story, ere I strangle you ! 
Pepe. Then take a fast hold on your two 
great oaths, 
To steady tottering manhood, and attend. 
Last eve, about this hour, I took a stroll 
Into the garden. — ^Are you listening, 
cousin ? 
Lan. I am all ears. 

Pepe. Why, so an ass might say. 

Lan. Will you be serious? 



Pepe. 



Wait a while, and we 



Will both be graver than a church-yard. 

Well, 
Down the long walk, towards me, came 

your wife. 
With [the] Count Paolo walking at her 

side. 
It was a pretty sight, and so I stepped 
Into the bushes. Ritta came with them; 
And lady Fanny had a grievous time 
To get her off. That made me curious. 
Anon, the pair sat down upon a bank. 
To read a poem ; — the tenderest romance. 
All about Lancelot and Queen Guenevra. 
The Count read well — I '11 say that much 

for him — 
Only he stuck too closely to the text. 
Got too much wrapped up in the poesy. 
And played Sir Lancelot's actions, out 

and out. 
On Queen Francesca. Nor in royal parts 
Was she so backward. When he struck 

the line — 
"She smiled ; he kissed her full upon the 

mouth;" 
Your lady smiled, and, by the saints 

above. 
Count Paolo carried out the sentiment ! 
Can I not move you? 
Lan. With such trash as this? 

And so you ran ten leagues to tell a lie ? — 
Run home again. 
Pepe. I am not ready yet. 

After the kiss, up springs our amorous 

Count, 
Flings Queen Guenevra and Sir Lancelot 



378 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Straight to the devil; growls and snaps 

liis teeth, 
Laughs, weeps, howls, dances ; talks about 

his love, 
His madness, suffering, and the Lord 

knows what, 
Bullying the lady like a thief. But she, 
All this hot time, looked cool and mis- 
chievous ; 
<Gave him his halter to the very end,> 
And when he calmed a little, up she steps 
And takes him by the band. You should 

have seen 
How tame the furious fellow was at once ! 
How he came down, snivelled, and cowed 

to her. 
And fell to kissing her again ! It was 
A perfect female triumph ! Such a scene 
A man might pass through life and never 

see. 
More sentiment then followed, — ^buckets 

full 
Of washy words, not worth my memory. 
But all the while she wound his Countship 

up. 
Closer and closer; till at last — tu! — 

wit !— 
She scoops him up, and off she carries 

him. 
Fish for her table! <Follow, if you 

can; 
My fancy fails me.> All this time you 

smile ! 
Lan. You should have been a poet, not a 

fool. 
Pepe. I might be both. 
Lan. You made no record, then? 

Must this fine story die for want of ink? 
Left you no trace in writing? 
Pepe. None. 

Lan. Alas ! 

Then you have told it? 'T is but stale, 

my boy ; 
I 'm second hearer. 
Pepe. You are first, in faith. 

Lan. In truth? 
Pepe. In sadness. You have got it 

fresh. 
<I had no time; I itched to reach j^our 

ear.> 
Now go to Rimini, and see yourself. 
You '11 find them in the garden. Lovers 

are 
Like walking ghosts, they always haunt 

the spot 
Of their misdeeds. 
Lan-. But have I heard you out? 

You told me all? 
Pepe. All; I have nothing left. 



Lan. Why, you brain-stricken idiot, to 
trust 
Your story and your body in my grasp ! 

{Seizes him.) 
Pepe. Unhand me, cousin ! 
Lan. When I drop you, Pepe, 

You '11 be at rest. 
Pepe. I will betray you — ! 

Lan. Not till the judgment day. 

{They struggle.) 
Pepe. {Drawing Paolo's dagger.) Take 

that! 
Lan. {Wresting the dagger from him.) 
Well meant, 
But poorly done ! Here 's my return. 

{Stabs him.) 

Pepe. 0! beast! {Falls.) 

This I expected; it is naught — Ha! ha! 

{Laughing.) 
I '11 go to sleep ; but you — what you will 

bear ! 
Hunchback, come here ! 
<Lan. Fie ! say your prayers. > 

Pepe. Hark, hark ! 

[Your brother] <Paolo> hired mc, 
swine, to murder you. 
Lan. That is a lie; you never cared for 

gold. 
Pepe. He did, I say! I'll swear it, by 
heaven ! 
Do you believe me? 
Lan. No ! 

Pepe. You lie! you lie! 

Look at the dagger, cousin — Ugh! — 
good-night! {Dies.) 

Lan. ! horrible ! It was a gift of 
mine — 
He never laid it by. Speak, speak, fool, 
speak! {Shakes the body.) 

How didst thou get it ? — speak ! Thou 'rt 

warm — not dead — 
Thou hast a tongue — ! speak ! Come, 

come, a jest — 
Another jest from those thin mocking 

lips! 
Call me a cripple — ^hunchback — what thou 

wilt; 
But speak to me! He cannot. Now, by 

heaven, 
I '11 stir this business till I find the truth ! 
Am I a fool? It is a silly lie. 
Coined by yon villain with his last base 

breath. 
What ho! without there! 

{Enter Captain and Soldiers.) 

Captain. Did you call, my lord? 

Lan. Did Heaven thunder? Are you 
deaf, you louts? 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



379 



Saddle my horse ! <Wliat are you star- 
ing at ? 
Is it your first look at a dead man'? 

Well, 
Then look your fill. Saddle my horse, I 

say !> 
Black Pluto — stir! Bear that assassin 

hence. 
Chop him to pieces, if he move. My 
horse ! 
<Capt. My lord, he 's shoeing. 
Lan. Did I ask for shoes'? 

I want my horse. Run, fellow, run! 

Unbarbed — 
My lightest harness on his back. Fly, 
fly! {Exit a Soldier,) 

{The others pick up i'he body.) 
Ask him, I pray you, if he did not lie ! 
Capt. The man is dead, my lord. 
Lan. {Laughing.) Then do not ask 

him !> 

{Exeunt Soldiers with the body.) 
By Jupiter, I shall go mad, I think ! 

{Walks about,) 
Capt. Something disturbs him. Do you 
mark the spot 
Of purple on his brow"? 

{Apart to a Soldier.) 

Soldier. Then blood must flow. 

Lan. Boy, boy! {Enter a Page.) My 

cloak and riding-staff. Quick, quick ! 

How you all lag! {Exit Page.) I ride 

to Rimini. 
Skirmish to-morrow. Wait till my re- 
turn — 
I shall be back at sundown. You shall 

see 
What slaughter is then ! 

1 In the acting version of 1853, the following 
speech of Lanciotto occupies the rest of the scene. 

(Laneiotto continues) 
I wish no guard, I ride alone. My 

Paolo— 
A boy whom I have trotted on my knee ; 
And young Francesca with her angel 

face ! — 
Ah, but I saw the signals of your eyes 
Made and returned. Now, if there be one 

grain 
Of solid truth in all this hideous lie, 
I cannot answer for the work thou 'It do 
{To the dagger.) 
Thou edged and pointed instrument of 

wrath 
Laid in my hand by Justice! Glorious 

race 
Of iron men, and women far too proud 



Capt. 



Ho! turn out a guard! — 



Lan. I wish no guard ; I ride alone. 

^ <C. {Re-enter Page, with a cloak and staff.) 

{Taking them.) Well done! 
Thou art a pretty boy. — And now my 
horse ! 



{Eni^er a Soldier.) 

Soldier. Pluto is saddled — 

Lai^. 'T is a damned black lie ! 

Sol. Indeed, my lord — 

Lax. ! comrade, pardon me : 

I talk at random. What, Paolo, too, — 

A boy whom I have trotted on my knee ! 

Poh ! I abuse myself by such a thought. 

Francesca may not love me, may love 

him — 
Indeed she ought; but when an angel 

comes 
To play the wanton on this filthy earth, 
Then I '11 believe her guilty. Look you, 

sir! 
Am I quite calm"? 
Capt. Quite calm, my lord. 

Lan. You see 

No trace of passion on my face'? — No 

sign 
Of ugly humours, doubts; or fears, or 

aught 
That may disfigure God's intelligence'? 
I have a grievous charge against you, sir, 
That may involve your life; and if you 

doubt 
The candour of my judgment, choose your 
time: 

To be michaste, ye whisper in my ear 
The vengeance due to your dishonored 

son! 
Let me embrace it, lest your scornful hiss. 
Drive your degraded offspring from your 

tombs. 
And cast him on a dunghill! Must I 

lash 
My broken spirit into flame with dreams '? 
No, no ! mighty ancestry, your words, 
Erewhile a whisper, tear the vault of 

heaven, 
With thunder upon thunder. Blood, 

blood, blood! 
Ye shout, and I re-echo it ! To horse ! — 
0, give me wings, not feet, to make my 

way; 
That like a famished eagle scenting blood, 
I may swoop down on sleeping Rimini! 
{Exeunt omnes.) 



380 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Shall I arraign you now'? 
Capt. Now, if you please. 

I '11 trust my cause to you and innocence 
At any time. I am not conscious — 
Lan. Pshaw ! 

I try myself, not you. And I am calm — 
That is your verdict — and dispassionate *? 
Capt. So far as I can juds^e. 
Lan. 'T is" well, 'tis well! 

Then I will ride to Rimini. Good-night ! 

{Exit.) 
{The others look after him, amazedly, 
and exeunt.)^ 



Scene 3. Rimini. The Garden of the 
Castle. 

{Enter Paolo and Francesca.) 

Francesca. Thou hast resolved 
Paolo. I 've sworn it. 

Fran. Ah, you men 

Can talk of love and duty in a breath ; 
Love while you like, forget when you are 

tired. 
And salve your falsehood with some 

wholesome saw; 
But we, poor women, when we give our 

hearts, • 
Give all, lose all, and never ask it back. 
Paolo. What couldst thou ask for that I 

have not given? 
With love I gave thee manly probity, 
Innocence, honor, self-respect, and peace. 
Lanciotto will return, and how shall I — 
! shame, to think of it ! — how shall I 

look 
My brother in the face? take his frank 

hand? 
Return his tender glances? I should 

blaze 
With guilty blushes. 
Fran. Thou canst forsake me, then, 

To spare thyself a little bashful pain ? 
[But] Paolo, dost thou know what 't is 

for me, 
<A woman — nay, a dame of highest 

rank — 
To lose my purity? to walk a path 
Whose slightest slip may fill my ear with 

sounds 
That hiss me out to infamy and death ?> 
Have I no secret pangs, no self-respect, 
No husband's look to bear? <0! worse 

than these, 
I must endure his loathsome touch ; be 

kind 



When he would dally with his wife, and 

smile 
To see him play thy part. Pah ! sicken- 
ing thought ! 
From that thou art exempt.> Thou 

shalt not go ! 
Thou dost not love me ! 
Paolo. Love thee! Standing here. 

With countless miseries upon my head, 
I say, my love for thee grows day by 

day. 
It palters with my conscience, blurs my 

thoughts 
Of duty, and confuses my ideas 
Of right and wrong. Ere long, it will 

persuade 
My shaking manhood that all this is just. 
Fran. Let it! I'll blazon it to all' the 

world. 
Ere I Avill lose thee. <Nay, if I had 

choice. 
Between our love and my lost innocence, 
I tell thee calmly, I would dare again 
The deed which we have done.> ! thou 

art cruel 
To fly me, like a coward, for thine ease. 
<When thou art gone, thou 'It flatter thy 

weak heart 
With hopes and speculations ; and thou 'It 

swear 
I suffer naught, because thou dost not 

see.> 
I will not live to bear it. 
Paolo. Die, — 't were best ; 

'T is the last desperate comfort of our 

sin. 
<Fran. I'll kill myself! 
Paolo. And so would I, with joy; 

But crime has made a craven of me. ! 
For some good cause to perish in ! Some- 
thing 
A man might die for, looking in God's 

face; 
Not slinking out of life with guilt like 

mine 
Piled on the shoulders of a suicide !> 
Fran. Where wilt thou go? 
Paolo. I care not; anywhere 

Out of this Rimini. The very things 
That made the pleasures of my inno- 
cence 
Have turned against me. There is not a 

tree. 
Nor house, nor church, nor monument, 

whose face 
Took hold upon mj^ thoughts, tliat does 

not frown 
Balefully on me. <From their marble 

tombs 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



381 



My ancestors scowl at me; and the night 
Thickens to hear their hisses. I would 

piay, 
But heaven jeers at it.> Turn where er 

1 will, 
A curse pursues me. [Ay, thy very face 
Is black with curses.] 
Fran. Heavens ! 0, say not so ! 

I never cursed thee, love; <I never 

moved 
My little finger, ere I looked to thee . 
For my instruction. > 
Paolo. But thy gentleness 

Seems to reproach me; and, instead of 

joy, 
It whispers horror! 
Frax. Cease! cease! 

Paolo. I must go. 

<Fran. And I must follow. All that I 
call life 
Is bound in thee. I could endure for thee 
More agonies than thou canst catalogue — 
For thy sake, love — ^bearing the ill for 

thee! 
With thee, the devils could not so contrive 
That I Avould blench or falter from my 

love ! 
"Without thee, heaven were torture ! 
Paolo. I must go. {Going. )^ 

Frax. 0! no[, no,] — ^Paolo — dearest! — 

{Clinging Iro him.) 
Paolo. Loose thy hold ! 

'T is for thy sake, and Lanciotto's ; I 
Am as a cipher in the reckoning. 
I have resolved. Thou canst but stretch 

the time. 
Keep me to-day, and I will fly to-mor- 
row — 
Steal from thee like a thief. 

{Struggles with her.) 

Frax. [Ah,] Paolo — love — 

<Indeed, you hurt me! — Do not use me 

thus !> 
Kill me, but do not leave me. I will 

laugh — 
A long, gay, ringing laugh — if thou wilt 

draw 
Thy pitying sword, and stab me to the 
heart ! 

{Enter Lanciotto behind.) 

Nay, then, one kiss ! 
Laxciotto. {Advancing between them.) 
Take it : 't will be the last. 
Paolo. Lo! Heaven is just! 
<Frax. The last ! so be it. 

{Kisses Paolo.) 
Lax. Ha ! 



Dare you these tricks before my very 
face? ' 
Frax. Why not ? I 've kissed him in the 
sight of heaven; 
Are 'you above if? 
Paolo. Peace, Francesca, peace !> 

Lax. [Count] Paolo — why, thou sad and 
downcast man. 
Look up ! I have some words to speak 

with thee. 
Thou art not guilty'? 
Paolo. Yes, I am. But she 

Has been betrayed ; so she is innocent. 
Her father tampered with her. I — 
Frax. 'T is false! 

The guilt is mine. <Paolo> [your 

brother] was entrapped 
By love and cunning, [by my — ] <I 

am shrewder far 
Than you suspect.> 
Paolo. Lanciotto, <shut thy ears;> 

She would deceive thee. 
Lax. Silence, both of you ! 

Is g-uilt so talkative in its defence? 
Then, let me make you judge and advo- 
cate 
In your own cause. You are not guilty ? 
Paolo. Yes. 

Lax. Deny it^but a word — say no. Lie, 
lie! 
And I '11 believe. 
Paolo. I dare not. 

Lax. Lady, you? 

Frax. If I might speak for him — 
Lax. It cannot be : 

Speak for yourself. Do you deny your 
guilt? 
Frax. No ! I assert it ; but — 
Lax. In heaven's name, hold ! 

Will neither of you answer no to me ? 
A nod, a hint, a sign, for your escape. 
Bethink you, life is centered in this thing. 
Speak ! I will credit either. No reply? 
What does your crime deserve? 
Paolo. Death. 

Frax. Death to both. 

Lax. Well said! You speak the law of 
Italy; 
And by the dagger you designed for me. 
In Pepe's hand, — your bravo? 
Paolo. It is false ! 

If you received my dagger from his hand. 
He stole it. 
Lax. There, sweet heaven, I knew! 

And now 
You w411 deny the rest? You see, my 

friends. 
How easy of belief I have become! — 
How easy 't were to cheat me ! 



382 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



Paolo. No; enough! 

I will not load my groaning spirit more; 
A lie would crush it.^ 
<Lan. Brother, once you gave 

Life to this wretched piece of workman- 
ship, 
When my own hand resolved its over- 
throw. 
Revoke the gift. 

{Offers to stab himself.) 
Paolo. {FrevenHng him.) Hold, homi- 
cide! 
Lan. But think, 

You and Francesca may live happily. 
After my death, as only lovers can. 
Paolo. Live happily, after a deed like 

tliis!>2 
Lan. Now, look ye! there is not one hour 
of life 
Among us three. [Count] Paolo, you are 

armed — 
You have a sword, I but a dagger: see! 
I mean to kill you. 
<Fran. {Whispers Paolo.) Give thy 

sword to me. 
Paolo. Away ! thou 'rt frantic !> I will 
never lift 
This wicked hand against thee. 
Lax. Coward, slave ! 

Art thou so faint *? Does Malatesta's 

blood 
Run m thy puny veins'? Take that ! 

{Strikes him.) 



1 The speech of Lanciotto given below is sub- 
stituted in Boker's handwriting in the acting ver- 
sion of 1853 for the lines omitted (as far as 2), 

[Lanciotto. Then this nameless deed, — 
At which our nature cannot even blush, 
So pale is she with horror — is confessed'? 
Alas! Francesca, whom I loved at sight! 
{Turns to her.) 
Why, woman, what harm did I do to 

thee — 
What else but love thee — when I saw thee 

come. 
Like a descending angel bearing peace 
Into my lonely life'? Wouldst thou con- 
vert 
My very virtues into crime'? Make love 
Do murder, tempted by thy loveliness'? 
Fool that I was to credit thee! Thy 

lies. 
Fair-faced deluder, in the sight of 

Heaven, 
Make thee more monstrous than this 

blighted trunk! 
Speak! Is the devil that inspires thee 

dumb'? 



Paolo. And more: 

Thou canst not offer more than I will 

bear. 

<Lan. Oh, Paolo, what a craven has thy 

guilt 

Transformed thee to! Why,> I have 

seen the time 
When thou 'dst have struck at heaven for 

such a thing! 
Art thou afraid? 
Paolo. I am. 

Lan. 0! infamy! 

Can man sink lower? I will wake thee, 

though : — 
Thou shalt not die a coward. See! look 
here! 

{Stabs Francesca.) 
Fran. 0!— 0!— {Falls.) 

Paolo. Remorseless man, dare you do 

this, 
And hope to live? Die, murderer! 

{Draws, rushes at him, but pauses.) 
Lan. Strike, strike ! 

Ere thy heart fail. 
Paolo. I cannot. 

{Throws away his sword.) 

Lan. Dost thou see 

Y^on bloated spider — hideous as myself — 

Climbing aloft, to reach that wavering 

twig"? 
When he has touched it, one of us must 

die. 
Here is the dagger. — Look at me, I say! 

Cast out thy devil! Speak, speak, for 

your lives! 
She cannot! {Turns to FaoIjO.) Paolo, 

is there aught to say, — 
In thy boy's voice, as thou hast often 

hung 
With silken arms about my armed necky 
In days, oh ! not forgotten, let me trust '? 
Brother, my brother, it must be that I 
Am ill, bewildered, in a nightmare, — 

Speak! 
Say but a word, and wake me to myself ! 
He too is speechless ! Yet there sails the 

moon; 
And this is earth beneath me; and there 

stands 
A misty shape that one time was my wife ; 
And there a shade that personates the 

man 
Whom I loved most of men; and only I 
Ah ! only I am changed so horribly ! 
For if I be not mad, I am in a hell 
To which sin's vision were a paradise ! 
{A pause, during which he looks from 

one to the other.)] 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER 



383 



Keep your eyes from that woman! 

Look, think, choose! — 
Turn here to me: thou shalt not look at 
her!>i 
Paolo. 0, heaven! 
LAN. • 'T is done ! 

Paolo. {Struggling with him.) 0! Lan- 
• eiotto, hold ! 
Hold, for thy sake. Thou wilt repent 
this deed. 
Lan. I know it. 

<Fran". {Rising.) Help! — 0! murder! 

— ^lielp, help, help!> 

{Site totters towards them, and falls.) 

[Malatesta. {WitJwut.) Help! this 

way, — this way — help! help! help!] 

Lan. Our honour, boy ! 

{Stahs Paolo, he falls.) 
<Fran. Paolo ! 

Paolo. Hark! she calls. 

I pray thee, brother, help me to her side. 
(Lanciotto helps him to Francesca.) 
Lan. Why, there! 
Paolo. God bless thee !> 

Lan. Have I not done well? 

What were the honor of the Malatesti, 
With such a living slander fixed to it 1 
<Cripple! that's something — cuckold! 

that is damned ! 
You blame me? 
Paolo. No. 

Lan. You, lady? 

Fran. No, my lord. 

Lan. May God forgive you!> We are 
even now : 
Your blood has cleared my honour, and 

our name 
Shines to the world as ever. 
<Paolo. !— !— 

Fran. Love, 

Art suffering? 
Paolo. But for thee. 

Fran. Here, rest thy head 

Upon my bosom. Fie upon my blood ! 
It stains thy ringlets. Ha! he dies! 

Kind saints, 
I was first struck, why cannot I die first ? 
Paolo, wake ! — God's mercy ! wilt thou go 
Alone — without me? Prithee, strike 
again ! 

1 In the 1853 version the following lines were 
substituted for the above speech. 

[Dost thou see 
Yon dusky cloud that slowly steals along; 
Like a shrewd thief upon a traveller. 
To blot the glory of the jocund moon? 
When it has dimmed the lustre of her 
edge. 



Nay, I am better — love — now — ! 

{Dies.) 
Lan. {Sinks upon Jiis knees.) Great 

heaven !> 
Malatesta. {Without.) This way, I 
heard the cries. 

{Enter ivith Guido, and Attendants.) 

GuiDO. 0! horrible! 

Mal. ! bloody spectacle ! Where is thy 

brother ? 
Lan. So Cain was asked. <Come here, 
old men ! You shrink 
From two dead bodies and a pool of 

blood — 
You soldiers, too ! Come here ! 

{Drags Malatesta and Guido for- 
ward.) 
Mal. !— !— 

Lan. You groan ! 

What must I do, then?> Father, here 

it is, — 
The blood of Guido mingled with our 

own, 
As my old nurse predicted. And the spot 
Of her infernal baptism burns my brain 
Till reason shudders! <Down, upon 

your knees ! 
Ay, shake them harder, and perchance 

they '11 wake. 
Keep still! Kneel, kneel! You fear 

them? I shall prowl 
About these bodies till the day of doom. 
Mal. What hast thou done? 
Gui. Francesca ! — ! my child ! 

Lan. Can howling make this sight more 
terrible ? 
Peace! You disturb the angels up in 

heaven, 
While they are hiding from this ugly 

earth. 
Be satisfied with what you see. You two 
Began this tragedy, I finished it. 
Here, by these bodies, let us reckon up 
Our crimes together.> Why, how still 

they lie! 
A moment since, they walked, and talked, 

and kissed ! 
Defied me to my face, dishonored me ! 

She '11 shrink behind it to avoid the sight 
She else might see on this disfigured earth, 
When it has crossed her, one of us, who 

now 
Is touched to wonder by her radiance 
Shall gaze upon her with an altered 

face — 
As pale, and cold and vacant as her own.] 



384 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



They had the power to do it then; but 
now, 

Poor souls, who '11 shield them in eter- 
nity? 

Father, the honor of our house is safe ; 

<I have the secret. I will to the wars, 

And do more murders, to eclipse this one. 

Back to the battles; there I breathe in 
peace ; 

And I will take a soldier's honour back. — 

Honour! what's that to me now? Ha! 
ha! ha! (Laughing.) 



A great thing, father! I am very ill.> 
I killed thy son for honour: thou mayst 
chide. 

God ! I cannot cheat myself with words \ 

1 loved him more than honour — more 

than life — 

This man, [my] Paolo — this stark, bleed- 
ing corpse! 

^ Here let me rest, till God awake us all ! 
(Falls on Paolo's body.) 

1 In the 1853 version, the last line is 

Here let me rest, till all together wake! 



LEONORA 

OR 

THE WORLD'S OWN 

BY 

Julia Ward Howe 



LEONOEA OR THE WORLD'S OWN 

Leonora or The ^YorWs Own represents the movement in the late fifties 
which, under the encouragement of managers like the elder Wallack and Laura 
Keene, brought into the theatre pieces of significant dramatic literature. Un- 
fortunately, this movement was checked by the Civil War, and by the system of 
travelling companies for which Boucicault was responsible. The play represents 
also the work of that group of writers, centered in Boston and distinguished in 
other fields, of which ]\Irs. Howe was a part, even although she was not of 
New England origin. 

Julia Ward Howe was born in New York City, May 27, 1819, the daughter 
of Samuel Ward, a leading New York banker. Her family on both sides went 
back to Revolutionary stock. She was interested in plays from early childhood, 
writing a drama at the age of nine. Her education, nominally completed at 
sixteen, but really only then beginning, was wide and thorough, especially in 
languages. Her social life in New York was a broad one, and early in her 
career she was brought into relations with the New England group. In 1843 
she married Samuel Gridley Howe, Director of the Perkins Institution for the 
Blind, the first to teach a blind deaf mute, Laura Bridgman, and a leader in the 
cause of Grecian independence. After a European trip, they settled in Boston, 
with which her future life is definitely associated. Her first volume of poems, 
Passion Flowers, was published in 1853, and in 1857 a second. Words for the 
Hour, followed. A Trip to Guha (1859) reflected her experiences there. Her 
greatest contribution was of course The Battle Hymn of the RepuNic, which 
appeared on the front page of the Atlantic Monthly for February, 1862. The 
inspiration came to her at night and, rising, she traced the lines roughly for 
fear they would escape. In the morning, before looking at her notes she found 
that every line had left her memory. Later Lyrics, her third volume of poems, 
appeared in 1865, and in 1867 she went to Greece to help the Cretans, studying 
Greek at the same time. In 1868 she helped to found the first Woman's Club 
in New England. In 1876 her husband died and the remainder of her long life 
was devoted to woman's interests and to social betterment. In 1898, her last 
volume of poems, From Sunset Bidge, appeared and in 1899 her Reminiscences. 
She died October 17, 1910. 

She was dramatic by nature and her whole existence was a struggle against 
the oppression of others and for what she considered to be right. Her interest 

387 



INTRODUCTION 



in the stage was constant from childhood, but her first serious dramatic work was 
Leonora or The World's Own, produced first at Wallack's Theatre, New York, 
March 16, 1857, with Matilda Heron and the elder Sothern in the leading parts. 
It ran for over a week, and was considered to be a success. It was later repeated 
in Boston. Her brother, Samuel, wrote her from New York : 

** Leonora still draws the best houses ; there was hardly standing room on Fri- 
day night''; and again: "Mr. Russell went last night, a second time, bought the 
libretto, which I send you by this mail — declares there is not a grander play in 
our language. He says that it is full of dramatic vigor, that the interest never 
flags — but that unhappily — Miss H — with the soul and self abandonment of a 
great actress, lacks that grace of elocution, which should set forth the beauties 
of your verses. ' ' 

In 1864 she was asked to write a play for Edwin Booth, and the theme of 
Hippolytus was chosen. The play was written through the summer of that year, 
but owing to other engagements, Booth had to postpone consideration of it. 
Finally E. L. Davenport agreed to produce it, Charlotte Cushman being selected 
to play "Phgedra" to Booth's "Hippolytus." Rehearsals were progressing 
when a difficulty arose and reasons were given for not performing the play that 
did not seem satisfactory to Mrs. Howe or to the principal actors. The real 
difficulty was that there was no sufficiently good part for the manager's wife. 
This failure caused her to give up play writing, though not her interest in the 
theatre. In 1878 she impersonated "Queen Elizabeth" in a public reading for 
charity, in which Madame Ristori acted "Maria Stuart." Hippolytus was pro- 
duced, after Mrs. Howe's death, by Miss Margaret Anglin, in Boston. 

For the life of Mrs. Howe, see her Beminiscences, 1899, and Julia Ward 
Howe, by Laura E. Richards and Maud Howe Elliott, 2 vols., Boston, 1915, to 
which the editor acknowledges his indebtedness. For references to the plays, see 
Brown, T. A., A History of the New York Stage, vol. 1, p. 492, and Ireland, J. N., 
Records of the Neiv York Stage, vol. 2, p. 659. A cast has been reconstructed 
from these sources which is in all essentials correct. 

The present text is based on the original edition of the play, published as 
The World's Own, Boston, 1857. 



THE OEIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Wallack's Theatre, New York, March 16, 1857. 

Count Lothair Mr. E. A. Sothern 

EdWxVrd, an artist ♦. Mr. John Dyott 

Lorenzo, friend to Edward Mr. C. Walcot 

Boniface, an inn-keeper Mr. C. Peters 

The Prince Mr. G. S. Lee 

HuoN, 1 Mr. Reynolds 

Berto, m^obles, friends of Lothair Mr. H. B. Phillips 

Orsetti, Mr. Jeffries 

Jacques, a villager. 
Jacob, a Jew. 

Leonora, the Qneen of the village Miss Matilda Heron 

Katchen, her friend and servant Mrs. Vernon 

Bertha, ] f Miss Mary Gannon 

SusANNE, ^village girls <j Miss Fanny Dean 

LouLOU, Miss Peters 

A Flower Girl Miss Charlotte Thompson 

Countess Helen, wife to Count Lothair Mrs. J. H. Allen 

Arthur, son of Lothair. 

ZiNGARA, a gypsy Miss Sylvester 

Peasants, Courtiers, Masks, Guards. 

The scene in the first two acts is laid in a village in the mountains of Pied- 
mont, near the Italian frontier; in the third act, in an Italian town. The last 
two acts are supposed to take place at the court of a small Italian principality. 

The time is in the early part of the eighteenth century. 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1. A Village Green, with peasants 
dancing to the sound of rustic music. 
In the front stand Edward and Jacques, 
looking on. The dance ceases; the vil- 
lagers disperse. 

Edward. Comes Leonora to the dance no 
more? 
I thought to find her here. 
Jacques. In other ways 

She wanders, with the stranger from the 

inn, 
That supercilious Signor Prettyman, 
Whose pleasure-travel stopped, some 

' three weeks since, 
For the repairing of a carriage-spring. 
Edward. Three weeks to set so small a 
matter right? 
Your smiths are bunglers. 
Jacques. {Significantly.) There'll be 

more to mend, 
And worse, I fear. 
Edward. What mean you? 

Tell me straight. 
You speak in riddles I am loath to read. 
Dares he aspire to Leonora's love? 
Jacques. Aspire ? I tell you he 's a gen- 
tleman, 
A man of courts — no rustic. He aspire? 
He has won, and wears it most familiarly. 
Edward. {Aside.) I've heard enough, — 
yet let me learn the worst. 
Are they betrothed, then? 
Jacques. Do you dream such men 

Marry such maidens ? They are matched 

in naught 
On earth, save pride and beauty. 
Edward. Matched in beauty? 

The matchless mated? Could her pride 

avail 
To shield her better treasures, I 'd for- 
give it; 
But all your words imply is new to me. 
Who went away two weary years ago. 
With other thoughts of her. You can 

relate 
Doubtless, how all befell. Where did 

they meet? 
How grew this liking? 



391 



Jacques. I '11 inform you straight. 

At such an evening festival as this, 

.Just over, ere the dancing was at end. 

The stranger passed, and saw what we 
have seen. 

He had left his carriage at the smithy 
yonder. 

For some repair, and, to beguile an hour. 

With listless air was wandering hither, 
thither. 

The music, haply, lured him to this spot. 

But with a vacant and abstracted brow. 

Scarce deigned he look upon the village- 
girls 

In holiday attire; — nay, scarcely paused 

Before the waterfall, our hamlet's pride, 

That many a foreign artist comes to 
view. 

The band, dividing, passed to either 
side. 

And from the ranks moved Leonore 
alone. 

To the majestic measure that she loves. 

White were her garments, white her 
twisted scarf. 

And white the flowers that garlanded her 
brow, 

Proclaiming her the hamlet's maiden- 
queen. 
Edward. 0, I have often seen her thus. 
And he? 

Did this arrest him? 
Jacques. Such a sudden spark 

Woke in his eye, it grew a flash, a flame, 

A thought, a purpose, and a destiny. 

I saw his breathing to her steps keep 
time. 

Unconscious she, — her movement mas- 
tered him. 

So gazed he, 'ware of naught on earth 
beside, 

Drunk with her beauty, till she stopped 
to rest, 

And turning, saw him. — 
Edward. Saw, but heeded not? 

Jacques. Surprised to stillness, with a 
sudden shock, 

As seeing one foreshadowed in a dream, 

She stood, intense and tremulous; a 
blush 

(The only element her beauty lacks), 



392 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



Reddened like sunset, from her fair white 
brow 

To the soft limits of her virgin vest. 

'T was but a moment, — pale and recom- 
posed, 

She launched an ice-bolt from her scorn- 
ful eyes, 

And swift, but stately, vanished from 
the scene. 
Edward. 0, happy pride ! 0, rescue sent 
of Heaven! 

She 's safe ! Those eyes have deadly 
weaponry. 
Jacques. Be not too sure. The peril is 
not past. 

She wears the vizard of her maidenhood 

Haughtily close, I grant you; but her 
heart 

May prove the traitor in the citadel. 
Edward. Proceed. How looked the 
stranger when she left? 

In gloom or anger? 
Jacques. He was still, and smiled; 

The languid features showed a new in- 
tent. 

Beckoning his servant with a lordly gest,^ 

He briefly said, "We go not hence to- 
night." 
Edward, And then? 

Jacques. 0, then I know not 

what befell. 

Soon he was seen at Leonora's side. 

Close as her shadow; — nay, we see her 
not 

Without him. In the shelter of her cottage 

They pass snug days, of which the world 
knows naught 

Save the perpetual hum of lover's voices. 

And now and then two heads that come 
to view, 

Touching almost, within the vine-clad 
window. 

He has taught her foreign music, foreign 
ways. 

Unknown among our mountains : daintier 
work 

Has put to shame the wholesome spin- 
ning-wheel. 

Books, too, they have, — plays, novels and 
such trash. 

Her table feeds him, and when day is 
done, — 
Edward. She surely does not wander 

forth alone? 
Jacques. No, not alone — his escort never 

fails. 
Edward. 0, strange imprudence! 0, ill- 
counselled girl! 

1 Gesture. 



How stands she scathless from the vil- 
lage gossips? 
Jacques. They're nursing scandal that 
will soon take wing 

And fly abroad, croaking its evil tale. 

The time 's not come ; he has not left her 
yet. 
Edward. There 's an abyss of woe ! Yes, 
he must leave her! 

Who shall stand up to be her savior 
then? 

I 've seen fair women tread those dan- 
gerous ways. 

Snatching the flowers that hide the fatal 
pit;— 

But thou, my Leonora? 
Jacques. It grows late. 

And supper waits. 
Edward. He thinks upon his meat! 

Good Jacques, go before me to the inn, 

I '11 seek you there anon, and make 
amends 

For present dulness, by some tales of 
travel, 

Enlivened by a friendly cup of wine; — 

I would remain a moment here alone. 
Jacques. (Going.) Edward, they 're very 

like to come this way. 
Edward. Well — let them come — I 'm now 
beyond surprise. (Exit Jacques.) 



Scene 2. 

Edward. He knew not that his words w^re 
murderous. 

Else, surely, he had not plunged back the 
steel 

To widen out the ghastly wound he made. 
(Looks around him.) 

Dark days of absence, comforted with 
hope 

Faithful and fervent, — waking, sleeping 
dreams. 

Enfolding one fair vision, — longing 
thoughts 

Intensified by distance, struggling ever 

Back to the charmed limits of her life. 

The rustic haunts that she made beauti- 
ful— 

Was this the end ye led to? Even this. 

0, swift and sudden sorrow! Leonora 

Lost, — grant it Heaven! — not to herself, 
but me. 

The very heart of innocent delight 

Plucked out and trampled by a love pro- 
fane! 

She w^as not mine, — true, true; what was 
I then 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



393 



To claim her? An unmannered, blush- 
ing boy, 

That durst not lift my looks or thoughts 
to her, 

Till the voice said, "Go forth and win 
renown ! 

Thou hast gifts to gather glory — use 
them well. 

When all men praise thee, she may turn 
her eyes. 

Those fairest eyes, upon thee, and dis- 
cern. 

Not angrily, thy merit in thy love." 

Fired with this thought I took the pil- 
grim's staff, 

Following the lofty dream with breath- 
less steps; 

I, who had been content in lowliness! 

Nor have I stayed for pleasure or repose, 

Such restless need has urged, me to this 
hour, — 

This hour, the goal of striving and suc- 
cess, — 

This hour, that smites success with emp- 
tiness. 

But I hear voices, — no, we must not 
meet ; 

This rock shall spare them an unwelcome 
sight. 

{Hides behind a rock.) 



Scene 3. 

(Enter Lothair and Leonora.) 

Leonora. How soft the shadows gather in 
our train. 
Holding the dead Day's pall, while we 

go forth, 
Bearing heart-incense for her funeral! 
This was a day on whose enamelled brow 
No marring break of separation came; 
One golden web of happiness she wove; 
Wherefore, God rest thee, gentle Day — 
sleep well! 
Lothair. And this, the very charmed twi- 
light hour, 
When pilgrim Love, his finger on his 

lips, 
Binds all to mystery. 
Leonora. Shall we rest here? 

Lothair. A little further. 
Leonora. You are still the guide, 

Leading, each day, to joys undreamed be- 
fore. 
Into the sunset's fiery heart we fly, 
i^s in the rose the bee for ravishment. 



I know not places, when I walk with 

you; 
I only know they are no earthly ways 
We tread together. 
Lothair. Yet my Leonore 

At sudden fancies stays her pretty steps. 
Like to a tricksome steed that feigns 

alarm 
When he is froward. 
Leonora. Nay, I do not feign; 

I love the light; the very blaze of noon 
Frights not my courage; on my hardy 

brow 
It lays a blessing and a kiss at once. 
So dear I prize it, I could walk abroad. 
Were you so minded, through the mar- 
ket-place, 
With dauntless presence, saying to the 

world. 
Behold Lothair, — behold my love for him. 
That seeks its sanction in the face of 

Heaven ! 
Lothair. Hush! hush! fair child; that is 

no more to seek; 
The heavens attest the love I bear you, 

list'ning 
To God's high name invoked; th' attend- 
ant stars 
Give countenance to nuptials of the heart 
Where other priesthood were profanity. 
{Giving a ring.) 
This jewel shall record for thee my vows 
Beyond the power of distance or of 

doubt. 
Wearing it, thou becom'st my gentle 

thrall, 
Bounden to follow where thy master 

bids. 
Leonora. Blest in obedience, when the 

word is, follow! 
Though through hell's tortures led the 

burning way; 
The fear were, you might stay my eager 

steps 
With the cold ban of separation. 
Ev'n then I w^ould be dutiful till death. 
And keep my faith unbroken to the 

end. 
But we '11 not think of that. Friend, 

Lover, Master! 
Why, Master seems the crowning name 

of all. 
As you pronounce it; — so command your 

slave, 
Only remembering that she yields to 

you, 
For faultless guidance, all she owes to 

God! 

{Exeunt, he leading the way.) 



394 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



Scene 4. 

Edward. {Coming from his concealment.) 

I did not think t' have heard their stolen 
words, 

That stamp my sorrow beyond remedy! 

But now my course is plain; an orphan 
she, 

Brotherless, friendless; I must urge her 
right 

With this fine wooer; she shall be his 
wife, 

Or he must try my weapon ere he sleeps, 

And this shall be Love's crowning sacri- 
fice. 

Still, still, my heart! this only can avail. 

{Exit.) 

Scene 5. 

{Enter Bertha.) 

Bertha. I've heard enough! If lost in- 
deed be lost. 

Why need I follow further for their 
hurt? 

'T is no mean pleasure, certainly, to spin 

A rival's ruin from her smiling lips. 

Snatching Love's silver cord to strangle 
her. 

Yet this delights me most, that I was 
there, 

Breaking the charmed circle of their 
love. 

When least they deemed this possible; 
the veil 

Was lifted from their hearts, and I, their 
foe, 

Stood near, to profit by their confidence. 

Whatever mischief I may bring to pass. 

This shall sting deepest — this give dead- 
liest wound; 

Thus from her very bosom I shall pluck. 

Warm with her breath, the crimson 
flower of shame 

That crowns my triumph with her in- 
famy. {Exit Bertha.) 



Scene 6. A Room in the Inn. Various 
tables are about; at one of which are 
seated Edward and Jacques, with wine. 

Jacques. You sit uneasily, and have not 

drunk 
One manly measure since the wine was 

brought. 
For shame! fill up the beaker; clear your 

brow; 



So much for mere good-fellowship; — to 

drink 
With an old comrade, ay, a friend of 

youth. 
Looking as if the very hangman pledged 

you! 
Edward. Pardon, good Jacques! 
Jacques. Pardon I '11 accord 

Only to better conduct. You forget 
You promised to beguile this evening 

hour 
With copious annals of these sumptuous 

years 
Passed in the gold-and-purple lap of 

Rome. 
Edward. {Rising and lifting his cap.) 
You touch a theme most fervent in my 

thoughts. 
I must be worn and wasted out of life 
When I respond not to that sacred name. 
{Reseating himself.) 
Though not the gold and purple of the 

robe 
Enchant the eyes devout that worship 

Beauty. 
The splendors you would name were irk- 
some to me. 
As guests that stay when you would be 

alone 
With one you love. (Still run my 

thoughts on that?) 
For those that seek them, Rome has 

pomps and shows. 
And men may play the villain or the 

child 
Before her, with majestic sufferance; 
To them that love her, she unfolds her 

heart. 
Calm with the mighty sorrow, greatly 

borne. 
Yet oft, from Contemplation's high^ 

ground, 
I 've stooped to see the garish multitude ; 
The pontiff, borne behind his triple 

crown. 
Ablaze with jewels, fanned with costly 

plumes 
Of Indian birds,^the coffin following 
Unseen, but close and certain, while a 

crowd, 
That loved him not, did heartless rev- 
erence ; 
And men whose hope of power must pass 

beyond 
His deathbed, gave the kiss of fealty, 
Caressing in the gray, decrepit man. 
The idol each has longing to become. 
Such devil's service do the lips of men 
When the heart deigns to falsehood. 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



395 



On mine eyes 
Flashed the rude torchlight of their pa- 
geantry, 
Leaving its dazzle only. The divine 
Mingles no whisper with these paeans 

loud; 
Flies, startled, to congenial solitudes, 
Where marble heroes keep the pensive 

grace 
Of the old time, that stood for Deity; 
And where, immortal, hang upon the 

walls 
Th' intenser glories of Jerusalem. 
There, in a labyrinth of high delights 
I wandered, winding Memory's golden 

thread, — 
There my weak faith, that bound and 

bleeding lay, 
Rose free, before the touch of Raphael. 
Jacques. Spoken with Southern fervor, 

on my word! 
Your diction smacks not of the mountain 

phrase 
Familiar to your childhood. 
Edward. 'Tis the theme 

Lends finer meaning to the peasant's 

tongue ; 
But while we talk at random, it grows 

late, (Aside.) 

(And Leonora's lattice shows no light.) 

{He rises, looks at the clock, goes to 

the window.) 
Jacques. Why do you look so wildly at 

the clock. 
And at the silent cottage opposite? 
You have not come to your own story 

yet. 

Talk further; tell me of your first suc- 
cess. 
Edward. (Eesuming his seat.) You can 

remember when I drew a head 
In charcoal, on a whitewashed village 

wall? 
A figure followed; then, a straggling 

group ; 
Then, all I could imagine, till men traced 
My ramblings by my work. 
Jacques. If I remember? 

Did you not spoil our kitchen in those 

days 
Just newly plastered, with a chevalier 
In armor, squinting every way at once. 
For which you fled, my father at your 

back? 
Edward. And you behind him, pleading 

loud for me? — 
Well, to be brief, I grew a sturdy boy. 
That would not tend the herds, or hunt 

the chamois; 



And so the pastor taught me as he could; 
But toil gre^ needful for my daily 

bread. 
While my heart sickened to give up its 

dream. 
And sink to sordid cares of vulgai 

life. 
Untried, the airy footing of its hope. 
So, things were dim before me, till one 

day 
A stranger, visiting the parsonage, 
Looked at my sketches, questioned my 

intent, 
Then gave a purse, and, staying not for 

thanks, 
Said, "Take this gold, and follow art in 

Rome. 
If you are diligent, I shall be paid; 
If not, this ruins neither you nor me." 
I have been diligent, — that's all my 

merit ; 
The love, the aptitude, were nature's 

gifts. 
This year, my picture, at the Acad- 
emy, 
Drew the great prize, and when my name 

was called, 
A voice behind me said, "I am repaid." 
I turned and saw th' Unknown, whose 

generous gift 
Unlocked for me the iron doors of Fate : 
But now he wore th' insignia of his 

rank. 
And when he offered me his princely 

hand. 
From the pleased crowd approving mur- 
murs came. 
That rose, till plaudits blent his name 

with mine. {Aside.) 

She comes not yet, and I am idle here! 
0, could I rush to save her! 

{Enter Servants, hearing lights.) 

Who are these? 
Jacques. They wait upon the stranger, 
who returns 
At easy leisure from his evening ram- 
ble; 
Love wanders late, they say, nor fears 
the dark. {Yawning.) 

I judge 'tis nigh eleven of the clock. 
Edward. [Looking towards window.) 
And Leonora lights her evening 
lamp. 
dim, uncertain light! Comes he this 
way? 
Jacques. Ay; that should be his step. 
Edward. This happens well. 



396 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



Scene 7. The above. 

{Enter Lothair, escorted by Servants 
with lights.) 

Lothair. (To Servants.) Bid them bring 
supper to my room, and wine. 

{Exit Servants.) 
Edward. {Aside.) What, — you '11 carouse ? 
I '11 bear you company. 

{Rising, and accosting Lothair.) 
A word with you, sir! 
Lothair. {Haughtily.) I am not at lei- 
sure. 
If you have business, seek my servant 

yonder. 
He keeps my books. 
Edward. My business is with you. 

Sir, you walk late. 
Lothair. {Commanding himself.) As I 

am wont to do ! 
Edward. And in good company, I war- 
rant me! 
Lothair. I choose my own companions, 
and endure 
None others. Stand aside, sir! Let me 
pass! 
Edward. When I am satisfied I '11 give 
you way. 
But, by my faith in God, no moment 

sooner. 
You have mysterious habits, noble sir! 
You come unquestioned, and depart un- 
known; 
You find your way to honest, humble 

roofs. 
And palm yourself on inexperienced 

girls ; 
And if the fairest should be fatherless. 
And in unguarded beauty dwell alone. 
You'd violate her maiden sanctity. 
And bring dishonoring ruin on her head. 
That 's what I think of you ! 
Lothair. What gives you right 

T' insult me thus? Detain me at your 
peril ! 
Edward. A moment longer. You were 
best give ear; 
One reparation lies within your pow- 
er,— 
The right to bear your name, whate'er it 

be, — 
Give it ; — you have no choice but infamy. 
Lothair. Upon my word, this passes suf- 
ferance ! 
I '11 hear no more. Your hand upon my 

cloak? 
Nay, have it then ; there 's for your in- 
solence ! 
Carlo! {Calls.) 



Edward. {Drawing his rapier.) A blow! 
Draw, coward ! for your life. 
We '11 try the issue thus ! Heaven help 
the right! 
Lothair. I '11 not cross weapons with a 
village ■ brawler, 
Nor perish vilely by his hand. 

{Going to the window.) 

What, ho ! 

Help, friends! I am attacked. Here's 

treachery ! 

Edward. None but your own, you villain ! 

Draw, I say! 
Lothair. {Draws, but retreats.) Where 

are my servants? 
Jacques. Edward, are you mad? 

Edward. I 'd have his life-blood, though 
my mother stood 
Covering his caitiff body with her own! 
(Edward makes a deadly pass at 
Lothair. Leonora leaps in at the 
window, in her night-dress, and 
rushes between the combatants with 
a shriek.) 
Leonora. Ah, I have saved him! 

{Turning to Edward, and pointing to 
her breast.) 

Here, strike here, good friend! 
He 's safe ; I have no further need of 

life. 
Lothair, they have not harmed you? 
Edward. Leonore ! 

Leonora. What, Edward? thou, my 
friend, my friend of youth, 
Th' assassin, who would take my life in 

his? 
This is too much ! Put up your luckless 

sword. 
I see, you knew not that I loved this 

man; i 

Some sudden passion moved you, on I 

some point 
Of that strange lunacy that men call 

honor. 
I can forgive you. I will make your 

peace. 
You will not? 0, be sure, then, you 

shall wound 
The saints in heaven, within God's crys- 
tal armor. 
Ere you attain him, shielded by my love ! 
Edward. I have no heart to harm the 
meanest thing 
Your love could rest upon. 'T was for 

your sake, — 
Yours only. 
Leonora. For my sake depart in peace ! 
This is no time for further speech. To- 
morrow 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



397 



You shall explain this foolish fray; and 

I, 

Whom most it wrongs, will promise to 
forgive. 
Edward. I have an explanation to de- 
mand, 
Before I offer one. 
LoTHAiR. Make good your claim, 

And I will not be wanting. 
Leonora. What! — no more. 

Edward, there lies your way. I '11 fol- 
low straight. 
(Jacques draws Edward away, at the 
same moment Leonora rests on the 
shoulder of Lothair. A noise of 
people is heard, and lights appear 
behind the scenes.) 
Jacques. Edward, the house is rising in 
alarm ; 
Let us avert the scandal of this scene 
Before your quarrel grow the village 
talk. {To Leonora.) 

My pretty one, this is no place for you. 
Come home with us. 
Leonora. I stay but for a word. 

Lothair, this evening might have been 

our last! 
0, thought beyond all tears ! Look in 

these eyes. 
These eyes to which thou art the uni- 
verse, 
And say we meet to-morrow 1 
Lothair. Do not doubt. 

Surely we meet. 
Leonora. So sits my heart at rest. 

Serenely anchored; never storm can rise 
To shake its peace, while thou dost har- 
bor it. 
We meet to-morrow. I shall dream till 

then, 
Dream of thy voice, and sleep as on thy 

breast. 
Good-night. Leonora's angel stays with 

thee! 
To-morrow ! 
Lothair. {Looking suddenly in her eyes, 
and holding her hand.) 

Ay, to-morrow, fare thee well ! 
(Edward and Jacques take Leonora 
forcibly away.) 



Scene 8. Boniface, Servants, Lothair. 

Boniface. What is the matter? 
Servant. {To Lothair.) Are you hurt, 

my lord? 
Lothair. How durst you loiter when you 

heard me call? 



Servant. I was alone, and stayed to 

gather help. 
Lothair. You come when need is passed, 
— a coward knave 
That saves his own throat first. Nay, 

I '11 not strike you ; 
The hangman should do that. Go to my 

room! 
See that you render better service there, 
Or dread the reckoning. So, good Boni- 
face, 
These are your country manners, fair 

and simple. 
A quiet traveller seeks his inn at night, 
And is insulted, — what say I? — attacked 
With ready weapons, — threatened for 
his life! 
Boniface. A gentleman assaulted in my 
house ? 
I 've been an innkeeper these thirty 

years. 
And never seen the like! You are not 
hurt? 
Lothair. I thank you, — no. 
Boniface. What daring man was this 

That set upon you? 
Lothair. I should ask you that. 

Two brigands, with their faces half con- 
cealed. 
Boniface. Brigands, assassins, in our 

quiet village? 
Lothair. One finds them everywhere. 
You see, they leapt 
In at the window. 
Boniface. On my life, 'tis true! 

I must alarm the hamlet. 
Lothair. Let them go. 

They had the worst of it, I promise 

you. 
'Tis ill to hunt such gentry in the dark; 
They have one at advantage. 
Boniface. Very true; 

But I '11 report this matter to the judge. 
Lothair. To-morrow ! No one loses time, 
you know. 
By taking it. Be vigilant with bolt 
And bar. I '11 close this friendly win- 
dow up 
That lent such invitation to the rogues. 
{Closes window.) 
Take heed no further, honest Boniface. 
D'ye know a youth called Edward? 
Boniface. If I know him? 

One of our own; a quiet youth enough. 
Before he left us. 
Lothair. Wherefore did he go? 

Boniface. He thought himself above his 
father's lot. 
An artist would be be, — a gentleman; 



398 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



And some rich man (a greater fool than 

he, 
For all his money) gave him means 

thereto. 
What of him? 
LoTHAiR. Nothing. Did you tell me 

where 
He learned his art? I have forgot. 
Boniface. In Rome. 

They say that he consorts with noble- 
men. 
Could he molest my lord? 
LoTHAiR. No, no, — not he. 

Good host, it may be I shall send for 
you. 
Boniface. I 'm always wakeful to your 
lordship's will; 
Meantime I take my leave. 
Lothair. Good-night, good friend! 



Scene 9. 

Lothair. (Solus.) This foolish tangle 

must be cut at once. 
Ere life and limb draw after. 

(Goes to window.) 
Leonore ! 
There lies she, 'neath yon lattice, where 

so oft 
The summer wind has sped our mutual 

sighs, 
Freighted for love's sweet commerce; — 

from my eyes 
Thick walls conceal her; but my daring 

thought 
O'erleaps the bounds of slumber's sa- 

credness, 
To seize her as she lies. Her shadowy 

hair, 
Flinging its wild delights from brow to 

breast, 
While the fair arms are twin-enclasped 

above. 
In such repose as lends its thrill to mar- 
ble. 
Sleep holds the high-strung frame in 

mastery ; 
But I command him. Not of childish 

joys 
Thou dreamest, longing for thy mother's 

breast, 
Nor of tliy beauty's virgin festivals. 
Lo! tlie magician smites the crystal 

doors, 
Ceases the hymn, and in the miiTor clear 
The mystic angels vanish. Innocence 
Dissolves, a pearl, in Passion's fervent 

cup. 



By Heaven, a costly draught for queen- 
like lips. 

That, peace contemning, offer life for 
love. 

And close on all thereafter! Perish thus 

The cold to-morrow of a day like this ! 
(He walks up and down in agitation; 
then more calmly.) 

Hold fast the visioned sweetness, Leo- 
nore ! 

Tliou hast sipt the goblet at its brim. 
Not I, 

But Fate, conceals the poison in the 
dregs. 

Nay, never chide me, 'twas thy will, thy 
will. 

Thy beauty spread its banner to the 
sun; 

I passed, and it stood there to challenge 
me. 

Unequal combat followed, — not for thee 

The odds; for thee nor rescue, nor re- 
pair. 

Yield thee; the conquered from the con- 
queror's eyes 

Claims the unwonted tribute of a tear. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. A Bedroom in Leonora's Cot- 
tage. A bed with drawn curtains. 

{Enter Katchen, on tiptoe.) 

Katchen. She slumbers late, poor child! 

The morning meal 
Grows cold with waiting ; here 's a letter, 

too. 
That came an hour ago. She shall not 

see it 
Till she has prayed, and dressed, and 

broken fast. 

{Hides letter in her hosom.) 
Ev'n lovers must be fed ; and I 've ob- 
served 
That, has she but a billet from his hand, 
She will not eat, nor speak, nor hear me 

speak; 
But wanders like a creature in a dream. 
And, looking at me with those great, 

fixed eyes. 
Sees, Heaven knows what — not anything 

that is. 
Ah, me ! those ej^es — those eyes ! I 've 

seen of late 
A thousand signs that bode no good. 

Well, well. 
Would slie but take my counsel, — talk 

of that!— 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



399 



Would I take hers, could we but change 

in age 
And circumstance? I cannot swear, 

forsooth ! 
Edward 's returned, — true-hearted, faith- 
ful Edward; 
I always praised him to my wayward 

girl. 
But she, — there is a fate in likings, 

too, 
An ill one, sometimes. All may yet be 

well. 
Meanwhile my slow affection waits to 

help, 
Should the far need I dare not think of, 

come. 
Leonora. {Pushing hack the curtains.) 
Where am I? Is this waking? Did I 

sleep? 
0, not if slumber be forgetfulness. 
My dreams but shadowed out my daily 

thought. 
And that which makes my being, since 

its end 
Was given. Forbid it, God! that sleep 

should come 
So deep that I could let his image drop. 
And lose the sacred nearness he has 

sworn 
To make eternal. Death itself hath not 
This power; since death brings heaven, 

and heaven must give 
His presence, or be forfeit to my faith. 
{Looking at the ring.) 
What 's this ? The crystal prison of a 

smile? 
Love's fervor, looking from a thousand 

eyes 
Jn one? Nay, more, — the gem that 

makes me his. 
Bound, as a shining seal, upon my hand ; 
Lothair has brought me many a precious 

flower, 
Whose dead delight is woven in my life. 
But when he swore undying love, his 

pledge 
Was this immortal emblem. {Kisses it.) 
Katchen here? 
Good-morrow. Do not plague me with 

thy breakfast; 
I am full, and would not eat. But hast 

thou not 
A morsel I could greedily devour? 
A letter — not a letter? Give it me? 
Katchen. {Shaking her head.) I have 

new milk, with the fresh morning in 

The cakes, and curds, and hill-side straw- 
berries ; 



If you ask more, you 're but a fro ward 
child. 

And cannot be indulged. I 've spread it 
out 

I' the garden-porch, where best you love 
to sit. 
Leonora. Yes, we have held some merry 
banquets there, 

Lothair and I, and thou didst serve us 
well. 

Dost thou remember when he brought 
the wine, 

The costly foreign wine, so full of fire, 

And drank it to my praise? So kind 
he shared 

Our simple pleasures, and our humble 
fare, — 

And he a creature of another world, 

A thing to walk on sunbeams! Do I 
speak 

As if these things were past, when he 
shall come 

To bring the benediction of the day 

Before his wont, and shame his messen- 
ger? 

So, — help me dress; give me the gown 
he chose; 

Lace quick the bodice; smooth this tan- 
gled hair, 

And I '11 wear roses in it. 0, my white 
ones! 

How did I crush them? 
Katchen. Marry, in your sleep 

You held them. 
Leonora. Bring me others, — not like 

these ; 

The red shall blossom in my hair to- 
day. 

With warmer meaning. Haste, be quick, 
good Katchen! 

A day has but so many hours in all. 

What if he came at once, and I should 
lose 

Some precious moments of his com- 
pany ? — 

It is no day till I have seen Lothair ! 

{A loud knock below.) 

Who knocks? Look out, dear Katchen! 
is it he? 
Katchen. {Going to the window.) 'T is 

Bertha. 
Leonora. An ungracious, envious girl! 

And never more unwelcome than to-day. 
Katchen. She has her comrades with her. 
Leonora. That is strange; 

They should be busy at their wheels ere 
this. 

Tell her I will not see her. 
Katchen, Be advised, 



400 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



Do her no slight. I '11 say you 're com- 
ing straight. 
Leonora. If you will have it so, — I '11 
wait on them. (Exit Katchen.) 
And I must braid my hair without the 

flowers ! 
Well, they will be the fresher when he 

comes ; 
Tliat 's well, at least. — 
Katchen. {Without.) Stay, she'll be 

down forthwith. 
Bertha. (Without.) She need not be so 
formal with her friends; 
We 're bound to save her ladyship these 

steps. 
Nay, — stand aside, — we will come in. 
Leonora. What means this? 



Scene 2. The above. 

(Enter Bertha and companions.) 

Leonora. Good-morrow, Bertha; would 

you aught with me? 
Bertha. Our homage, gracious countess, 
we would pay. 

And ask, how doth your precious health 
to-day? 
Leonora. Why, I am well. What mean 
these words of yours — 

These mocking looks? Why do you call 
me countess? 
Bertha. Such is your worthy title, we 
infer. 

After those sacred nuptials of the heart, 

At which the priest, indeed, did not at- 
tend. 

Having good cause for absence, — as I 
judge ! 

The bridal ring, see, girls! upon her 
finger. 

That is a troth-ring for a village maid, 

A school prize for the first in modesty. 

Pardon, your virtuous, blushing excel- 
lence ! 

We '11 call you Countess, Duchess, Para- 
gon, 

Whate'er your la'ship pleases; but 
henceforth 

We please to keep no company with you. 
Leonora. I stand amazed at these injuri- 
ous words. 

Dare you insult me thus? And, if you 
dare. 

What moves your malice to break out on 
me 

Who never wronged you? These, my 
village mates, 



Are they come here to cast their jibes 

upon 
An unoffending comrade? Loulou, 

Blanche, 
Susanne, are you become my enemies? 
I thought you loved me. 
Girls. Bertha speaks for us. 

Leonora. Nay, take your miserable pleas- 
ure then; 
I leave it for the meanest. Yet, be sure, 
I have a friend whose watchful love and 

zeal 
Shield me from outrage. Vex me not 

too far. 
Or he may answer. 
Bertha. Hef How brave she talks! — 

He 's gone ! 
Leonora. Who 's gone ? 
Bertha. Your spiritual spouse, 

Count, duke, or devil. 
Leonora. (To herself.) Do I heed 

these words? (To Bertha.) 

Bertha, your envious heart is strong in 

hate. 
Weak in invention — he is close at hand. 
Bertha. He's gone, I say! 
Leonora. They want to make me mad, 

For cruel laughter; so, I will not rave. 

(To them.) 
I do not doubt my being, person, place. 
Nor that my usual senses help my 

thought ; 
Here are my old surroundings, — here 

myself ; 
Yonder 's the sun, that stands for God 

in heaven, 
And morning clouds that do him rever- 
ence; 
The trees, the waters are unchanged; 

't is there. 
The glorious world I walked in yester- 
day. 
Now, if there 's truth in aught that I 

discern. 
There is no need to question. He 's not 
gone! 
Susanne. My father 's master of the post, 
you know; 
His horses left at daybreak. 
Leonora. That may be. 

What need I care what traveller ordered 
them? 
Bertha. Perhaps his empty chamber at 
the inn. 
The bed unruffled, would confirm your 
• faith. 
Leonora. (Suddenly.) His chamber, — 

who has seen it? 
Bertha, and girls. All of us! 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



401 



Leonora. There is no truth in this; and 
yet, and yet, — 
I cannot live until it be disproved. 
Bertha. She changes countenance. 
Leonora. I '11 seek him there, 

Or anywhere, to rid myself of you. 
Bertha. Think you we'll stay? We 
would not miss the scene 
For the brave diamond in your wedding- 
ring! 
Leonora. Beware, lest shame o'ertake'the 
shameless tongue: — 
Kiitchen, I cannot tarry, — follow me! 

(Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. A Chamber at the Inn. A bed 
that has not been slept in; various marks 
of confusion, — papers scattered about. 
Boniface, at a table with money. 



Boniface. I care not what the man may 
be, — I know 

His gold is good, and he right free 
withal ; 

No haggling at the price of wine and 
wax, 

Nor hint, nor question, — paid and pock- 
eted. 

YovLT half-way people now. Lord, how 
they save 

Their candle-ends, and, better than your- 
self 

Can count you every morsel you have 
served ! 

(Looking at the bill.) 

Come, come, old Boniface, if things go 
on 

In this wise, we shall have our daughter 
portioned, 

Our age kept warm with comfort, as is 
right. 

God send me many gentlemen like him ! — 

What noise is that without? 



Scene 4. The above. 

(Enter Leonora, followed by Bertha and 
her comrades. Leonora stands a mo- 
ment and looks around her in surprise.) 

Boniface. Well, girls, what now? 

Leonora. (To Boniface.) I do not see 

him. Where is Count Lothair? 
Boniface. What 's that to you ? 
Leonora. Enough, enough, good friend! 
Say where he is. 



Boniface. Why, gone where'er he likes. 
As you metHinks may see. This was his 
room. 
Leonora. Was? What an idle jest is 
this (So, so, 
Let me not anger him.) So, Boniface, 
Bertha and you contrived this merry 

trick, — 
A harmless one, that cannot ruffle me. 
But now, if you and she have laughed 

enough, 
Be kind, and tell me, whither went the 
count. 
Boniface. A trick, indeed ! I 've told 
you all I know, 
And so much more than I had need. 

He 's gone ; 
Whither, and wherefore, you must ask 
elsewhere. 
Leonora. Here 's money for thee — tell 

me, pray thee, tell! 
Boniface. I want no money, and have 
naught to tell. 
Where are your wits? 
Bertha. They left her when he came; 

Now that he 's gone — who knows ? — they 
may return. 
Leonora. ! ye are all in league to tor- 
ture me, 
Like fiends, who know how falsehoods 
vex the soul! 

(Enter Edward.) 

Boniface. Well, we shall hold a rural 
chapter here; 
The syndic next. So, will you go in 

peace ? 
Or must I hunt this hubbub from my 
house ? 
Leonora. I will not stir until I know the 
truth. 
So, Heaven be kind to me! 
Edv^ard. Leonora here? 

I sought an interview with Count Lo- 
thair, 
Or one who bears that name. 
Boniface. The count again; 

He left at daybreak. 
Edward. I am much surprised; 

He promised me a meeting. 
Boniface. Did he so? 

Well, you '11 not meet him here ! 
Leonora. Is this a dream, 

Or truth, that breaks with lurid glare 
upon me? 
(Going up to Edward with violence.) 
You had your weapon at his throat, last 
night; 



402 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



I rushed to part you; with my naked 

breast 
I shielded, rescued him whose life is 

mine; 
But what befell when I was there no 

more? 
Confess, explain, — his blood lies at your 

door. 
Edward. {With astonishment.) His 

blood? 
Leoxora. Say how you did it. Where 

ye met? 
Does he lie bleeding in the copsewood 

yonder? 
Or have you dug his grave with hasty 

hands? 

where? where? 

Bertha. 'T is better than a play ! 

Leonora. Say, if he 's dead, I '11 leave 
you all in peace; 

Why should I stay to plague you with 
my moan. 

Who never knew such sorrow ? I '11 de- 
part; {To Edward.) 

But bid them lead me gently to the 
spot, 

Where, like a fallen sun, his beauty lies 

Veiled in the death-cloud. Ah, I see it 
now! 

1 see him dead before me! 

Edward. Leonora ! 

Am I condemned to speak the sentence 

out 
That renders death itself a boon of 

peace? 
He lives — you are deserted and betrayed ! 
Bertha. Did we not tell you so an hour 
ago? 
But she is struck with blinding idiocy, 
And, having played the wanton, plays 
the fool. 
Boniface. What does she hold by? 
There 's his money paid. 
Trunks, boxes, servants, all are packed 

and gone; 
So, mistress, let us make an end of 
this. 
Katchen. {Suddenly.) Ah, me, that let- 
ter! Come with me, dear child! 
Here 's something that may make all 
right. 
Leonora. Give here! {She reads it.) 

Bertha. Look af her, will you? See 
tliose eyes of hers, 
That bloodless face, that swol'n vein in 

her forehead. 
So, Leonora, you believe us now? 
Leonora. Believe you? Never! 

(She falls.) 



Edward. Stand back, all of you ! 

{He raises her head. Bertha makes 
a gesture of defiance. Katchen 
bends over her. Scene changes.) 



Scene 5. The Place in front of the Inn. 
Various youths and maidens in groups, 
as if conversing. 

{Enter Bertha.) 

Bertha. All has befallen as I told you, 
boys ; 
Leonora is deserted by her Count. 
She slighted you and all of us for him; 
So, let us raise a friendly voice or two 
To speed her homeward; — rather, let's 

unite 
To hunt her from our village. 
First Youth. Where is she? 

Bertha. {Pointing to the inn.) Yonder, 
— within. She fainted; on my life 
She had need, I think. Let 's help her 
to her senses. {Sings.) 

"Leonore, come to the door, 
Your true-love is a-waiting, 
With clerk and priest for nuptial feast, 
And we to see your mating." 

Join in the chorus, will you? 
First Youth, Willingly. 

All Sing. 

"With clerk and priest for nuptial feast, 
And we to see your mating." 

Bertha. Now that I call a tolerable song. 

I made it on the moment. 
Second Youth. Brava, Bertha! 

Hurra, I say, for Bertha ! 
All. One verse more! 

{Enter Edward.) 

First Youth. Here's Edward! 
Edward. Let these ribald strophes cease; 

They outrage decency. 
Second Youth. Ho, sirrah, Edward! 

We '11 sing as long as suits us, and as 

loud. 
Why should our song disturb you? 
Edward. Listen, friends! 

Within those walls a suffering creature 

waits, 
New-smit with sorrow; let her pass in 

peace 
To her own door. So much I ask of 
you. 
Bertha. Think not that she shall pass 
without our greeting. 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



403 



Let her come forth, and show her bridal- 
ring,— 
The ring, — ho ! ho ! the glistering diamond 

ring! 
Let 's form a ring to view the bridal-ring ! 

{They shout.) 

A ring! a ring! to view the bridal-ring! 

Edward. {With forced calmness.) I 

know the goodness of your hearts 

belies 

The roughness of your manners. So, 

good friends. 
Depart in peace; it is not well to mock. 
The evil daj^ may come to all of us. 
Bertha and Others. There, Parson Ed- 
ward, you have preached enough! 
The music 's better suited to our taste. 

{Sings.) 

"Whip, spur, and gallop, and the steed 's 
away, 
The steed that bore her lover. 
She may wait for him ever and a day; 
It boots not, — courtship's over!" 

Now chorus! 

All Sing. 

"Leonore, come to the door, 
And keep your true-love ever more." 

{As they sing, the door opens, and 
Leonora slowly emerges, veiled, and 
leaning upon Katchen. They 
form a ring around her.) 
Bertha. Take off that veil, — let 's see 
your pretty face. 
Don't hide your maiden blushes. Inno- 
cence! {They shout.) 
Off with the veil, or it shall hang in 
tatters ! 
Edward. Leonora, fear not ! I '11 stand 
up for you 
Against the world! Who dares impede 

her way. 
Or follow her with one injurious word, 
Accounts for it to me. 
Leonora. {Lifting her veil.) When I 
need help, 
I have a knee to bend, a voice to call. 
And God is not so far but he can hear. 
I thank you, Edward! 

{She passes out. Edward follows.) 
First Youth. That 's strange, by Jove ! 
Second Youth. He was her lover once. 
Bertha. Pitiful soul! his suit may pros- 
per now. 
Good luck attend your wooing, Signor 
Edward ! 
{They pair off, and depart in con- 
fusion. ) 



Scene 6. The same. 

{Enter Edward.) 

Edward. She must not stay for further 
insult here. 

Best she departs at once. Yet whither 
go, 

Since disappointment lies along her way. 

And the grim host, at ending, is De- 
spair? 

I '11 follow at a distance, for defence 

And counsel. She has need of me, al- 
though 

Her heart is rebel to the thought. That 
need 

Makes me her follower. Why did they 
mock, 

Those cruel ones, because I shielded her 

From their rude pleasure? Was it 
strange that I, 

Who loved her, should stand up to plead 
her cause 

Against the brutal judgment of the 
crowd ? 

Had I kept back, because she loved me 
not. 

Because she loved a wretch who sought 
her ruin, 

Because the evil left her for the good 

To help and cherish, what an empty 
name, 

A thing to scoff and spit upon, were love ! 

Scene 7. Leonora; Katchen. 

Katchen. So, they have fairly chased us 
from the village ! 
I never thought to see this evil day. 

{Weeps.) 
Leonora. Stay not for tears; or, if 
thou 'rt loth to go, 
Return, and let me take my way alone. 
Katchen. Thou know'st I cannot choose 
but go with thee; 
Yet leaving in this wise is hard indeed. 
Leonora. Now, Katchen, I must hold you 
to a bond. 
Or you shall try no further step with 

me. 
The way I seek is swift and terrible! 
Faith, with its fervent passion, hurries 

me, 
Ev'n as it blindly guides yon flock in 

air. 
Whose whitherward is known to God 

alone. 
Can you be strong and steadfast? 
Katchen. Help of Heaven 



404 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



Forsake me else! yet, do not chide the 

thought, — 
I would that Edward bore us company! 
Leonora. Edward ! 
Katchen. The bravest, faithfulest of 

friends. 
Leonora. I would not be his debtor. 
Katchen. Can you choose? 

Did he not raise you, fainting, in his 

arms? 
Did he not silence Bertha and her crew, 
With such an earnest, valiant counte- 
nance ? 
Leonora. Hush, Katchen ! never speak of 

things like these. 
I do forbid your mention of this day 
In all our future converse. I must walk 
Without a weight would drag me down 

to hell. 
{Looking towards the setting sun.) 
My way lies where the morning-red is 

clear ; 
Where purple shadows stream towards 

golden light, 
When the Day gathers up liis wide-blown 

robes 
For the cold plunge of darkness. I shall 

tread 
Where angels watch that spring-tide 

flowers may rise; 
Rest where the vestal evening trims her 

lamp 
For prayer and offering; all the loving 

helps 
Of nature will impel me towards the 

spot, 
The goal of fate, to which all ways must 

lead, — 
0, towards my love! 0, Katchen, to- 
wards my love! 
Katchen. Doubt not that Qod shall guide 

us. Let us go! 
(Exeunt slowly, Leonoua leading the 

way.) 

Scene 8. A Room in- an Inn. 

LoTHAiR. I 've travelled like the devil in a 
storm. 

Leaving this folly league on league be- 
hind. 

Gods, what a game I played! Was this 
for me? 

A man who sees the danger in the pleas- 
ure, 

And draws the fang before the serpent's 
head 

Rests on his bosom t ¥w, Lothair! 
Confes? 



No school-boy could have done a wilder 
thing. 

And yet, I swear, I am a cautious man! 
(Goes to window.) 

A tiresome journey, and a gloomy night; 

A night for dreams to bring those 
troubles back 

Our will holds banished from our wak- 
ing thought. 

Beside my bed, last night, a Fury stood, 

Whose stony eyelids nailed me where I 

While with an evil smile she drew a 

blade. 
Red from her heart, and held it aimed 

at mine. 
But, as I waited for the death-blow fain, 
As that should end my agony, she flung 
The weapon from her for a Lounce ^-like 

spring ; 
And with wild hands about my neck, and 

shrieks 
More wild, more dismal than the ghosts J 

in hell, 1 

She dragged me down a bottomless 

abyss, 
Whose very vacancy seemed sharp with 

pangs. 
I woke in torment. Bah ! I '11 dream no 

more! 
Why should I, when there 's better to be 

done? 
Orsetti 's here, with Huon and Alberto, 
And other nobles; they have sent for 

me. 
I am not merry, — but 'tis time to break 
This sombre web that suits not with my 

humor. 
So, ye distasteful fantasies, depart! 
Here 's for gay gossip, and a night at 

cards ; 
And generous wine, the princely friend 

of man, 
That helps him, like a father, out of 

straits. 
With such a twinkling, swaggering sober- 
ness. 
Back, — I can blow you backward with 

a breath. 
Ye owlet brood ! Here 's for the old 

Lothair! (Goes.) 



Scene 9. An apartment hrilliantly lighted. 
In the further part of the room a table 
covered with wines and fruits. In front 
a smaller one, with cards and dice. At I 
the latter are seated Huon and Berto. i 

1 Reading — edition of 1857. Misprint for "ounce," 
a lynx, or dialectic French lounce (Fr. I'once). 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



405 



Orsetti, and others, stand near. Lo- 
renzo looks on. 

HuON. Berto, your throw. 

Berto. I can but lose again. 

What shall we venture? 
HuON. Twenty ducats more. 

Berto. Nay, I 'd as lief risk forty. 
HuoN. As you will; 

The luck is mine to-night. 

Berto. Try sixty, then, 

For better fortune. {They throw.) 

There they go again, 

Here, Huon, take the purse, and pay 

yourself, 
To save me reck'ning. 
Huon. What a careless dog! 

'Fore Heaven ! the men are few to whom 

I'd lend 
My purse, with gold uncounted. 
Berto. I 've a tree. 

You know, upon the old paternal lands. 
That bears such fruit for shaking. 
Huon. Have a care 

You strip it not, with wasteful hus- 
bandry ! 
Good Berto, nay, I 'm loth to cost you 

more; 
Let the dice rest, — they 're not for you 
to-night. 
Berto. The thought is pleasant, that a 
paltry sum 
Like this, could make a famine in my 

coffers. 
Here 's for another rattle ! 
Huon. Here 's Lothair. 



Scene 10. The above. 

(Lothair enters.) 

.All. Welcome, fair Count! 
Lothair. Welcome to all of you ! 

Berto. {Shaking hands.) 'T is long 
since we have seen you. Tell us, 
now, 
Where have you lain perdu this blessed 
time? 
Lothair. These thirty days of midsum- 
mer have passed 
Ev'n as they might, with one whose 

health required 
A country regimen and mountain air. 
Huon. Fie! fie! Lothair; don't lie to 

friends like these! 
Berto. How 's your aunt's lap-dog ? 
Orsetti. And the good Arch-Priest, 

Your venerable uncle, — how is he? 
Lothair. All well, — I thank you kindly, 
— very well. 



Berto. Speak like a man, and let your 
comrades know 

What mischief you have wrought with- 
out their help. 
Huon. Give him some wine first. 

{Pours.) 
Lothair. Yes, my throat is dry. 

I drink, good Berto, to your better 
luck; 

For surely you 've been playing, — and 
as surely 

The odds have gone against you. 
Berto. On my life 

You guess discreetly. What of that, my 
boy? 

Gold 's for the spending, be it lost or 
won; 

Though I could wish I had your star, 
Lothair, 

In every venture. 
Lothair. This is generous wine, — 

A wine to sing about ; though 't is a point 

How far the wine and singing go to- 
gether. 
Berto. What say you? 
Lothair. Why, your poets cannot drink 

As we. They settle on the goblet's brim 

Already half-intoxicate with song. 

The fiery vapor is enough to turn 

Their sublimated brains; while you and 
I 

Plunge to the muzzle, like a steed at 
water. 

And keep the heavenly madness for our- 
selves 

Which they, not having, sing to all the 
world. 
Huon. True, true; your men who linger 
in ideas 

Are not the men for pleasure. As with 
wine, 

So is 't with women. Your true wor- 
shipper 

Can never pass the outer circle dim 

Of their enchantments; he is lost, trans- 
fixed 

In admiration, while the vision fair, 

Dissolving, leaves him empty as before. 

So have I seen one introduced at court. 

Stand gaping at resplendent sover- 
eignty, 

Until the favorable moment passed. 

And left him but his wonder for his 
pains. 

Another presses forward, gains the eye, 

The ear of power; gets pension, title, 
place. 

While our poor clown has nothing asked 
or had. 



40G 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



Lorenzo. But could the prince or lady 

stand to choose, 
Would they not, think you, crown the 

modest heart 
With high deserving? 
IIuox. It concerns us not 

To force conclusions. Take things as 

they are. 
Orsetti. Your woman-hunter tires down 

his prey 
With the true game-dog instinct ; 't is the 

love 
Of conquest, not the feeble thing he 

hunts. 
Incites him. 
LoTHAiR. (Indicating Lorenzo.) Berto, 

who is he that spoke 
Just now? 
Berto. (To Lothair.) A stranger 

chance threw in our way. 
I have not heard his name, or else forgot 

it. 
'Tis a green, peevish youth; let's med'- 

cine him 
With something stronger than his 

mother's milk, 
Scarce out of him, I judge. 
Lothair. Indeed, poor babe! 

He 's come into a proper nursery. 
Eh, Berto? I will look to him anon. 
HuoN. 'T is an impertinence to reason 

thus. 
When one, of great authority in these 
And other matters, sits at wine with us. 
Lothair is here, the keenest, luckiest, 
In these high sports; the man who never 

missed 
His game; who has the pleasure, and 

escapes 
The useless reckoning. Come, Don Juan 

mine. 
Unfold for us thy catalogue, as long 
And blooming as a florist's; let us hear 
What new adventures have beguiled this 

month. 
They should be many, for Lothair lives 

not 
A week that brings not its intrigue to 

pass. 
As surely as its Sunday. 
Berto. {Filling Lothair's glass.) Drink 

again. 
Lothair. {After drinking.) He should 

miscall, who named me woman- 
hunter : 
Hunted were nearer truth. The crea- 
tures know 
Too well the natural softness of my 

heart, 



Not to abuse it. Angels, shall we call 
them? 

Women are angels; but, like Lucifer, 

They have a natural tendency to fall, 

And drag us after. 
Berto. 0, you handsome dog! 

Will you pretend to ignore the temp- 
ter's part? 

You play the victim? 
Lothair. On my life, I may. 

The pretty dears are deep in provocation. 

The very germ of womanhood's a hook 

With a bait on it. How they angle for 
us! 

They madden us with pinidence; at tlie 
last 

They pass the palm of conquest to our 
sex. 

Through subtle instinct, when, in truth, 
we were 

The sought, the wooed, the conquered. 
Thus it goes. 

Ah, they have led me many a weary 
dance ! 

Would they but henceforth leave me to 
myself, 

'T were worth the thanking. Berto, give 
more wine. {Drinks.) 

HuON. They '11 hang about you while 
your beauty stays. 

Your vigor, and your fortune. Let these 
go,— 

As, in a merrj^, swashing life, they 
may,— 

You need not shun the women. 
Lorenzo. Gentlemen, 

I am not forward, in such company, 

To speak of things most sacred : 't is the 
fault 

Of words of yours, if mine grow vehe- 
ment. 

I think we call those Women, who up- 
hold 

Faint hearts and strong, with angel 
countenance ; 

Who stand for all that 's high in Faith's 
resolve. 

Or great in Hope 's first promise. 
Women they 

Whose shadows, passing, heal the fevered 
brow, 

And were a thing for grateful lips to 
press. 

Were 't not that men like you and Judas 
kiss! 

Remembrances like these, with all of us. 

Lie nearer to the heart than to the lips. 

But such let not an hour like this pro- 
fane; 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



407 



We name them not o'er goblets emptied 

oft, 
But, pouring once to them the sacred 

wine, 
Shatter the vase forever ! 

Weaker forms, 
Where blood overmasters brain, and 

stops drawn out 
Let the full rush of passion oversweep 
Thouglit's modest labor at the finger- 
board, 
Are near us in our daily lives. For 

these, 
Justice has yet an earnest word to say; 
Ev'n the frail creature with a moment's 

bloom, 
That pays your pleasure with her sac- 
rifice, 
And, having first a marketable price, 
Grows thenceforth valueless, — e'en such 

an one, 
Lifted a little from the mire, and purged 
By hands severely kind, will give to 

view 
The germ of all we honor, in the form 
Of all that we abhor. You fling a jewel 
Where wild feet tramp, and crushing 

wheels go by; 
You cannot tread the splendor from its 

dust; 
So, in the shattered relics, shimmers yet 
Through tears and grime, the pride of 

womanhood. 
A man, — I would show courtesy to all ; — 
{With emphasis.) 
Forbearance, even, to some. Were I a 

king. 
To woman I would lift my coronet ! 
Loth AIR. (ToHuon.) See how the crim- 
son flashes to his brow! 
This is some virgin-souled enthusiast. 
Huon, we were of his opinion once! 
Eheu ! that time seems further than it is. 
But you and I have seen the world, my 

boy! 
Berto. Sir, you have spoken honestly and 

well; 
But you'll not hold to these illusions 

long. 
Lorenzo. {With solemnity.) If it please 

God, may life depart from me 
Ere I lose faith in woman's nobleness! 
LoTHAiR. A madman's prayer! 
Huon. What need of prayer at all? 

I must confess my patience serves me 

not 
To stay a sermon, where we ask a toast. 
But, has our reverend father breathed 

his zeal, 



We '11 hear Lothair upon another 
theme, — 

The story of a month in mountain-land. 
Lothair. (To Huon.) Why, yes. Gods! 
I '11 astound the Puritan. 

Yet 't is a simple story, — briefly this : 

A traveller in an unknown neighbor- 
hood, 

Detained by breaking of a carriage- 
wheel. 

That proved a very wheel of Fortune to 
him. 

Through invitation of two glorious eyes. 

Sealed by the sanction of two lovely lips, 

Became the captive of two swan-like 
arms, 

And stayed, content, in their captivity, 

Till — till — in fact, he thought it best to 
go. 

I trust I am decorous in my style; 

Hints to the wise, you know! — my 
story 's done. 
Berto. It runs as smoothly as a nursery- 
tale; 

But 't is too vague in outline. Give some 
facts 

To mark the doubtful footprints of your 
friend. 
Huon. {With irony.) I hope he did not 

harm an innocent girl. 
Orsetti. Few men have that good for- 
tune, I 'm afraid. 
Lothair. You shall not mar the conquest 
of my friend. 

Cynic — this was a bud whose virgin heart 

Found its first summer in the glow of 
his. 

Such summers are unthrifty, as you 
know; 

All they have gathered falls in autumn's 
lap. 

Perhaps she mourns him. He desires it 
not, — 

Why should she? Life and love are left 
her still; 

No funeral pyre awaits to end them 
both. 

I talk as though the thing were seri- 
ous; 

That you have leave to laugh at, if you 
will. 
Huon. Could you not shed some peniten- 
tial tears'? 

Methinks you grow pathetic. 
Orsetti. {With mock pathos.) On my 
word. 

It is a very touching history. 
Berto. Why can't you tell us what the 
girl was like? 



408 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



As handsome as the last one? No, not 

quite. 
LoTiiAiR. Handsome? You shall not find 

her counterpart 
'T wixt this and the Circassian nurseries. 
Gentles, that was a woman! Such an 

eye, 
Such lips, such shoulders, Passion's ec- 



Attempered by the snow-hue of her skin, 
Like wine in ice, to madness exquisite. 
HuON. He always vapors of his women 
thus; 
She was some sunburnt dowdy, very 
like! 
LoTHAiR. {Taking out a portrait.) See 
for yourself; confess that beautiful, 
Or let me call you night-owls, blind 
worms, moles. 
Huo^r. {Considering the portrait.) 
Humph! let me see! Upon my word, 
not bad! 
Orsetti. Give me the shadowy pleasure 
of a look. 
'Fore Heaven, you 've wronged the sover- 
eign, sir! Such charms 
Are naturally rescript to royalty. 
HuoN. That 's true ; you '11 give me her 
address and name? 

(Lorenzo takes the portrait.) 
LoTHAiR. You could not win her, Berto, 
with your gold; 
Nor Huon, with his devil's enterprise. 
No sordid bargain gave my suit suc- 
cess. 
She loved me. 
HuON. 0, you're modest! — in 

that case 
Why did you leave her? 
LoTHAiR. That 's the worst of it. 

I thought to spend another joyous 

month ; 
But circumstances intervened. A broil, 
A jealous rival. Were it not for these 
I had not been with you, my friends, to- 
night. 
HuON. {With meaning.) Better em- 
ployed your countship would have 
been. 
LoTHAiR. {Significantly.) Perhaps. 
Lorenzo. {Coming forward.) Are you 

the hero of your tale? 
Huon. It needs no prophet to declare us 

that. 
Lorenzo. And is this portrait hers of 
whom you spake? 

(LOTHAiR nods assent.) 
Lorenzo. You had the heart to leave your 
evil mark, — 



The foulest, — on this glorious brow ; these 

eyes. 
Tender and passionate; these faultless 1, 
lips, I 

Whose silence cries to God like victims' 

blood! 
Say, was it yours, the deed that you 

aver, 
Or is this empty boasting? It is true! i 
Then, let me give your villainy its name, 7 
And tell you that a blow from this right 

hand 
Were just, — had it deserved so mean a 
service. 
LOTHAIR. {Starting.) Hell's fury! do 

you dare to tell me this? 
Huon. Come on ! Draw swords ; we '11 

stand to see fair play. 
Lorenzo. I am no partner for a midnight 
brawl. 
The morning sun may shame you to your 
senses; {Throws down a card.) 

If not, I fling you here my honest name. 
And when we meet, may God protect the 
right. {Exit.) 

Obsetti. {After a moment's silence.) 
Go, saucy cockerel! we're well rid of 
thee. 
Huon. Lothair, my man, you should have 

let him blood. 
Berto. He was too quick with his im- 
pertinence. 
Huon. I '11 be the bearer of your line to- 
morrow. 
Lothair. {Suddenly.) The portrait, ha! 
Up, l3oys, and follow him! 

{They all rush out.) 



ACT THIRD. 
Scene 1. A Boom in an Inn. 

Edward. {Solus.) Thither and thither 

by her frenzy led. 
0, the wild errand, with the frantic end ! 
O, piteous lavishing of holy gifts 
On a remorseless idol, absent, dumb! 
I chide, and I grow like her, wandering 

on, 
Seeking new places, plunging into 

crowds. 
With eyes intent to ravel out their web. 
And seize the thread of Fate. On lonely 

heaths 
Like her I see no spot so poor and bare 
But it should yield him, like a spell of 

joy, 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



409 



Could her foot touch the right stone. 

Swifter hope 
Leads her, in towns where strangers con- 
gregate; 
Then, how^ she threads the narrow ways 

between 
The booths; heeds not the bestial and 

profane, 
Hears not the music, murderous of tune ! 
Nor would she know, if angels stood and 

sang. 
She listens only to the far-off pipe 
That draws her, with its thin-worn 

melody. 
Through the flushed present to the far- 
off goal, — 
A dim, gray vista, with a sudden red 
That drops, death-quenched, ere you can 

wdn to it. (After a pause.) 

To-day her hope 's in fuller heart than 

ever; 
A market-town hangs simmering in our 

way; 
"There will be many people there," she 

says, 
"Who knows? who knows f Indeed, 

poor child! who knows? 
So, here we are. That step upon the 

stairs 
Is like Lorenzo's; could I think it he? 
{The door opens.) 

Scene 2. The above. 

(Lorenzo enters.) 

Edward. It is, indeed! (They embrace.) 
Lorenzo. Edward, we meet at last. 

'T is a kind chance that brings us face 
to face. 

{Looking at him.) 
Why ! you 've much altered, man ! What 

mean these looks? 
You turn away; your brow is worn and 
sad. 
Edward. I 've been at work, you know, 
with over-zeal. 
Sketching by midnight, working up by 

day. 
No one grew ever great in any art 
Who did not with this pallor paint him- 
self. 
Lorenzo. No — that 's not it ! Some sor- 
row weighs you down; 
Is it too great for words ? You '11 tell 

it me 
In time. I have no rest until I share it. 
Edward. {With forced gaijetij.) Who 
talks of sorrow? — Give us bread and 
wine, 



And this shall be a feast. 'T is nigh a 

year 
Since we have pledged each other. Boy, 

this way! 
A flask of Rhenish! 
Lorenzo. I am not athirst. 

{Boy places wine on a small table. 
They sit. Edward pours.) 
Here's to our meeting {They drink.) 
Lorenzo. Tell of your return. 

How was 't ? Auspicious ? Did the maid- 
en smile? 
Edward. She smiles no more ! The girl I 
loved is dead! 
That is, I think of her as if she were. 
Talk of your travels; you have much to 
tell! 
Lorenzo. This is most strange! 
Edward, You 're 

all the way from Rome; 
Have you no tidings? 
Lorenzo. Nothing worthy note. 

Edward. What of your journey? 
Lorenzo. Prosperous enough, 

But bare of incident. Nay, on my word, 
I had a story freshly in my thoughts, 
When your pale face suggested other 
themes. 
Edward. Adventures wait for gallant 
knights like you. 
Proceed, — I 'm eager for your narra- 
tive. 
Lorenzo. I chanced among some brag- 
garts at their wine 
One evening ; — wherefore, let 's not fill 

too oft; — 
In the full flush of lustihood were they, 
With rank and money to their mind, I 

think ! 
And one of them the man for women's 

eyes ;— 
You know the sort. Had one a sister, 

now, 
God rest her in her grave ere wooed of 
him! 
Edward. Ay, say you so? You would 
not pray amiss. 
Proceed. 
Lorenzo. His presence was profane to 
me 
Before his lips unlocked their evil treas- 
ures. 
The talk soon turned on amorous enter- 
prise ; 
All turned to him as one supremely 

versed ; 
And he, with some new-glowing conquest 

crowned. 
Told its loose tale; resigned its heroine 



410 



LEONORA, OK THE WORLD'S OWN 



To hints, and shrugs, and jeers, which, 

on my word. 
If women feel as we, should burn like 

hell, 
And bring shame's scarlet to a wan- 
ton's cheek. 
Edward. (Aside.) This might be he, or 
any one. { Aloud.) 

Say on! 
Lorenzo. He had a portrait; it was hers, 
he said; 
His boon companions (such men have 

no friends) 
Drove on their jesting till he showed it 
them. 
Edward. It was — ? 

Lorenzo. God's pity! what a 

face it was! 
Like something, too, that I have seen in 

dreams. 
Or in a picture; but more beautiful. 
It seemed to plead for rescue at my 

hands, 
And so — I snatched it. 
Edwakd. Have you brought it here? 

Lorenzo. Behold ! 
Edward. 'T is she ! I knew it 

from the first! 
Lorenzo. Edward, you falter! — tell me, 

why is this? 
Edward. Had I his heart's blood! had I 

that, Lorenzo! 
Lorenzo. You 've known her, then — the 

victim of this man? 
Edward. Ask this grief-hardened bosom, 
these parched ej'es. 
Whose tears have left their burning bed 

a-dry, 
If I have known her! 
Lorenzo. All grows clear to me, — 

'T was in a sketch of yours I saw the 

face; 
This was your Leonora! 
Edward. Name her not! 

Lorenzo. Poor maid! poor Edward! 

Help is idle here. 
Edward. Justice remains. We '11 talk of 
that anon. 
Say, did you leave his baseness un- 
chastised ? 
Lorenzo. I had it in my heart to strike 
him down; 
But what, — 't is pitiful to harm a cow- 
ard; 
I smote him only with a shameful word, 
And, spurning, left him to his fellows' 
scorn. 
Edward. 0, worthy friend ! 't was well, 
't was nobly done ; 



But it seems little to my angry heart. 
I could become a fiend, to plot his ruin. 
Lorenzo. God needs not men like you, 

nor me, for that. 
Such wretches twine the slip-noose for 

themselves. 
What we can do for her were first to 

seek. 
Where is she? 
Edward. Searching the wide 

world for him. 
With me to help her. 
Lorenzo. Then she 's nigh at hand. 

And hanging still upon a treacherou-s 

hope. 
Can you unmask him to her? 
Edward. Such a task 

Affection's utmost should require of me. 
(After a pause.) 
Give me that portrait. You should fol- 
low me; 
Your statement only can establish mine. 
Support me. Heaven ! beneath the weight 

of woe 
I bear to her. (Exeunt.) 

Scene 3. A Street. Leonora, Katchen. 

Leonora. I know not why I am so light 

to-day. 
I seem to breathe the sunshine, taste the 

flowers, 
Weave rainbow clothing from this golden 

air, 
The morning's gift, that scatters heaven 

abroad. 
He is not distant, Katchen. Do not 

smile ! 
To-day, be sure, he lives in happiness. 
And from his heart the first glad over- 
flow 
Sends its wide circlings of delight to 

mine. 
'T is such a day shall bring us face to 

face; 
Nay, never shake thy head. I will not 

bear 
Doubt in my presence; — better walk 

alone; — 
For, Kiitchen, I 'm as sure of meeting 

him. 
As next year's spring-tide, if I live so 

long. 
And I shall see what has become a 

vision, — 
So long, so far I follow it, — and sink. 
To die, perhaps, — what matter? — on his 

breast. 

(She clasps her hands ^ and pauses.) 



JULIA WARD HO^YE 



411 



I fear I 've been unclutif ul, of late ; 
For though I have miraculous support 
To pierce the devious ways, as some pale 

moon 
Threads the dim vapors, striving towards 

her heaven, 
Yet, wlien the wavering columns of the 

day 
Give way, and swift the weight of dark- 
ness falls, 
Crushing my hope and me, I sink, so 

low 
The grave itself seems near me; but at 

morn 
The little prisoner finds its wing again. 
Katchen. Alas, my child! who knows 

what nights and morrows, 
What days and years, this search shall 

link together? 
You 'U drop me, somewhere, in a wayside 

grave, 
But you may perish on some lonely 

moor, 
Where ev'n poor Katchen's comfort were 

not scorned, 
Where unblest brutes and wicked ghosts 

may strive 
To cheat your bones of Christian burial. 
Leonora. I do not love you when your 

speech runs thus; 
'T were best would you and Edward go 

your ways. 
And leave me to myself. 
Katchen. Not while I live. 

{Enter Flower-Girl. ) 

Leonora. Forgive me, Katchen; I was 
harsh, indeed. 
See, the fresh roses ! Hither, little maid ! 
You need not bear them further; we are 

poor. 
But Katchen will not grudge this shin- 
ing coin 
That buys a priceless joy of memory. 
Flower-Girl. Keep it, I pray! you're 
welcome to the flowers. 
I 'd rather give to you than sell to some. 
Leonora. Not so, dear child; you have 
your bread to earn, 
And must keep thrifty commerce with 
your wares. 
Katchen. Thank God if they can give 

you honest life. 
Flower-Girl. What else? I earn the lit- 
tle that I need, 
And keep my friends and favorite cus- 
tomers ; 
Lovers are generous with their gold, you 
know, 



And love needs flowers to help its blush- 
ing tale." 

One buys my freshest violets every day. 

And, flinging thrice their value, looks not 
back, 

Hurrying to the street beyond the square, 

Where, from a window, leans his lady- 
love. 
Leonora. God keep them happy! I 
have chosen these. 

(Taking flowers.) 
Flower-Girl. And some buy rosemary, 
to strew on graves, 

And some, rich garlands for a wedding- 
feast. 

Or lilies, for the altar of their saint, 

You see, it is my fortune that they fade. 

God, when he made them so, remembered 
us. (Exit.) 

Leonora. 'T is w^ild to flaunt with posies 
in the street, — 

But, could I meet him, I 'd be thus ar- 
rayed ; 

The white and red, for Love and Truth, 
just here, 

Where the thin folds are gathered on 
my breast. 

This was the toilet of my happiest days, 

And still it seems familiar. Hearken, 
Katchen ! 

Should God recall my spirit ere we 
meet. 

And heaven, not earth, unfold that bliss- 
ful hour, 

'T is thus thou shalt adorn me for my 
bier; 

Thus wil'l I make my progress to the 
tomb, — 

For he might pass me, fading in my 
shroud, 

And smile to see me still attired for him. 
[Suddenly turning her head.) 

There comes a sound of horses' hoofs this 
way — 

0, ever, when I hear it, leaps my heart! 

(Enter Lothair and Helen at the further 
end of the stage; they walk along as in 
the street. Leonore and Katchen have 
retired a little in the background.) 

Lothair. (To Helen.) 'Twill rest you, 

love, to walk this quaint old street. 

And hunt its treasures, while the horses 

stand. 
The tedious chariot wearies us and them; 
Grand, like our state, but slow and irk- 
some too. 
Helen. I thank you. I was eager to de- 
scend, 



412 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



Cramped with long sitting. Will our 

boy be safe, 
Think you? 
LoTHAiR. Why, what should harm 

him where he sits? 
You mothers travel wide to find a fear. 
Leonora. Lothair ! 

{She tries to advance, hut falls sense- 
less. ) 
Helen. What girl is this? 
Lothair. Some sickly fool! 

Let us walk further ; there 's the market- 
place; 
The palace with the pictures is beyond. 
Helen. She knows your name. 
Lothair. Only by miracle. 

I should be tasked, indeed, to tell you 

hers. 
Come, we lose time. 
Katchen. {Springing before him.) 
Stay, Count Lothair! for shame, 
If not for pity. 
Lothair. {Angrily.) Shame is lost, I 
think. 
When things like you patrol the streets 

by day! 
Release my arm, or take this! 'tis your 
fault. {Striking her.) 

Helen. {Screams.) Ah! do not strike 
her! 
(Katchen drops her hold, with a cry 
of pain.) 
Lothair. {Dragging Helen along.) 
Madam, come away! 
Helen. Let me go back to help her ! 
See! she lies 
Upon the flinty bosom of the street. 
Lothair. Go at your peril, madam! It 
beseems 
My rank that you should parley with a 

wench ! 
Come on, I say! 
Helen. Heaven help thee, wretched one ! 

{Exeunt.) 

Katchen. {Bending over Leonora.) 

Shall I recall her to this heartless world? 

The dead will move her envy, when she 

wakes. 

{Reenter Flower-Girl. ) 

But she must wake. Help, child! your 
friend lies here. 
Girl. Alas! what shall I do? 
Katchen. Bring water straight; 

The fountain yonder. 
Girl. {Runs and returns.) Yes, I have 

it here. 
Katchhn. Pour on her temples; see, she 
breathes, she stirs! 



Be not in haste, sad eyes, to open here! 

Keep still a while, poor heart ! you 're 

happier so. 

Leonora. {Opens her eyes.) Lothair! 

not here? I saw him in a dream; 

No, no ! he 's gone, alas ! he knew me not ; 

I must be altered! 

{Springs to her feet, seizes the 
Flower-Girl hy the shoulder.) 

Which way did he go? 
Speak! speak! you cheat me of this 
precious time. 
Girl. I met a noble as I came this way, 

And on his arm a lady. 
Leonora. Do not prattle, — 

Where saw'st thou him? 
Girl. Beyond the market-place; 

But they walked rapidly. 
Leonora. That way? 

Girl. That way. (Leonora goes.) 

Katchen. Leonora! Leonora! my own 
child. 
Stay, if you love me! 
Leonora. {Looking hack.) Not for 
God in heaven! 



Scene 4. A Room in an Inn. 

{Enter Lothair and Helen.) 

Lothair. {Aside.) All safe, thank 

Heaven! {Aloud.) 

Dear Helen, rest you here; 

I bade them bring the choicest grapes 

and wine. 
You must take some refreshment, for we 

leave 
Within the hour. I go to seek our 
grooms. 
Helen. You need not send the fruit. 1 
never felt 
Further from hunger than I do to-day. 
Lothair. Why are you grown so sudden 
cold and strange? 
Your very voice seems altered. Do not 

say 

It was that silly business in the street, — 

A scene well-acted; poh! the merest jest. 

Helen. I will say nothing. 

Lothair. Helen, change that tone; 

Look like yourself, or I shall think you 

jealous. 
Of what? — a thing I would not stoop to 

pick 
From off the pavement. 
Helen. Do not slander lier; 

My woman's heart will take no pleasure 
in it. 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



413 



I saw lier face ; it was no wicked one, 
But very young and beautiful. 
LoTHAiR. My child, 

Y"ou do not know the world. These 

shameless w^omen 
Can simulate all virtues for their ends. 
Even the blushing gift of modesty 
They trade with, when occasion calls for 

it. 
But that I could not keep my angel wife 
In such vile presence, I had shamed 'the 

creatures 
Back to the noisome sewers where they 
live. 
Helen". What sound without? 
Leonora. (Without.) 1 know that he is 
here ! 

(Enter Leoxora. Lothair's hand seeks 
his dagger. He starts forward; Helen 
intervenes.) 

Helen. Now, by God's life! this woman 
shall have speech! 
(Lothair stands transfixed. Leonora 
advancing, holds him at arm's 
length, gazing fixedly at him. After 
some moments she turns abruptly 
from him, and sinks upon a seat.) 
Leonora. 'T is he ! I did not dream, nor 
was I mad, 

In all the 'wildered ruin of my heart. 

'T is he, unchanged in form and counte- 
nance ; 

No death-like pang has left its rigid 
mark 

Along his features. Is it not for this, 

Because he is unchanged, that, here in 
sight, 

I do not know him, — cannot speak to 
him? 

There is a gulf of agony between us, 

Silent and deep, which I have crossed 
alone, — 

And he stands there, and we are parted 
still. 

Lothair, — if it be thou indeed, — dissolve 

This icy spell with one familiar word. 

0, smile! 0, speak! Give me the old, 
dear name. 

And loose those arms that keep me from 
thy heart! 
(Going nearer to him, she stops sud- 
denly.) 

He dares not smile, nor speak; a sullen 
glow 

And leaden pallor alternate upon 

The cheek that used to shame mine, prest 
to it. (With a cry.) 



It is not hej no time could change him 

so! (She perceives Helen.) 

We 're not alone ! What lady pale and 

still 
Looks like a ghost upon us? Pray you, 

madam, 
Know you this gentleman as Count 
Lothair? (Helen hows assent.) 

And you, — his sister, or his friend? 
Helen. His wife. 

Leonora. You 're merry, madam ! Who- 
soe'er you be 
Your jesting is ill-chosen and worse- 
timed. 
Helen. (With dignity.) I do not jest. 
Leonora. Lothair, — what may this mean? 
Helen. Speak, sir, the truth. 
Lothair. (With effort.) This lady is my 

wife. 
Leonora. What strength shall hold me up 
to suffer this? 
Let me hear all, — is this your wedded 
wife? 
Lothair. Surely she is. 
Leonora. And I, God, betrayed! 

Do you remember me? These eyes, these 

lips, 
This bosom, — was it you who ravished 

all 
The poor girl's dower? This very lock 

of hair 
Has lost its fellow, — do you know its 

fate? 
Upon your heart you swore that it 

should lie 
Till death, — upon the heart that swelled 

with pleasure 
To ecstasy, you said, when I drew 

nigh. 
Sweet words, — sweet breath, — a madness 

of delight 
In which my soul passed from me! 

Could I die. 
And think him not a villain, I would 

bless 
The hand that stabbed me! Say it is 

not true; 
Say that you love me still ! 
Lothair. Mere raving this, — 

You know not what you say. Your 

words offend 
One who has rights. 
Leonora. She '11 waive those rights a 

moment, — 
Let your heart speak this once before we 

part 
Forever, — do you love me? 
Lothair. No ! 

Leonora. 0, fiend! 



414 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



But 't is not true ! Your lips belie your 
heart. 

Your policy deems fit to cast me off, 

But you will keep my image in your 
thoughts 

Sacred and dear. 
LoTiiAiR. Upon my word, not I ! 

Leonora. Then am I wronged as never 
woman was, 

And such a sin cries out to Heaven for 
vengeance. 
Loth AIR. Let me advise you to depart in 
peace; 

You need not stay to criminate your- 
self. 

Our journey presses, — we must go from 
hence. 
Leonora. Not yet, — I have a word or two 
to say 

In quietness, — and you must wait so 
long. 

When were you wed, — before those days, 
or since? 
Lothair. In early youth. 
Leonora. {Pressing her hands to her 
head. ) 

Fail me not now, my thoughts! 

Did you not give your hand as world- 
lings do, 

A bargain for a bargain, loving not? 

Your friends persuaded you, your for- 
tunes urged, 

You took her coldly, — wanting but her 
dowser, 

And when you met me, love sprang 
rashly up 

In your despite, to avenge the hollow 
vow? 
Lothair. (Aside.) I wonder that my 
patience holds to this, — (Aloud.) 

I loved this lady, and I love her now, 

As I can love none other. Can you 
think 

That you might waken passion's fer- 
vency, 

Where she, the pure, the peerless, passed 
in vain? 

Regard the perfect outline of her face. 

That takes its mould from princely an- 
cestry ; 

Think, too, — this angel is so merciful 

That even you have leave to speak be- 
fore her; 

Consider this, — ay, ponder what it 
means. 

Then dare to ask me if I love my wife! 
Leonora. And what was I? 
Lothair. A love-lorn village girl; 

The ready partner of a vain amour, 



Which grief of mine must purge for 
fault of both. 

With shame in this dear presence I con- 
fess 

You did beguile me of some tenderness. 

For which I crave the pardon of this 
saint. 

And you were best implore it and be- 
gone! 
Leonora. I hear it all as voices in a 
dream. 

But as for feeling, I 've no feeling left. 

Thus was it best, — why, tliis was merci- 
ful!— 

All 's over so, — I was about to go. 

Distraction waits upon the threshold 
yonder, 

To mock me as I pass. The stones i' the 
street. 

That bore my hasty hitherward steps, 
will stand 

And laugh as I go hence. The bridal 
flowers, — 

Why should I keep them at my bosom 
more ? — 

Lie there forever, — ye, the sweet of 
earth ! 

But, ! this ring, — in whose solemnity 

My life's whole thought lay centred, — 
how shall this 

Stand in remembrance as a thing pro- 
fane? 

Madam, I lay it, sobbing, at your feet. 

Happier than I, who have no refuge 
there. 
Helen. If pity can alleviate thy pain, — 
Leonora. Nay, madam, — I came hither in 
my right; 

Respect my ruin, — fling no alms, I pray! 
Lothair. You 'd weary Heaven's compas- 
sion with your pride. 

Let all this end, — you 've cost us time 
enough. 

(Enter Arthur.) 

Helen. (Going towards him.) 

My child! 
Leonora. I see, — his features, with her 
hair. 
Come hither. 
Lothair. Helen, take the child away! 

(In an undertone to Leonora, show- 
ing his dagger.) 
If e'er you venture in my path again 
This shall decide between us! 
Leonora. (Catching up the child.) 

Little one, 
I liave thee; thou art fair and innocent 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



415 



Hist! Shall I tell thee what thy father 
is? 

He is what thou wert better die than 

hear. {Putting the child down.) 

Go from me! God has justice, Count 

Lothair ; 
When it draws nigh your door, remem- 
ber me! (Exit.) 
Lothair. She's gone at last! Thank 

Heaven ! 
Helen. {Looking after her.) 

Unhappy one. 
Let not thy vengeful prayer send judg- 
ment back 
Where thou wert let depart uncom- 
f orted ! 
{He kneels at her feet. Scene 
changes.) 



Scene 5. 
{Enter HuoN and Berto.) 

Bbrto. What kept Lothair so long? He 

went at last 
In moody haste, his wife upon his arm; 
I stopped him, . and essayed a friendly 

jest. 
"I 'm in no mood for your frivolity ! " 
He gruffly said. Frivolity, indeed! 
HuON". I fancy he has met an unloved 

ghost, 
For, through the arras (I was lodged 

next door), 
I heard hot speech and angry argument; 
And, looking out thereafter, I espied 
A woman dashing headlong from his 

door. 
With wild, quick step she spurned the 

crabbed stair 
But, turning at its base, her countenance 
Flashed full upon me, like a certain 

one, — 
Well, well, I '11 keep this matter to my- 
self. 
Berto. What was she like? 
HuoN. Oh, like a dream of youth! 

Go back, good Berto; bid my carriage 

stand 
Yonder behind the church. Command 

my men 
To be in readiness, lest I should call. 
Berto. What's in your fancy, now? 
HuON. A merry plan; 

Do but my errand — we shall meet ere 

long. 
Berto. (Am I his pack-horse?) I will 

see it done. 



HuoN. Farewell. A prosperous journey 
to us both, {Exit Berto.) 

HuoN". It was that glorious cast-off of 
Lothair's. 

I knew her from the portrait; following, 

I saw her rush dishevelled, down the 
street. 

Like a wild thing affrighted at itself; 

And I determined that she should be 
mine. 

If wit of man can compass woman's 
soul. 

A woman's beauty is a power on earth, 

A woman's passion is a power in hell ! 

This one, I see, is eminent in both; 

And now 's the time to catch her at re- 
bound, 

And beat my lord with his own tennis- 
ball. 

Look where she comes ! A sight to scare 
the fiend! 

Marble and lightning! she is terrible! 



Scene 6. The same. 
{Enter Leonora.) 

Leonora. Let no one say I 've wept. 

From these seared eyes 
Poisons may drop, but never human 

tears. 
Some deadly power is in me. Were he 

here, 
My breath should wither him. One sud- 
den look 
Should bid the life-blood curdle at his 

heart. 
Never to leave it more. Let me not 

think! 
Avenging God! I was a woman once, — 
A thing to nourish children at my breast. 
And hear their angels whisper through 

my dreams, 
As she does nightly, pillowed on his 

breast. 
With sorer travail now shall deeds of 

wrath 
And ghastly horror claim their birth 

from me. 
HuON. {Taking her hg the arm.) 1 am 

your friend. So, give me leave to 

speak, 
Nor pluck your sleeve away as if you 

feared. 
What if I knew your story, — knew your 

wrong. 
And him who wronged you, handsome 

Count Lothair? 



416 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



Leonora. (Shrieks.) 

HuoN. Do not shriek! The precious 

moments crowd 
Close on each other. Will you come 

with me? 
I '11 help you to revenge. 
Leonora. {Drops upon her knees.) 

On my knees 
To that dear purpose I devote my life. 

(Rises.) 

But you, — why should I trust your faith, 

your power? 

HuON. (Showing a badge.) Stay not to 

question. For my power behold 

A sign that makes men tremble. For 

my faith, 
I can but swear fidelity to you. 
Leonora. (Scornfully.) Is there an oath 
can bind a gentlemail? 
Promise revenge, and you shall use my 

life. 

Beyond it, as you will; but that shall be 

The earnest of my service — not its wage ! 

HuON. (Holding up a dagger). I swear! 

Leonora. By him who is at home in hell. 

And in our hearts. 
HuON. The oath is singular. 

Leonora. Take it! 
HuON. By him I swear. 

Leonora. Then I am yours. 

(She gives him her hand; as they go, 
enter from the same side Edward 
and Lorenzo.) 
Edward. 'T is she ! 't is Leonora ! 
Lorenzo. In what hands! 

This was his vile companion. 
Edward. Leonora ! 

Come with us where your faithful 

Katchen waits. 
Grieved at your long delay. 
Leonora. I will not come! 

My path is chosen; it is wide of yours. 
Edward. Your brain is crazed; you know 
not what you say. 
While love and sorrow waste themselves 

on you, 
You cling for succor to an arm like 

this, 
Weak with the falsehood of the heart 

beneath. 
Come with your true friends. 
HuON. (Drawing his sword.) You will 
find it ill 
To meddle in my matters. 
Edward. Help, Lorenzo! 

HuoN. (Calls.) What, ho! my people! 
Lorenzo. (Drawing.) You remember 

me? 
Release that lady! 



(HuON fights with Lorenzo. His 
servants rush in.) 
Edward. For your own soul's sake, 

I pray you, Leonora! 
Leonora. Spare your words; 

My will is turned and set like adamant. 
Me shall you ne'er see more! 

(HuON wounds Lorenzo. His serv- 
ants and he carry off Leonora.) 
Edward. Have after them! 

Lorenzo. I cannot, — I am wounded; has- 
ten you! 
Edward. (Rushing after them; stops.) 
Too late! the carriage passes, swift as 

hell! 
0, those black steeds! With one defiant 

smile, 
She disappears — the last of Leonora ! 

(Lorenzo totters and falls.) 

My friend, you 're pale and bleeding. 

What is this? 

Lorenzo. 'T is only death, that comes to 

all men once, — 

To me less welcome, from so base a hand. 

But what, — the action hath a solemn 

strain. 
That calms men's passions for the scene 

beyond. , 

How hot and rash was I an hour j 
agone, — ' 

Ten minutes, — and how tamely I 'ie 

down 
Never to rise again! 
Edward. You shall not die! 

Help is at hand. I '11 bear you in my 

arms i 

To where the surgeon's knowledge shall 1 

avail. 
Soft, — let me raise you. 
Lorenzo. Think of her, of her! 

My need is ended; hers is just begun. 
Remember, though my blood be vilely 

shed. 
It is in Mercy's holy cause I die! 
Edward. (Assisting him.) Heaven send 

us help! I cannot lose you thus! 
Lorenzo. How the day darkens! Ev'n 
the sun grows cold! 
Lay me down gently! kiss me, my own | 
Edward! (Dies.) 

Edward. Ah, God! he dies! My love is 
changed to hate! 
The noblest heart of men I ever knew. 
Slain for her wanton pleasure! Go, I 

curse thee! 
Thou cankered blossom! — ay, thou poi- 
son-sweet ! 
'T were better die than love thee ! My 
Lorenzo ! 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



417 



This was the only brother of my heart, 
And Leonora is his murderer! 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene 1. A Street. 

(Enter two Courtiers.) 

First Courtier. Strange things have 
happened since you left our court. 

Huon is banished; Berto sent away 

On some wild errand to an Indian 
prince 

One never heard of, never hopes to see. 
Second Courtier. You 've gained in los- 
ing reprobates like these. 
First Courtier. Yes, truly; but the ques- 
tion. Who goes next? 

Leaves anxious silence at the hearts of 
all. 

And they whose wisdom never is at fault 

Fill up the gap with stories of their own. 
Second Courtier. What do they say? 
First Courtier. One thing in various 

shapes ; 

But you shall hear it as 'tis most be- 
lieved. 

There is a woman near the prince's heart 

Who guides him, as a pilot guides the 
helm. 

They say her chamber 's floored with 
amethyst. 

And hung with beaten gold; while jewels 
take 

The counterfeit of flowers; the lily's cup 

Presented stands in pearl and emerald, 

While clustered rubies emulate the rose. 

And she in whom these splendors con- 
centrate 

Outvies them in her youth's magnifi- 
cence. 
Second Courtier. Have any seen her? 
First Courtier. Would she walk abroad, 

Think you, for common men to look 
upon? 

She's veiled, and does not pass her 
chamber-door ; 

Yet her malignant eyes are everywhere. 

So runs the common talk. 
Second Courtier. Poh! poh! a myth. 

'T is thus the vulgar mind impersonates 

Its idle dreaming of the things that rule. 
First Courtier. They say she has a 
wicked loveliness, 

A seraph's beauty, with a demon's heart; 

So, all that goes amiss is laid to her. 

There creeps a shadow 'twixt the peo- 
ple's love 



And the good prince, so frank and 

debonair ^ — 
'T is hers, the Lady of the evil eye. 
Second Courtier. What says Lothair? 
First Courtier. I know not what he 

says,— 
But he is changed of late. How he is 

changed ! 
He wears the scars of trouble on his 

brow. 
And his fair eyes look otherwise than 

when 
They glanced about for conquests. 
Second Courtier. Poor Lothair! 

He was a trifler, for a man of parts, 
And very handsome. Is the Countess 

well? 
First Courtier. I scarcely know. They 're 

much retired from court. 
'T is said, the money-lenders press him 

hard. 
Those vultures circle in the van of ruin. 
And fan it onward with their eager 

wings. 
But, talking of our gossip, here he 

comes, 
And at his side, a noted usurer. 

(Enter Lothair, — Jacob following.) 

Lothair. You shall not bend me to your 
purposes 
To-night. Go hence, and let me see the 

world 
Without your shadow! (Jacob retires.) 
Second Courtier. Shall we speak to him? 
First Courtier. What, ho, — Lothair! 
Lothair. (Starting.) I greet you, gen- 
tlemen ! 
Pardon the rudeness of an absent man. 
Who lives much in his own ill-company. 
First Courtier. I would but ask you 
where your wits are flown. 
That I might volunteer to bring them 

back. 
What, man! are you bewitched? or does 

the Jew 
Feed on your heart's blood? 
Lothair. He 's a mine of shrewdness, 

A serviceable imp. 
First Courtier. I know him well. 

Trust me, you '11 find him mine and 

countermine. 
D 'ye go to court ? The prince receives 
to-night. 
Lothair. I have forsaken gayeties, of 

late. 
Second Courtier. And gayety hath, ir 
turn, forsaken you. 



418 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



First Courtier. Break from these moody, 
melancholy ways; 
Let the world see your handsome face 
again. 
LOTHAIR. The world is changed ; it pleases 

me no more. 
First Courtier. Man! man! you grow 
distempered in your mind. 
What 's changed — the music ? for the bet- 
ter, then, — 
The wine, the women, or our gracious 

prince ? 
Your whims have spider-webbed your 

pane of glass. 
So to your eye the face of earth is dark. 
LoTHAiR. It may be so. 
First Courtier. Then fling this 

humor off, 
And smile abroad upon your favorites; 
Or, if you seek distraction, try the cards. 
LoTHAiR. Have with you, gentlemen! 
Your friendly cheer 
Should be the earnest of auspicious for- 
tunes. (Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. Zingara, Jacob. 

ZiNGARA. The hospitable night hath 

spread her tent, 
Lighting the torches that the gypsy 

loves, 
For the dark feast of Eblis. Stolen 

things 
Have sweetest savor thus, and thou and 

I, 

Whose torment is the Christian's holi- 
day, 
May plot their ruin, and defy their 
wrath. 
Jacob. You 're wild of speech. I bear a 
sober mind. 
Entirely giv'n to the affair in hand. 
ZiNGARA. Fit instrument of her who hires 
us 
To spy upon each other. 
Jacob. She is right; 

Albeit, the thing is needless in our case. 
Since love of money and of mischief vie 
To speed us on our errand. 
ZiNGARA. Has yours sped? 

Jacob. Not ill, indeed; the fish is in the 
net. 
And though he flounders in his element. 
Trust me, I '11 bring him heedfully to 
shore. 
ZiNGARA. It is a joy to bait these Chris- 
tian hounds, 



And set them on to tear each other's 

bones. 
I know no pleasure like it. 
Jacob. What's your task? 

ZiNGARA. The thing I can do Joetter than 
another, — 
To steal a creature with fair silken 

locks. 
And bring it to my mistress. 
Jacob. So! a dog? 

ZiNGARA. Why, Jacob, you are quick to 
guess, — a 'dog, 
A certain favorite spaniel of the count's ; 
Or, if you will, a laml), a lad3^-bird, 
A thing whose loss shall make them howl 

again, 
I promise you! 
Jacob. You '11 need my help for that. 

ZiNGARA. Your help, indeed ! I '11 ask it 
when I do. 
I own I 'd rather keep the little 

wretch ; 
I 'd crop its curls and sell them ; it i 
should drudge, I 

Curse, steal, lie for me, when 't were big 
enough. 
Jacob. Could you not bring another in 

its place? 
ZiNGARA. That were to caper in the iaws 
of hell. 
I tell you, Jacob, I 'm afraid of her. 
She is so sweetly, coldly terrible. 
Besides, she knows it by the father's 
eyes. 
Jacob. Hist, then! a hasty footstep comes 
this way. (Lothair rushes in.) 

LOTHAIR. {Wildly.) Hence! I am mad 
to think on what I 've seen ! 

(Jacob approaches.) 
Who 's this that dares to stop a des- 
perate man? -^ 
Jacob. 'Tis Jacob. 
Lothair. I '11 confound thee ! 



give me way 



Jacob. I '11 call to-morrow. 
Lothair. In the devil's time! 

{Exit.) 
Jacob. Whose fault is 't, if you lose at 
cards. Sir Count? 
We are a little hot and rash to-night. 
And must have leave a while to vent our 

spleen. 
'T is but a flare-up in a wasted socket; 
To-morrow he '11 be black and still 

enough. 
But see the signal in the turret yon- 
der. — 
It calls for both of us — away ! 
Zingara. Away ! 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



419 



Scene 3. A Room in Lothair's Palace. 
LoTHAiR, Helen. 

LoTHAiR. Helen, see at your feet a ruined 

man, 
Give liim quick shelter from the fiend 

abroad. 
I know I stabbed you to the heart, poor 

wife! 
But that great heart must shield and 

save me now. 
Helen. You come so wildly, with these 

staring eyes. 
That bloodless face; — compose yourself 

a while, 
Then tell me what befell? 
LOTHAIR. The list is long 

Of your misfortunes, purchased by my 

crimes ; 
But, pray you, draw the bolt, ere I be- 
gin. 
(Helen holts the door, and returns to 

him. ) 
First, then, your fortune 's wasted to the 

winds ; 
Your dowry, ay, your boy's inherit- 
ance. 
Your very diamonds, forfeit to the Jew. 
Helen. I have expected this. I know not 

why. 
What further? 
LoTHAiR. Are you greedy of despair, 

That thus you drain it down, and ask 

for more? 
Helen. Who stops to taste a poison, 

drop by drop? 
I could have begged your bread from 

door to door, 
Once, and not thought it scorn. So, let 

that pass. 
Give me the last, the worst calamity. 
LoTHAiR. {Looking about him.) Come 

nearer, then. I have an enemy, 
Whether in flesh and blood it walks the 

earth, 
Or whether 'tis a wild, avenging ghost, 
I know not. You believe in miracles. 
Give credence to the tears of pictured 

eyes, — (With meaning.) 

Think you a portrait could have speech? 

It can. 
flELEN. Your madness almost lends itself 

to me. 
So swift these sudden horrors shock the 

brain ; 
But I must calm you with good coun- 
tenance. 
Call back your senses; tell me what you 

saw. 



LoTHAiR. You know I have not crossed 
the palaj3e gate 

Since Avhat you wot of. I was there, 
to-night ; 

A friend persuaded me; and I, heart- 
worn 

With cares and losses, flung myself his 
way. 

The Prince — well, well, no matter how 
he seemed; 

I passed beyond, to seat myself at cards ; 

Duke Cesarini was my adversary. 

Our play was high, and mine most for- 
tunate. 

Winning a sum to ransom my estates. 

"Enough," cried I. "Not so," the duke 
rejoined, 

"Are you not bound to give me my re- 
venge?" 

Just as I spoke, methought, a sudden 
gleam 

Flashed on me from a portrait opposite; 

I looked, I saw the unmistakable face, 

I heard these words, "Revenge is slow, 
but sure!" 
Helen. Who was 't you saw? 
LoTHAiR. One whom I cannot name. 

Ah, God! she was not as she used to be. 

Tender, and fresh, and passionate in 
love ; 

She seemed a ghost escaped from hope- 
less hell, 

All her fair features gathered up to 
give 

A fiend's expression of malignity. 

"It is your work!" she whispered, as I 
gazed ; 

Then she was gone, and all around grew 
dim. 
Helen. And then? 

LoTHAiR. I heard one call, 

"Play on, Lothair!" 

I flung a card down blindly, in the mist; 

The winner laughed aloud, and all was 
lost! 
Helen. How did this end? 
Lothair. I raised my eyes at length. 

And saw a well-known picture on the 
wall, 

A Fornarina that was always there. 

I staggered from the room, and hurried 
here. 
Helen. What have you suffered ere you 
came to this! 

Unhappy man! your brain is over- 
wrought, 

You see its phantoms as realities. 

Go in, — persuade your weary eyes to 
rest- 



420 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



I '11 calm your throbbing temples on my 

conch. 
Why should we waste our grief on for- 
tunes lost? 
Far from the dang'rous splendors of the 

court, 
We '11 lead a happier, wiser life ; and I 
Will be your own fond Helen, as of old. 
You see I have forgiv'n, forgotten all, 
Save that you need the love I promise 
you. 
LoTHAiR. faultless-tempered, true 
woman's heart! 
Thy love re-conquered, let all treasures 
go ! 
{He sinks into her arms. A knock is 
heard without. They start in alarm. 
The knock is repeated.) 
Helen. (Going to the door.) Who 

knocks ? 
Voice. (Without.) A friend. 

Helen. What seek you at this hour? 
Voice. I must have instant speech with 
Count Lothair. 
'T is at his peril if you bar the door. 
Helen. (To Lothair.) Go in, — leave 

me to deal with him alone. 
Lothair. So far my manhood hath not 
left me yet. (Going to the door.) 
You say you are a friend to Count Lo- 
thair ; 
How shall I trust you? 
Voice. By three angles bound, 

Three arcs, one circle, and the mystic 

word 
We only speak in presence. 
Lothair. He must enter. 

Whate'er your errand, welcome, in God's 
name! 

(Enter Messenger, hooded and cloaked.) 

Lothair. I know you not. 
Messenger. (Showing a blazon.) You 
know the badge I wear. 
One of the ancient Brotherhood am I, 
Fellow of yours and Huon's. 
Lothair. Whoso bears 

That mark, is in my house as light and 

air. 
Ev'n on my death-bed I attend his need. 
How can I serve you? 
Messenger. Nowise in tlie world ; 

'T is I must serve you. We should 
speak alone. 
Lothair. Leave us, dear Helen! 
Helen. Do not bid me go; 

Let the new danger, falling, crush us 
both, 



Nor single one to bear the other's tor- 
ture. 
Lothair. Fear not, — 'tis one of a Fra- 
ternity 

Whom fearful oaths have bound for mu- 
tual help; 

And, though 'tis like we never met be- 
fore, 

We are, till death, beholden to each other. 

Helen. I 'm loath to leave you. Heav'n 

protect us all! (Exit.) 

(Lothair, Messenger.) 
Lothair. Well, friend? 
Messenger. My errand is best quick- 

est done; 
Great needs must crowd the wheels of 

strategy. 
Who, single-handed, keeps the pass of 

Fate, 
Should have a far eye, and a fearless 

hand. 
I can but warn you of the danger nigh, 
And trust your high resolve to save your- 
self. 
Lothair. Speak plainly. 
Messenger. You are ruined 

wdth the Prince; 
Your fellows met the doom of banish- 
ment; 
Your turn is next, — not banishment, but 
death. 
Lothair. I cannot find a sin against my 
Prince 
In my most deep remembrance. He and I 
Are of one age, — were play-fellows in 

youth. 
And friends thereafter. Should he do 

me harm, 
When naught could move him to it? 
Messenger. Let me ask. 

How did you vex the demon of the pat- 
ace? 
Lothair. Your words strike deadly ter- 
ror through my veins. 
What mean you? 
Messenger. Why — the Prince's 

Favorite ; 
'T is she doth lead him to these cruelties, 
So new, so strange. She draws him with 

a hair; 
She binds him in a chain of perfumed 

breath. 
Padlocked with kisses. What she wills, 

he does; 
Our lives are in her hand. 
Lothair. 0, hideous dream! — 

Who is she? 
Messenger. God and Satan only know. 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



421 



No man has seen her; but her evil 

power 

Shows its malignant presence every- 
where. 
LoTHAiR. Is this a nightmare? 
Messenger. Do not think it such. 

Your time is short; — the morrow is your 

own ; 
Beyond that, nothing but eternity. 
LoTHAiR. Can I not fly? 
Messenger. Your every 

step is watched — 
Spies are about you in your very bed. 
LoTHAiR. Great Heaven! What help re- 
mains ? 
Messenger. One sole resource, 

The deed of Brutus, swift and terrible! 
Cleave the false heart, and let the mur- 
derous arm 
Drop powerless, ere the fatal bolt be 
hurled. (Shows a dagger.) 

LOTHAIR. (Turning away his head.) No, 

no ! not bloodshed ! 
Messenger. Whose blood ? 

His, or yours? 
What if I had your sentence in my 
bosom. (Takes out a paper.) 

Caught on its way? — Read this. 
LoTHAiR. It is not signed. 

Messenger. It wants a signature that will 
not fail. 
Why, man, we would not leave the task 

to you; 
A dozen stouter hearts and surer hands 
Direct the swift-descending tool of death. 
We only want your name and counte- 
nance ; 
Record them here. 

(Showing a parchment.) 

LoTHAiR. I must have time to think. 

Leave me this night ; come back at early 

dawn. 
I shall be ready. 
Messenger. It will be too late. 

Necessity is not a merchant's clerk. 
To be put off from payment for a day! 
Give me your name, or keep your tardy 

courage 
For the confessor and the headsman's 
axe. 
LoTHAiR. Give here! (Signs.) 

Messenger. So, so! — ^the thing 

is bravely done; 
I give you rendezvous to-morrow night ^ 
At the Redoubt. You '11 meet a domino 
In black and j^ellow. Touch your vizard 

thus. 
And he shall bring you to our com- 
pany.— 



Now go to rest, and think your life is 
safe. ' (Exit.) 

LoTHAiR. He 's gone, as if the earth had 
swallowed him. 

I do not rightly know what I have done, 

Such horrors hedge my footsteps every- 
where. 

Shall I lie down? For me is no re- 
pose. 

Sleep shall o'ercome me with her awful 
shapes. 

And pin me helpless in my agony. 

There is one refuge. Death shall find 
me there! 

Helen ! to thy protecting arms I come ! 

(Exit.) 



Scene 4. A Boom in the Palace. 

Leonora. I had not thought t' have found 
mankind so \dle! 

I looked for shame, at least, where vil- 
lains trade 

In blood and falsehood. I discern it 
not. 

Where'er I need an instrument of ill 

To speed my dreadful work, straight- 
way appears. 

As from an ambush, some vile human 
tool 

That begs my using. Royalty itself 

Takes service with its sceptre and iti^ 
sword. 

Staining its dainty fingers in my quarrel. 

Thus, all things favor me save yonder 
Heaven, 

Whose stern compression keeps my fore- 
head bent, 

Lest evil eyes, aspiring to its sunshine. 

Should dare to claim its promise. What 
of that? 

Avenging God! it is thy work I do. 

Though Thou disown it. Smile where 
Thou likest best, 

I do not seek thy favor. Downward lies 

My way; but, ere I plunge, the shrieks 
of one 

Dragged struggling from the bosom of 
delight. 

And hurled before, make hideous sacri- 
fice, 

And spread my fall, as soft as feathery 
night. 

(A pause. She hears a step.) 

The Prince? 

(Enter the Prince.) 
Prince. You sent for me, my Beautiful? 



422 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



Leonora. Forgive me, gentle sovereign, if 

I erred. 
Prince. You know how dear these pre- 
cincts are to me! 
How sacred, — how my leaping heart 

awaits 
Your messenger, — too seldom and too 

slow 
For my desires! The Prince can sum- 
mon all 
But Leonora ; she must summon him. 
Leonora. I am too much beholden to your 
goodness 
To find a ready answer. Gratitude 
Weighs down my utterance ; let me rather 

break 
At once th' unwelcome business of this 

hour. 
Set for me by my duty. 
Prince. Do not fear! 

Ill tidings should be sweet, love, told by 
you. 
Leonora. 0, how my woman's nature 
hates this work! 
I must unmask a traitor to your eyes. 
Suspecting long, I hold the proofs at 

last; 
But guilt so black, my heart had ne'er 

alleged. 
I pause and tremble with the dreadful 

work ; — 
The Count Lothair conspires to take your 
life! 
Prince. Lothair! My fairest, you are 
misinformed. 
He 's an offender in another sense. 
Lothair's worst treasons are to woman- 
kind. 
Leonora. A man that can betray a 
woman's love 
Avoids no crime for its enormity. 
Prince. You must not be too stem, my 
Puritan ! 
Our courtiers keep not the chivalrous 

faith 
Of their grim grandsires. 
Leonora. Pardon! I forgot 

The times we live in. I have surely 

heard 
That loyalty to Sovereigns and to 

Women 
Went out of date together. 
Prince. You are keen! 

I pity him who is your enemy. 
Leonora. But Count Lothair, — 
Prince. Call him a reprobate, 

A man capricious, thriftless, passion- 
ate. 
Do you HQt see he has too little weight 



For good or evil? Like this sword of 

mine. 
With jewelled hilt and gold-encrusted 

blade, 
'T is a rare bauble for a holiday — 
For service, now, what fool would bor- 
row it? 
Leonora. Read but this document. 

{Giving paper.) 
Prince. (Reading.) I am amazed! 

His name upon the villainous enrolment? 
Why, this is unimagined infamy! 
What could have brought him to it? 
Leonora. Urgent need. 

With hope and promise of high dignity. 
How often is a daring public deed 
Hatched vilely from the occasion of the 

hour, 
As from an egg a viper! 
Prince. 'T is most true. 

I know that he hath been in straits of 

late, 
And thought to help him for his father's 

sake, 
And for a careless friendship that I 

bear him; 
While his false eyes took measure of my 

throat ! 
Such faith doth follow princes. Are 

you sure 

He signed this devil's patent knowingly, 

Having possessed the tenor of the bond? 

Leonora. My royal master, look into this 

face; 

A sad one, — you are pleased to say, a 

fair. 
You would not think it were a marble 

mask 
Of falsehood, that should put his crime 
to shame? 
Prince. The very words are impious!^ 
Leonora. Hear me, then! 

By every feature that you love, I swear 
Lothair 's a perjured, faithless^ ruth- 
less villain! 
Prince. Your oath is awful; it com- 
mands my faith 
As 't were a word from God. 
Leonora. I thank your Grace 

Prince. 0, I am sad to think upon this 
man, 
Whose thankless graces made him dear 

to me! 
I thought him gentle, spite of grievous 
faults. {With emotion.) 

I loved him! 
Leonora. How this tenderness of heart 

Exalts the hate I bear him ! 
Prince, We fiust act 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



423 



When should the deed be done? 
Leonora. This very night. 

I Ve a device shall bring him in our 

toils ; 
Sign but this warrant — leave the rest to 
me. 
Prince. Must he then die? 
Leonora. Justice should turn on us 

Her awful anger did we falter here. 
Think, 'tis my life he plots against, 

sweet prince! 
And for the love you bear me, waver 
not! 
Prince. Those lips can never miss the 
thing they ask. 
Ev'n this sad boon I grant them. 

(Signs.) 



ACT FIFTH. 



Scene 1. A Dark Room in the Palace. 
Several figures in masks stand in the 
hackg round. In front, Leonora and 
the Prince, also masked. On the left, 
wearing no mask, the Messenger. 

Leonora. Well met. The hour and the 

man approach. 
Prince. I hear a step along the corridor. 
Leonora. My trusty messenger has 
brought him safe, 
Through winding paths, to meet his fel- 
lows here. 
Prince. Who is that yonder? 
Leonora. He to whose keen scent 

We owe the tracing of this shameful 

plot. 
He shall be spokesman. 

[Enter Lothair, blindfold, led also by a 
mask. ) 

Messenger. Take the bandage off. 

Lothair. (Looks around him.) Where 
am I? 

Messenger. In the presence of your 
friends. 

Lothair. Why are they masked? 

Messenger. In risks so desperate, 

Men must be cautious of their fellow- 
ship. 
These wait to be assured of your good 
faith. 

Lothair. Whatever other treason I in- 
tend, 
I mean none here. 

Messenger. Turn, then, and tell 

them so. 



Lothair. Methinks my coming hither was 
enough, "- 
Without more words. 
Messenger. You waver in your mind; 

Men name you as a man of no resolve. 
Lothair. Wait till I give you cause for 
this reproach. 

{Turning towards the others.) 
Friends, I '11 not praise th' intent that 

calls us here; 
Not choice doth make it, but necessity. 
Where sudden danger leaves no chance 

of good. 
It is the lesser evil we embrace. 
Messenger. We are agreed; like must be 
met by like. 
A tyrant must be tyrannously quelled. 
He has his troops, his hangman; — what 

have we? 
Only the resolute heart and daring hand. 
Lothair. What else, indeed? The need 
is imminent; 
The remedy the only one in sight. 
However we deplore its urgency. 
Messenger. This paper bears your law- 
ful signature? 
Lothair. It is my name. 
Messenger. Signed freely? 

Lothair. As you know. 
Messenger. Unmask, then, brothers in a 
noble cause! 
First by an oath devote yourselves to 

death. 
Or to success ; the tyrant's death, or ours ! 
Your swords, quick! let them clang the 
harsh refrain? 

(They all draw their swords.) 
Now, then, the watchword! give it, 
Count Lothair! 
Lothair. (With effort.) Death to the 

tyrant! Infamy and death! 
Leonora. (Unmasking.) Death to the 

traitor first! 
Lothair. What do I see? 

Vengeance of God! 
Leonora. Do you remember me? 

Lothair. fool! I am betrayed! I see 
it all! 
Here was the tool, and there the cun- 
ning hand! 
Prince. (Unmasking.) And here the 
breast at which your steel was 
aimed ! 
Lothair. My Prince, although in this as- 
pect I stand, 
I do implore your sovereign leave to 

speak, 
And show a thousand damning proofs 
of crime 



424 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



In those who urged me to this enter- 
prise. 
Prince. What boots it, man, who tempted 
you? The devil 
Tempts every cutpurse, stabbing on the 

road. 
The gallows does not heed his argument. 
Can you deny your guilt? 
Leonora. Deny it? Yes, 

He would deny the mother's face that 

bore him, 
Could it but serve his purpose. 
LoTHAiR. I am dumb. 

Prince. Chief of my guards, arrest this 
gentleman ! 
Strike off the spurs from his unknightly 

heels. 
To the state dungeon lead him. Give the 

priest 
And headsman leave to do their ghostly 

work 
At the cock's crow. His hours on earth 
are numbered. 
LoTHAiR. Grant but one mercy to a fallen 
man. 
For all your former favors, gracious 

Prince ! 
One parting moment with my wife and 

child, — 
The gift of tears, my only legacy ! 
Leonora. (To the Prince.) The countess 
is arrested. It is clear 
She lent her aid in this. 
Lothair. No! on my word! 

Leonora. Traitor, that thing you lack; 

you have no word! 
Helen. (WitJwut.) Lothair! Lothair! 

{She enters, escorted by two Guards, 
breaking furiously from them.) 

Let me have room, I say! 
Our child! our Arthur! — 
Lothair. What of him? 
Helen. He 's lost ! 

They say a gypsy lured him from the 

house. 
I only know he 's gone ! 0, God, he 's 
gone! 

{She comes close to Lothair.) 
I went to kiss my darling in his bed, — 
You know I always do, — he w^as not 

there ! 
He 's hiding now, I thought, and paused 

a while, 
To let the little creature have his play; 
Then called, then shrieked, then searched 

the wliole house over 
In vain; tlien fled distracted through the 
streetSi 



Crying my child! my child! till these 

men came 
And brought me hither. 
Lothair. God! must I bear this? 

Helen. Why do you stand there ? we 

must search the town. 
He may be dead or dying while I 

speak, 
Or hidden where we ne'er shall see him 

more! 
Come with me, come! I have strength 

for everything. 
I '11 drag the sewers, dig the dung-heaps 

through. 
Search w^izard houses as the lightning 

leaps ; 
I '11 cope with witches, in their murder- 
ous dens, 
But I will bring him back! Nay, more; 

methinks 
I 'd tear the earth's hard bosom with 

these hands, 
If it could hide him. Who are these 

that stare? 
If they have children, they will lend us 

aid, 
And we will serve them all our mortal 

lives ! 
Lothair. Helen, I am a prisoner to the 

state ; 
My head is forfeit. This o'erwhelming 

hour 
Takes life and all its blessings at one 

blow. 
Helen. My sight grows dizzy. No, I '11 

not sink down 
Until I know the worst! 

{Perceiving the Prince.) 

Our Sovereign, too! 

What does he here? 

Prince. Your husband is a traitor. 

And so condemned to meet a traitor's 

doom ! 
Helen. 'T is false, I say! 'T is slander- 
ous as hell! 
Who says Lothair is faithless to his 

prince ? 
{She sees Leonora, who comes for- 
ward. ) 
'T is she, the w^oman with the wicked 

smile ! 
She called the curse down; it has come 

at last! 
How the room darkens! Help me, dear 

Lothair ! 
0, to have kissed my boy before I die! 
{She sinks, — Lothair bends over her.) 
Part softly, Helen! 
Leonora. She shall never kigs him ! 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



425 



Prince. Convey her hence, and bid the 

leech attend. 

{They bear Helen away.) 

LoTHAiR. {Coming close to Leonora.) 

Fiend! are you satisfied? Is this 

enough ? 
Could not my ruin glut your greed of 

blood, 
But my i^ure wife, my guiltless child, 

must perish, 
To heap the measure of your fell re- 
venge ? 
'T was little that a nobleman should die. 
Vilest of spiders, strangled in your web ! 
Prince. Silence ! 
Leonora. I pray your highness, 

let him speak. 
Lothair. Come to my dungeon, — I invite 

you there, — 
Come with your butchering myrmidons, 

and hold 
Your midnight feast of blood. The 

torture waits 
For her whose malice is its only term. 
In life or death you shall not make me 

moan. 
I have not lived as I was born to live. 
Nor kept the faith and courage of my 

youth ; 
But here, my steps find footing on the 

grave. 
With this brief breath, whose latest gasp 

shall curse 
The day we met, I give you back your 

hate ; 
I scorn j^ou, spit upon j^ou, and defy 

you! 
{The guards lead away Lothair. 

Scene changes.) 

Scene 2. Leonora's Bedchamher. On 
the bed a child asleep. 

TiEONORA. 'T was great, — 't was godlike ! 

I have drunk to the full 
The costly wine of vengeance; and I feel 
Its mighty madness coursing through my 

veins ! 
What pang was left forgotten? What 

disgrace ? 
0, man, so gallant and so reckless once, 
Crushing the poor girl's heart in your 

white hands! 
Where are you now? Your glozing 

tongue is dumb; 
The flashing falsehoods of your eyes are 

spent ; 
And Death and you, of all disguises 

strip t, 



Glare grimly on each other. 

Here 's his boy ; — 

I shall be mad, — no! I must see his 
face. 
{She goes to the bed, and draws the 
curtain.) 

These are the features of my girlhood's 
dream ; 

Thus looked my idol, ere it fell, — to 
seam 

The upturned forehead with the gash 
of shame. 

0, what a god he seemed! He stood on 
clouds ; 

Stars shot their glances through his 
azure eyes 

That were my Sun, my Heaven, my 
Universe ! 

It is the folly of my heart, to think 
{A masked figure appears behind her.) 

That something bears his form in yon- 
der skies; 

Some heavenly delight must look as he 
did. 

For things divine have twin-antipodes. 

And Lucifer hath left his shining peer 

Where he hath no hereafter. 

Night wears on, 

And brings no pause. The hours drop 
off like pearls 

Into the silver silence. 

{Taking a phial from her bosom.) 
Here 's a draught 

Shall help me to a moment of repose. 

With this concluding thought, — I am re- 
venged ! 
Mask. You shall not close your brilliant 
eyes to-night. 

My countess. I have work for them to 
do. 

The midnight summons up strange vis- 
itors, 

And here's a friend that knows you 
through your paint, 

And all your wicked bravery. 
Leonora. What's this? 

I am betrayed. 
Mask. 'Twere justice if you 

were, — 

The only justice you are knowing to. 
Leonora. I'll call my guards, — what, 

ho! 
Mask. All doors are closed; 

Your sentinel is absent by my leave. 

What if I stood. Heaven's righteous 
messenger. 

To deal with you a little in your sort? 

You have o'erthrown your mortal en- 
emy,— 



426 



LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 



Who 's he that doth avenge mankind of 
youf 
Leonora. Your speech is haughty as your 
voice is rude. 

Talk as you will, — one thing alone dare 
not, — 

To tliink I fear you. 
Mask. I could show you that 

Should make you tremble. 
Leonora. Show it tlien, — your face? 

Mask. That has no office in this inter- 
view. 

If I could show you what you were and 
are, 

You 'd feel a keener anguish than your 
foe 

Who cannot cry to Heaven for cursing 
you. 

I had your portrait of a man who wore 

That blushing slander of all woman- 
hood {Shows picture.) 

For very mockery. See, how fresh, how 
pure ! 

How dewy sweet a morsel for the fiend 

In whose wide jaws she leaped with open 
eyes! 
Leonora. 'T is my young face, — my fair 
and innocent face. 

What wretch art thou, to torture me with 
this? 
Mask. She was as wild and arrogant in 
her love 

As in the hate to which the scorched bud 
ripened. 

Too proud to bear the fortune of her 
sex; 

Wronged ever more than wronging, save 
this one, 

She grew a fiend in malice. Help was 
near 

In faithful hearts, and in the priceless 
power 

To shame misfortune with true noble- 
ness. 

From loving hands held out she turned 
away, 

And plunged from passion into infamy; 

Not for the weakness of a second love. 

Or sordid need, or lust of leprous 
splendour. 

But for the ruin of one wretched soul. 

She gave, what God till then held inno- 
cent. 

The glories of her youth. The prince's 
mistress. 

There is her portrait; you behold her 
now! 
Leonora. Is this enough? 
Mask. Her measure is not full; — 



The prince's love she might have ruled 
for good. 

As thieves are generous Avith unright- 
eous gold. 

The patient angel kept his record back; 

Hope sent her leaping scouts along the 
road; 

Here she may pause, and tremble, and 
turn back; 

Here, when she meets the infant's plead- 
ing eyes. 

She may forgive the father. Further 
still. 

When all his heart-strings quiver in her 
hand. 

The thought may dawn, "Why should I 
crush thee, worm?" 

And she may dash her deadly purpose 
down, 

A costly offering, broken in God's face. 

This, too, she did not. What remains 
for her 

But the Ghoul's feast, corruption, hor- 
ror, blood? 
Leonora. This man seems risen from the 
depths of hell. 

With all its torment burning in his 
speech. 

Speak; what remains? 
Mask. The fate of ruined souls, — 

To prosper and grow fat in wickedness. 

I 've seen your prototj^pe a thousand 
times : 

Lucretia, — not the Heav'n-avenging 
one, — 

The poisoning Borgia, fiend-like, — false, 
and cruel; 

Or Messalina, with the cold sly look, 

Or other dames, whose pictures give us 
fright 

Lest they should claim our human fel- 
lowship. 

Rather than you should grow a thing so 
vile, 

(Shows a dagger.) 

Methinks 't were merciful to slay you 
here; 

A brother's deed, — if ev^n a brother's 
love 

Could follow you so far. 
Leonora. (Snatches the dagger.) Give 
here the steel. 

Wrest not from me my right of sacri- 
fice. 

To one who loved me as a brother 
should, 

I give the latest struggle of my lieart. 

(Stabs herself.) 
Edward. ( Unmasking. ) Leonora I 



JULIA WARD HOWE 



427 



Leonora. Edward, we are haply met! 

Edward. 0, rash, heroic deed! 
Leonora. Why should you grieve? 

See how this life-blood lets the madness 

out, 
That pressed, so closely-packed, upon my 

heart ; 
And I grow calm at last; and, as in 

dreams, 
Behold the peaceful visions of my youth. 
Deep in the mountain's heart the chalet 

lies. 
And, in the sun, the rustling waterfall 
Leaps gladly evermore. A maiden band 
Dance rustic measures to its cool re- 
frain ; 
And one in white moves, taller than the 

rest. 
D'ye see it, Edward? 
Edward. I am there with you. 
Leonora. Who 's he that passes with the 
haughty eyes? 



The tall girl stopped her dancing when 
he came 

That he might speak, and cheat her of 
her soul. 

Then, there was vengeance! what became 
of it? 

'Tis gone. I see you — ^know myself 
again,— 

And what I come from. We must save 
Lothair, 

Whose treason was the fruit of my de- 
ceit. 

Tell him I spoke forgiveness ere I died. 

Help ! — I grow faint ! — So, let me lie at 
rest! (Dies.) 

Edward. See! she is dying! my beloved 
is dying! 

Ah, God! the parting struggle is at end. 

Let the white shadow lie upon my heart, 

The wreck of all that 's fair and ex- 
cellent ; 

A thing of tears and tenderness for- 
ever! 



THE OCTOROON 

OR 

LIFE IN LOUISIANA 

BY 

Dion Boucicault 



THE OCTOROON 

The Octoroon is a play of singular interest. Dealing with the slavery 
question in 1859, it represented so truly the actual conditions in Louisiana that 
it won the sympathy of Northerners and Southerners alike. It represents also 
the genius of Boucicault in its maturity. 

Dion Boucicault was born in Dublin, Ireland, upon either December 26, 
1820, or December 20, 1822, though the evidence seems to point to the earlier 
date. He was educated at private school, at London University, and at a col- 
legiate school at Brentford, and after having been apprenticed to a civil engineer, 
he broke away from that calling and devoted himself to the stage. His first ap- 
pearance on the stage seems to have occurred in the spring of 1837, and in the 
same year he probably wrote his first play, A Lover hy Proxy, which was not 
accepted by Charles Mathews, the manager of Covent Garden Theatre. Mathews 
did, however, accept his. next play, the comedy of London Assurance, played 
March 4, 1841, which proved to be a great success and which has been revived 
as late as 1913. 

According to his latest biographer, Boucicault wrote or adapted one hundred 
and twenty-four plays. We are concerned most with those he wrote upon Ameri- 
can soil. Having married Miss Agnes Robertson, to be so long associated with 
leading roles in his plays, he came to New York in 1853. He may be said to have 
soon dominated the American stage. His significant works during the pe- 
riods of his American residence, 1853 to 1860, and again from 1872 to his death, 
fall into several groups. From the point of view of American drama, such plays 
as The Octoroon, and The Poor of New York (1857) , an adaptation of Les Pauvres 
de Paris, of Brisebar and Nus, to conditions of the panic of 1857, are most inter- 
esting. Interesting also is his share of Rip Van Winkle, although this was not 
first produced in this country, but was first played in London on September 4, 
1865. 

The second group includes the Irish plays. The earliest of these. The 
Colleen Baton, was performed first at Laura Keene's Theatre, New York, March 
29, 1860. It was founded on Gerald Griffin's novel, The Collegians, which had 
first been dramatized by J. E. Wilks in London in 1831. Later in 1842 a ver- 
sion by Louisa Medina was played in New York. Boucicault painted the Irish 
character truly and sympathetically and followed his first success with many 
others, the best of which were Arrah Na Pogiie (1864), The O'Dowd (1873) 
and The Shaughraun (1874). 

Another group would include his dramatization of the greater English novels ; 

431 



432 INTRODUCTION 



nmong tliein, Dot, a version of The Cricket on the Hearth (1859), Smike, founded 
on Mcholas Nicklebij (1859) and The Trial of Effie Deans (1860), based on The 
Heart of Midlothian. Other well-known plays which had distinct successes were 
Jessie Brown or the Relief of Liicknow, acted first at Wallack's Theatre, Febru- 
ary 22, 1858, and Led Astray, an adaptation from Octave Feuillet's La Tentation, 
performed first at the Union Square Theatre, New York, December 8, 1873, which 
Boucicault wrote while in California. 

The Octoroon was first performed at the AVinter Garden, New York, Decem- 
ber 5, 1859, Boucicault playing "Wahnotee," the Indian, and Mrs. Boucicault 
"Zoe," and after the play had run a week, Boucicault and his wdfe withdrew on 
account of a quarrel with the management and the play was continued without 
them until January 21, 1860. The Octoroon w^as advertised widely and it was 
a daring attempt to place upon the stage material of such an inflammable char- 
acter. The skill with which Boucicault balanced the abstract belief in the wrong 
of slavery with the concrete sympathy for Southern characters, satisfied audiences 
everywhere. 

The Octoroon was based on a novel by Mayne Eeid, The Quadroon, which 
had been published in New York in 1856, dramatized in London and played at 
the City of London Theatre. Boucicault, however, borrowed only the outlines 
of the plot. In the novel an Englishman under the name of Edward Ruther- 
ford saves a beautiful Creole, Eugenie Besancon, from drowning through the 
explosion of the river steamboat, and falls in love with her quadroon slave, 
Aurore. Through the dishonesty of her trustee, the Creole, Gayarre, 
Eugenie loses her estate which is to be sold. Eugenie loves Rutherford 
and, in male disguise, aids him in obtaining funds with which he trys to buy 
Aurore at the slave auction but fails. After kidnapping Aurore he is about 
to be lynched when he is saved by the sheriff, and at the ensuing trial it turns 
out that Gayarre has embezzled funds belonging to Eugenie and that Aurore 
has been freed by her former master. Rutherford and Aurore marry. 

It will be seen that the theme of the contrast between North and South is 
lacking in the novel, that the only characters that have any prototypes, such as 
"George Peyton," ''Dora Sunnyside," "Zoe," and "McClosky," are entirely 
different in the play, and that characters like ''Salem Scudder," "Wahnotee," 
and "Old Pete" are creations of Boucicault. The very change of title shows 
Boucicault 's sense of the picturesque. It is interesting to note that w^hen The 
Octoroon was played in London, "Zoe" married "George Peyton," as "Aurore" 
had married "Rutherford" in The Quadroon. The device of the accidental 
photographing of the murder of "Paul" is found in The Filibuster, an English 
novel by Albany Fonblanque (1859). 

The following plays produced in America may be obtained in the reprints 
of Samuel French or of the Dramatic Publishing Company of Chicago ; 



INTRODUCTION 433 



To Parents and Guardians, Andy Blake, Jessie^ Brown, Grimaldi or the 
Life of an Actress, The Queen of Spades, The Phantom, The Poor of New York, 
The Pope of Eome, Pauvrette, The Octoroon, The Colleen Bawn, The O'Dowd, 
Led Astray, The Shaughraun. 

Among the plays written in England, London Assurance (1841), Old Beads 
and You7ig Hearts (1844), Arrah na Pogue (1865), may be read as illustrating 
his earlier and later period. 

For biography see The Career of Dion Boucicault by Townsend Walsh, 
Series 3, Vol. I, of the Dunlap Society Publications, New York, 1915, to which the 
present editor acknowledges his indebtedness. Interesting accounts of individual 
plays are to be found in Plays of the Present, by Clapp and Edgett, Series 2, 
Extra Vol. of the Dunlap Society Publications, New York, 1902. For the re- 
lation of The Quadroon with the play, see the novel itself. The Quadroon, or a 
Lover's Adventures in Louisiana, New York, 1856, and Mayne Beid, a Memoir 
of Bis Life, by Elizabeth Reid, London, 1887, pp. 215-217. 

The present text is a reprint of the privately printed edition. 



THE ORIGINAL CAST OF CHAEACTERS 

At the Winter Garden, New York, December 5, 1859. 

George Peyton Mr. A. H. Davenport 

Salem Scudder Mr. Joseph Jefferson 

Mr. Sunnyside Mr. George Holland 

Jacob M'Closky Mr. T. B. Johnston 

Wahnotee Mr. Dion Boucicault 

Lafouche Mr. J. H. Stoddart 

Captain Katts Mr. Harry Pearson 

Colonel Pointdexter 
Jules Thibodeaux 
Judge Caillou 
Jackson 

Old Pete Mr. George Jamieson 

Paul (a boy slave) Miss lone Burke 

Solon 

Mrs. Peyton Mrs. W. E. Blake 

ZOE Miss Agnes Robertson 

Dora Sunnyside Mrs. J. H. Allen 

Grace 

Minnie 

Dido 



THE OCTOROON 



ACT FIRST. 

The scene opens on a view of the Plantation 
Terrebonne, in Louisiana. A branch of 
the Mississippi is seen winding through 
the Estate. A low built, but extensive 
Planter's Dwelling, surrounded with a 
veranda, and raised a few feet from the 
ground, occupies the left side. On the 
right stand a table and chairs. Grace 
is discovered sitting at breakfast-table 
with the negro children. 

(Solon enters, from the house.) 

Solon. Yah! you bomn'ble fry — git out — 

a gen'leman can't pass for you. 
Grace. {Seizing a fly whisk.) Hee! — ha 
git out! 

{She drives the children away: in es- 
caping they tumble against Solon, 
who falls with the tray ; the children 
steal the bananas and rolls that fall 
about.) 

{Enter Pete, who is lame; he carries a mop 
and pail. ) 

Pete. Hey ! laws a inassey ! why, clar out ! 
drop dat banana ! I '11 murder this yer 
crowd. 

{He chases children about; they leap 
over railing at back.) {Exit So- 
lon.) 
Dem little niggers is a judgment upon 
dis generation. 

{Enter George, from the house.) 

George. What's the matter, Pete? 

Pete. It 's dem black trash, Mas'r George ; 
dis ere property wants daring ; dem 's 
getting too numerous round : when I gets 
time I '11 kill some on 'em, sure ! 

George. They don't seem to be scared by 
the threat. 

Pete. Stop, you varmin! stop till I get 
enough of you in one place! 

George. Were they all bom on this 
estate? 

Pete. Guess they nebber was born — dem 
tmgs! what, dem? — get away! Born 
here — dem darkies? What, on Terre- 
bonne! Don't b'lieve it, Mas'r George; 
dem black tings never was born at all; 



dey swarmed one momin* on a sassa- 
fras tree in the swamp; I cotched 'em; 
dey ain't no 'count. Don't believe dey '11 
turn out niggers when dey 're growed ; 
dey '11 come out sunthin' else. 

Grace. Yes, Mas'r George, dey was born 
here; and old Pete is fonder on 'em dan 
he is of his fiddle on a Sunday. 

Pete. What? dem tings — dem? — get 
away. {Makes blow at the children.) 
Born here! dem darkies! What, on 
Terrebonne? Don't b'lieve it, Mas'r 
George, — no. One morning dey swarmed 
on a sassafras tree in de swamp, and I 
cotched 'em all in a sieve, — dat 's how 
dey come on top of dis yearth — git out, 
you, — ya, ya! {Laughs.) {Exit Grace.) 

{Enter Mrs. Peyton, from the house.) 

Mrs. p. So, Pete, you are spoiling those 
children as usual! 

Pete. Dat 's right, missus ! gib it to ole 
Pete ! he 's allers in for it. Git away 
dere! Ya! if dey ain't all lighted, like 
coons, on dat snake fence, just out of 
shot. Look dar! Ya, ya! Dem debils. 
Ya! 

Mrs. p. Pete, do you hear? 

Pete. Git down dar ! I 'm arter you ! 

{Hobbles off.) 

Mrs. p. You are out early this morning, 
George. 

George. I was up before daylight. We 
got the horses saddled, and galloped 
down the shell road over the Piney 
Patch; then coasting the Bayou Lake, 
we crossed the long swamps, by Paul's 
Path, and so came home again. 

Mrs. p. {Laughing.) You seem already 
familiar with the names of every spot 
on the estate. 

{Enter Pete, who arranges breakfast.) 

George. Just one month ago I quitted 
Paris. I left that siren city as I would 
have left a beloved woman. 

Mrs. p. No wonder! I dare say you left 
at least a dozen beloved women there, 
at the same time. 

George. I feel that I departed amid uni- 
versal and sincere regret. I left my 
loves and my creditors equally incon- 
solable. 



435 



436 



THE OCTOROON 



Mrs. p. George, you are incorrigible. 
All! you remind me so much of your 
uncle, the judge. 

George. Bless his dear old handwriting, 
it 's all I ever saw of him. For ten 
years his letters came every quarter-day, 
with a remittance and a word of advice 
in his formal cavalier style; and then a 
joke in the postcript, that upset the 
dignity of the foregoing. Aunt, when 
he died, two years ago, I read over those 
letters of his, and if I did n't cry like a 
baby — 

Mrs. p. No, George; say you wept like a 
man. And so you really kept those fool- 
ish letters'? 

George. Yes; I kept the letters, and 
squandered the money. 

Mrs. p. {Emhracing him.) Ah! why 
were you not my son — you are so like 
my dear husband. 

{Enter Salem Scudder.) 

Scud. Ain't he! Yes — when I saw him 
and Miss Zoe galloping through the green 
sugar crop, and doing ten dollars' worth 
of damage at every stride, says I, how 
like his old uncle he do make the dirt 

fly. 

George. 0, aunt ! what a bright, gay crea- 
ture she is! 

Scud. What, Zoe ! Guess that you did n't 
leave anything female in Europe that can 
lift an eyelash beside that gal. When 
she goes along, she just leaves a streak 
of love behind her. It 's a good drink 
to see her come into the cotton fields — 
the niggers get fresh on the sight of her. 
If she ain't worth her weight in sun- 
shine you may take one of my fingers 
off, and choose which you like. 

Mrs. p. She need not keep us waiting 
breakfast, though. Pete, tell Miss Zoe 
that we are waiting. 

Pete. Yes, missus. Why, Minnie, why 
don't you run when you hear, you lazy 
crittur? {Minnie runs off.) Dat 's de 
laziest nigger on dis yere property. 
{Sitting down.) Don't do nuffin. 

Mrs. p. My dear George, you are left in 
your uncle's will heir to this estate. 

George. Subject to your life interest and 
an annuity to Zoe, is it not so? 

Mrs. p. I fear that the property is so 
involved tliat tlie strictest economy will 
scarcely recover it. My dear husband 
never kept any accounts, and we scarcely 
know in what condition the estate really 

IS. 



Scud. Yes, we do, ma'am; it 's in a darnel: 
bad condition. Ten years ago the judga 
took as overseer a bit of Connecticut 
hardware called M'Closky. The judge 
did n't understand accounts — the over- 
seer did. For a year or two all went 
fine. The judge drew money like Bour- 
bon whisky from a barrel, and never 
turned off the tap. But out it flew, free 
for everybody or anybody to beg, bor- 
row, or steal. So it went, till one day 
the judge found the tap wouldn't run. 
He looked in to see what stopped it, and 
pulled out a big mortgage. "Sign that," 
says the overseer; "it 's only a formality." 
"All right," says the judge, and aw^ay 
v/ent a thousand acres; so at the end of 
eight years, Jacob M'Closky, Esquire, 
finds himself proprietor of the richest 
half of Terrebonne — 

George. But the other half is free. 

Scud. No, it ain't; because, just then, 
what does the judge do, but hire another 
overseer — a Yankee — a Yankee named 
Salem Scudder. 

Mrs. p. 0, no, it was — 

Scud. Hold on, now ! I 'm going to 
straighten tliis account clear out. What 
was this here Scudder? Well, he lived 
in New York by sittin' with his heels up 
in front of French's Hotel, and in- 
ventin' — 

George. Inventing what? 

Scud. Improvements — anything, from a 
stay-lace to a fire-engine. Well, he cut 
that for the photographing line. He 
and his apparatus arrived here, took the 
judge's likeness and his fancy, who made 
him overseer right oif . Well, sir, what 
does this Scudder do but introduces his 
inventions and improvements on this^ 
estate. His new cotton gins broke 
down, the steam sugar-mills burst up, 
until he finished off with his folly 
what Mr. M'Closky with his knavery 
began. 

Mrs. p. 0, Salem! how can you say so? 
Haven't you worked like a horse? 

;S;CUD. No, ma'am, I worked like an ass — 
an honest one, and that 's all. Now, Mr. 
George, between the two overseers, you 
and that good old lady have come to the 
ground; tliat is the state of things, just 
as near as I can fix it. 

(Zoe sings without.) 

CrEORGE. 'T is ZoC. 

S.CUD. 0, I have not spoiled that anyhow. 
I can't introduce any darned improve- 
ment there. Ain't that a cure for old 



DION BOUCICAULT 



437 



age; it kinder lifts the heart up, don't 
itf 

Mks. p. Poor child! what will become of 
her when I am gone ? If you have n't 
spoiled her, I fear I have. She has had 
the education of a lady. 

George. I have remarked that she is 
treated by the neighbors with a kind of 
familiar condescension that annoyed me. 

Sct'D. Don't you know that she is the 
natural daughter of the judge, your 
uncle, and that old lady thar just adored 
anything her husband cared for; and 
this girl, that another woman would 'a' 
hated, she loves as if she 'd been her own 
child. 

George. Aunt, I am prouder and happier 
to be your nephew and heir to the ruins 
of Terrebonne, than I would have been 
to have had half Louisiana without you. 

(Enter Zoe, from the house.) 

Zoe. Am I late? Ah! Mr. Scudder, good 
morning. 

Scud. Thank 'ye. I 'm from fair to mid- 
dlin', like a bamboo cane, much the same 
all the year round. 

Zoe. No; like a sugar cane; so dry out- 
side, one would never think there was so 
much sweetness within. 

Scud. Look here: I can't stand that gal! 
if I stop here, I shall hug her right off. 
(He sees Pete, who has set his pail down 
up stage, and goes to sleep on it.) If 
that old nigger ain't asleep, I 'm blamed. 
HiUo ! 

[He kicks pail from under Pete, and 
lets him down. Exit.) 

Pete. Hi! Debbel 's in de pail ! Wliar's 
breakf ass ? 

(Enter Solon and Dido with coffee-pot 
and dishes.) 

Dido. Bless'ee, Missey Zoe, here it be. 
Dere 's a dish of penpans — jess taste, 
Mas'r George — and here 's fried ba- 
nanas; smell 'em do, sa glosh. 

Pete. Hole yer tongue. Dido. Whar's 
de coffee? (He pours it out.) If it 
don't stain de cup, your wicked ole life 's 
in danger, sure! dat right! black as nig- 
ger; clar as ice. You may drink dat, 
Mas'r George. (Looks off.) Yah ! here 's 
Mas'r Sunnyside, and Missey Dora, jist 
drove up. Some of you niggers run 
and hole de bosses; and ta"ke dis, Dido. 
(He gives her coffee-pot to hold, and 



hobbles off, followed by Solon and 
Dido.) ' 

(Enter Sunnyside and Dora.) 

Sunny. Good day, ma'am. (He shakes 
hands with George.) I see we are just 
in time for breakfast. (He sits.) 

Dora. 0, none for me; I never eat. 

(She sits.) 

George. (Aside.) They do not notice 
Zoe. — (Aloud.) You don't see Zoe, Mr. 
Sunnyside. 

Sunny. Ah! Zoe, girl; are you there? 

Dora. Take my shawl, Zoe. (Zoe helps 
her.) What a good creature she is. 

Sunny. I dare say, now, that in Europe 
you have never met any lady more beau- 
tiful in person, or more polished in man- 
ners, than that girl. 

George. You are right, sir; though I 
shrank from expressing that opinion in 
her presence, so bluntly. 

Sunny. Why so? 

George. It may be considered offensive. 

Sunny. (Astonished.) What? I say, 
Zoe, do you hear that? 

Dora. Mr. Peyton is joking. 

Mrs. p. My nephew is not acquainted 
with our customs in Louisiana, but he 
will soon understand. 

George. Never, aunt! I shall never un- 
derstand how to wound the feelings of 
any lady ; and, if that is the custom here, 
I shall never acquire it. 

Dora. Zoe, my dear, what does he mean? 

Zoe. I don't know. 

George. Excuse me, I '11 light a cigar. 

(He goes up.) 

Dora. (Aside to Zoe.) Isn't he sweet! 
0, dear, Zoe, is he in love with anybody? 

Zoe. How can I tell? 

Dora. Ask him, I want to know; don't 
say I told you to inquire, but find out. 
Minnie, fan me, it is so nice — and his 
clothes are French, ain't they? 

Zoe. I think so ; shall I ask him that too ? 

Dora. No, dear. I wish he would make 
love to me. When he speaks to one he 
does it so easy, so gentle ; it is n't bar- 
room style; love lined with drinks, sighs 
tinged with tobacco — and they say all 
the women in Paris were in love with 
him, which I feel I shall be. Stop fan- 
ning me; what nice boots he wears. 

Sunny. (To Mrs. Peyton.) Yes, ma'am, 
I hold a mortgage over Terrebonne; 
mine 's a ninth, and pretty near covers 
all the property, except the slaves. I 



438 



THE OCTOROON 



believe Mr. M'Closky lias a bill of sale 
on them. 0, here he is. 

{Enter M'Closky.) 

Sunny. Good morning, Mr. M'Closky. 

M'Closky. Good morning, Mr. Sunny- 
side; Miss Dora, your servant. 

Dora. [Seated.) Fan me, Minnie. — 
(Aside.) I don't like that man. 

M'Closky. (Aside.) Insolent as usual. 
— (Aloud.) You begged me to call this 
morning. I hope I 'm not intruding. 

Mrs. p. My nephew, Mr. Peyton. 

M'Closky. 0, how d'ye do, sir? (He 
offers his hand, George hows coldly.) 
(Aside.) A puppy — if he brings any of 
his European airs here we '11 fix him. — 
(Aloud.) Zoe, tell Pete to give my 
mare a feed, will ye*? 

George. (Angrily.) Sir! 

M'Closky. Hillo! did I tread on ye? 

Mrs. p. What is the matter with George? 

Zoe. (She takes fan from Minnie.) Go, 
Minnie, tell Pete; run! (Exit Minnie.) 

Mrs. p. Grace, attend to Mr. M'Closky. 

M'Closky. A julep, gal, that 's my break- 
fast, and a bit of cheese. 

George. (Aside to Mrs. Peyton.) E[ow 
can you ask that vulgar ruffian to your 
table ! 

Mrs. p. Hospitality in Europe is a 
courtesy; here, it is an obligation. We 
tender food to a stranger, not because 
he is a gentleman, but because he is 
hungry. 

George. Aunt, I will take my rifle down 
to the Atchafalaya. Paul has promised 
me a bear and a deer or two. I see my 
little Nimrod yonder, with his Indian 
companion. Excuse me, ladies. Ho! 
Paul! (He enters house.) 

Paul. (Outside.) I'ss, Mas'r George. 

(Enter Paul with the Indian.) 

Sunny. It 's a shame to allow that young 
cub to run over the swamps and woods, 
hunting and fishing his life away instead 
of hoeing cane. 

Mrs. p. The child was a favorite of the 
judge, who encouraged his gambols. I 
could n't bear to see him put to work. 

George. (lietuming with rifle.) Come, 
Paul, are you ready? 

Paul. I'ss, Mas'r George. 0, golly! 
ain't that a pooty gun. 

M'Closky. See here, you imp; if I catch 
you, and your redskin yonder, gunning 
in my swamps, I '11 give you rats, mind. 



Them vagabonds, when the game 's 
about, shoot my pigs. 

(Exit George Into house.) 

Paul. You gib me rattan, Mas'r Clostry, 
but I guess you take a berry long stick 
to Wahnotee. Ugh, he make bacon of 
you. 

M'Closky. Make bacon of me, you young 
whelp! Do you mean that I 'm a pig? 
Hold on a bit. 

(He seizes whip, and holds Paul.) 

Zoe. 0, sir! don't, pray, don't. 

M'Closky. (Slowly lowering his whip.) 
Darn you, redskin, I '11 pay you off some 
day, both of ye. 

(He returns to table and drinks.) 

Sunny. That Indian is a nuisance. Why 
don't he return to his nation out West? 

M'Closky. He 's too fond of thieving 
and whiskey. 

Zoe. No; Wahnotee is a gentle, honest 
creature, and remains here because he 
loves that boy with the tenderness of a 
woman. When Paul was taken down 
with the swamp fever the Indian sat out- 
side the hut, and neither ate, slept, nor 
spoke for five days, till the child could 
recognize and call him to his bedside. 
He who can love so well is honest — don't 
speak ill of poor Wahnotee. 

Mrs. p. Wahnotee, will you go back to 
your people? 

Wahnotee. Sleugh. 

Paul. He don't understand; he speaks a 
mash-up of Indian and Mexican. Wah- 
notee Patira na sepau assa wigiran? 

Wahnotee. Weal Omenee. 

Paul. Says he '11 go if I '11 go with him. 
He calls me Omenee, the Pigeon, and 
Miss Zoe is Ninemoosha, the Sweetheart. 

Wahnotee. (Pointing to Zoe.) Nine- 
moosha. 

Zoe. No, Wahnotee, we can't spare Paul. 

Paul. If Omenee remain, Wahnotee will 
die in Terrebonne. 

(During the dialogue, Wahnotee has 
taken George's gun.) 

(Enter George.) 

George. Now I 'm ready. 

(George tries to regain his gun; 

Wahnotee refuses to give it up; 

Paul quietly takes it from him and 

remonstrates with him.) 

Dora. Zoe, he 's going ; I want liim to 

stay and make love to me ; that 's what 

I came for to-day. 

Mrs. p. George, I can't spare Paul for 

an hour or two; he must run over to 



DION BOUCICAULT 



439 



the landing; the steamer from New Or- 
leans passed up the river last night, and 
if there 's a mail they have thrown it 
ashore. 

Sunny. I saw the mail-bags lying in the 
shed this morning. 

Mrs. p. I expect an important letter 
from Liverpool; away with you, Paul; 
bring the mail-bags here. 

Paul. I 'm 'most afraid to take Wahnotee 
to the shed, there 's rum there. 

Wahnotee. Rum ! 

Paul. Come, then, but if I catch you 
drinkin', 0, laws a mussey, you '11 get 
snakes ! I '11 gib it you ! now mind. 

{Exit with Indian.) 

George. Come, Miss Dora, let me offer 
you my arm. 

Dora. Mr. George, I am afraid, if all we 
hear is true, you have led a dreadful life 
in Europe. 

George. That 's a challenge to begin a 
description of my feminine adventures. 

Dora. You have been in love, then? 

George. Two hundred and forty-nine 
times! Let me relate you the worst 
cases. 

Dora. No! no! 

George. I'll put the naughty parts in 
French. 

Dora. I won't hear a word! 0, you hor- 
rible man! go on. 

{Exit George and Dora to the house.) 

M'Closky. Now, ma'am, I 'd like a little 
business, if agreeable. I bring you 
news; your banker, old Lafouche, of 
New Orleans, is dead; the executors are 
winding up his affairs, and have fore- 
closed on all overdue mortgages, ■ so 
Terrebonne is for sale. Here 's the 
Picayune {Producing paper) with the 
advertisement. 

ZoE. Terrebonne for sale! 

Mrs. p. Terrebonne for sale, and you, 
sir, will doubtless become its purchaser. 

M'Closky. Well, ma'am, I s'pose there 's 
no law agin my bidding for it. The 
more bidders, the better for you. You '11 
take care, I guess, it don't go too cheap. 

Mrs. p. 0, sir, I don't value the place for 
its price, but for the many happy days 
I've spent here; that landscape, flat and 
uninteresting though it may be, is full of 
charm for me; those poor people, born 
around me, growing up about my heart, 
have bounded my view of life; and now 
to lose that homely scene, lose their 
black, ungainly faces! O, sir, perhaps 
you should be as old as I am, to feel as 



I do, when my past life is torn away 
from me. 

M'Closky. I 'd be darned glad if some- 
body would tear my past life away from 
me. Sorry I can't help you, but the 
fact is, you 're in such an all-fired mess 
that you couldn't be pulled out without 
a derrick. 

Mrs. p. Yes, there is a hope left yet, and 
I cling to it. The house of Mason 
Brothers, of Liverpool, failed some 
twenty years ago in my husband's 
debt. 

M'Closky. They owed him over fifty 
thousand dollars. 

Mrs. p. I cannot find the entry in my 
husband's accounts; but you, Mr. 
M'Closky, can doubtless detect it. Zoe, 
bring here the judge's old desk; it is in 
the library. {Exit Zoe to the house.) 

M'Closky. You don't expect to recover 
any of this old debt, do you? 

Mrs. p. Yes; the firm has recovered it- 
self, and I received a notice two months 
ago that some settlement might be an- 
ticipated. 

Sunny. Why, with principal and interest 
this debt has been more than doubled in 
twenty years. 

Mrs. p. But it may be years yet before 
it will be paid off, if ever. 

Sunny. If there 's a chance of it, there 's 
not a planter round here who would n't 
lend you the w^iole cash, to keep your 
name and blood amongst us. Come, 
cheer up, old friend. 

Mrs. p. Ah! Sunnyside, how good you 
are; so like my poor Peyton. 

{Exit Mrs. Peyton and Sunnyside 
to the house.) 

M'Closky. Curse their old families — they 
cut me — a bilious, conceited, thin lot of 
dried up aristocracy. I hate 'em. Just 
because my grandfather wasn't some 
broken-down Virginia transplant, or a 
stingy old Creole, I ain't fit to sit down 
to the same meat with them. It makes 
my blood so hot I feel my heart hiss. 
I '11 sweep these Peytons from this sec- 
tion of the country. Their presence 
keeps alive the reproach against me that 
I ruined them. Yet, if tliis money 
should come ! Bah ! There 's no chance 
of it. Then, if they go, they '11 take Zoe 
— she '11 follow them. Darn that girl ; 
she makes me quiver when I think of 
her ; she 's took me for all I 'm worth. 
{Enter Zoe from house, with the desk.) 
0, here, do you know what the annuity 



440 



THE OCTOROON 



the old judge left you is worth to-day? 
Not a picayune. 

ZoE. It 's surely worth the love that dic- 
tated it; here are the papers and ac- 
counts. {Putting the desk on the table.) 

M'Closky. Stop, Zoe; come here! How 
would you like to rule the house of the 
richest planter on Atchafalaya — eh*? or 
say the word, and I '11 buy this old bar- 
rack, and you shall be mistress of Terre- 
bonne. 

Zoe. 0, sir, do not speak so to me! 

M'Closky. Why not! look here, these 
Peytons are bust; cut 'em; I am rich, 
jine me ; I '11 set you up grand, and 
we '11 give these first families here our 
dust, until you '11 see their white skins 
shrivel up with hate and rage; what 
d' ye say? 

Zoe. Let me pass! 0, pray, let me go! 

M'Closky. What, you won't, won't ye? 
If young George Peyton was to make 
you the same offer, you 'd jump at it 
pretty darned quick, I guess. Come, 
Zoe, don't be a fool ; I 'd marry you if 
I could, but you know I can't; so just 
say what you want. Here, then, I '11 
put back these Peytons in Terrebonne, 
and they shall know you done it; yes, 
they '11 have you to thank for saving 
them from ruin. 

Zoe. Do you think they would live here 
on such terms? 

M'Closky. Why not? We'll hire out 
our slaves, and live on their wages. 

Zoe. But I 'm not a slave. 

M'Closky. No ; if you were I 'd buy you, 
if you cost all I 'm worth. 

Zoe. Let me pass! 

M'Closky. Stop. 

{Enter Scudder.) 

Scud. Let her pass. 

M'Closky. Eh? 

Scud. Let her pass! 

{He takes out his knife. Exit Zoe to 
house.) 

M'Closky. Is that you, Mr. Overseer? 

{He examines paper.) 

Scud. Yes, I 'm here, somewhere, inter- 
ferin'. 

M'Closky. {Sitting.) A pretty mess 
you 've got this estate in — 

Scud. Yes — me and Co. — we done it ; but, 
as you were senior partner in the con- 
cern, I reckon you got the big lick. 

M'Closky. What d'ye mean? 

Scud. Let me proceed by illustration. 
{Sits.) Look thar! {Points with his 



knife off.) D'ye see that tree? — it's 
called a live oak, and is a native here; 
beside it grows a creeper; year after 
year that creeper twines its long arms 
round and round the tree — sucking the 
earth dry all about its roots — living on 
its life — overrunning its branches, until 
at last the live oak withers and dies out. 
Do you know what the niggers round 
here call that sight? they call it the 
Yankee hugging the Creole. 

M'Closky. Mr. Scudder, I've listened to 
a great many of your insinuations, and 
now I 'd like to come to an understand- 
ing what they mean. If you want a 
quarrel — 

Scud. No, I 'm the skurriest crittur at a 
fight you ever see; my legs have been 
too well brought up to stand and see my 
body abused ; I take good care of myself, 
I can tell j^ou. 

M'Closky. Because I heard that you had 
traduced my character. 

Scud. Traduced! Whoever said so lied. 
I always said you were the darndest 
thief that ever escaped a white jail to 
misrepresent the North to the South. 

M'Closky. {He raises hand to hack of 
his neck.) What! 

Scud. Take your hand down — take it 
down. (M'Closky lowers his hand.) 
Whenever I gets into company like 
yours, I always start with the advantage 
on my side. 

M'Closky. What d 'ye mean ? 

Scud. I mean that before you could draw 
that bowie-knife, you wear down your 
back, I 'd cut you into shingles. Keep 
quiet, and let 's talk sense. You wanted 
to come to an understanding, and I 'm 
coming thar as quick as I can. Now, 
Jacob M'Closky, you despise me because 
you think I 'm a fool ; I despise you be- 
cause I know you to be a knave. Be- 
tween us we 've ruined these Peytons ; 
you fired the judge, and I finished off 
the widow. Now, I feel bad about my 
share in the business. I 'd give half the 
balance of my life to wipe out my part 
of the work. Many a night I 've laid 
awake and thought how to pull them 
through, till I 've cried like a child over 
the sum I could n't do ; and you know 
how darned hard 't is to make a Yankee 
cry. 

M'Closky. Well, what's that to me? 

Scud. Hold on, Jacob, I 'm coming to 
that — I tell ye, I 'm such a fool — I can't 
bear the feeling, it keeps at me like a 



DION BOUCICAULT 



441 



skin complaint, and if this family is sold 
up— 

M'Closky. What then? 

Scud. (Rising.) I'd cut my throat — or 
yours — yours I 'd prefer. 

M'Closky. Would you now? why don't 
you do it? 

Scud. 'Cos I 's skeered to try ! I never 
killed a man in my life — and civilization 
is so strong in me I guess I could n't do 
it — I'd like to, though! 

M'Closky. And all for the sake of that 
old woman and that young puppy — eh? 
No other cause to hate — to envy me — to 
be jealous of me — eh? 

Scud. Jealous? what for? 

M'Closky. Ask the color in your face: 
d' ye think I can't read you, like a book ? 
With your New England hypocrisy, you 
would persuade yourself that it was this 
family alone you cared for; it ain't — 
you know it ain't — 't is the "Octoroon " ; 
and you love her as I do; and you hate 
me because I 'm your rival — that 's 
where the tears come from, Salem Scud- 
der, if you ever shed any — that 's where 
the shoe pinches. 

Scud. Wal, I do like the gal ; she 's a — 

M'Closky. She 's in love with young 
Peyton; it made me curse whar it made 
you cry, as it does now; I see the tears 
on your cheeks now. 

Scud. Look at 'em, Jacob, for they are 
honest water from the well of truth. I 
ain't ashamed of it — I do love the gal; 
but I ain't jealous of you, because I be- 
lieve the only sincere feeling about you 
is your love for Zoe, and it does your 
heart good to have her image tliar; but 
I believe you put it thar to spile. By 
fair means I don't think you can get her, 
and don't you try foul with her, 'cause 
if you do, Jacob, civilization be darned, 
I'm on you like a painter, and when 
I 'm drawed out I 'm pizin. 

{Exit Scudder to house.) 

M'Closky. Fair or foul, I '11 have her — 
take that home with you! {He opens 
desk.) What's here — judgments? yes, 
plenty of 'em; bill of costs; account with 
Citizens' Bank— what 's this? "Judg- 
ment, $40,000, 'Thibodeaux against Pey- 
ton,' " — surely, that is the judgment 
under which this estate is now adver- 
tised for sale — {He takes up paper and 
examines it) yes, "Thibodeaux against 
Peyton, 1838." Hold on! whew! this is 
worth taking to — in this desk the judge 
used to keep one paper I want — this 



should be it. (Beads.) "The free pa- 
pers of my 'daughter Zoe, registered 
February 4th, 1841." Why, judge, 
was n't you lawyer enough to know that 
while a judgment stood against you it 
was a lien on your slaves? Zoe is your 
child by a quadroon slave, and you 
did n't free her ; blood ! if this is so, 
she 's mine ! this old Liverpool debt — 
that may cross me — if it only arrive too 
late — if it don't come by this mail — 
Hold on ! this letter the old lady expects 
— that 's it ; let me only head off that 
letter, and Terrebonne will be sold be- 
fore they can recover it. That boy and 
the Indian have gone down to the land- 
ing for the post-bags ; they '11 idle on the 
way as usual; my mare will take me 
across the swamp, and before they can 
reach the shed, I '11 have purified them 
bags — ne'er a letter shall show this mail. 
Ha, ha! — (Calls.) Pete, you old tur- 
key-buzzard, saddle my mare. Then, if 
I sink every dollar I 'm worth in her 
purchase, I '11 own that Octoroon. 



ACT SECOND. 

The Wharf with goods, boxes, and hales 
scattered about — a camera on a stand; 
Dora being photographed by Scudder, 
who is arranging photographic appara- 
tus, George and Paul looking on at 
back. 

Scud. Just turn your face a leetle this 
way — fix your — let 's see — look here. 

Dora. So? 

Scud. That 's right. (Putting his head 
under the darkening apron.) It's such 
a long time since I did this sort of thing, 
and this old machine has got so dirty 
and stiff, I 'm afraid it won't operate. 
That 's about right. Now don't stir. 

Paul. Ugh! she looks as though she war 
gwine to have a tooth drawed! 

Scud. I 've got four plates ready, in case 
we miss the first shot. One of them is 
prepared with a self-developing liquid 
that I 've invented. I hope it will turn 
out better than most of my notions. 
Now fix yourself. Are you ready? 

Dora. Ready ! 

Scud. Fire! — one, two, three. 

(Scudder takes out watch.) 

Paul. Now it 's cooking ; laws mussey ! I 
feel it all inside, as if I was at a lottery. 

Scud. So! (Throws down apron.) That's 



442 



THE OCTOROON 



enough. {Withdrawing slide, turns a)id 
sees Paul. ) What ! what are you doing 
there, you young varmint! Ain't you 
took them bags to the house yet? 

Paul. Now, it ain't no use trying to get 
mad, Mas'r Scudder. I 'm gwine ! I 
only come back to find Wahnotee; whar 
is dat ign'ant Ingiun? 

Scud. You '11 find him scenting round the 
rum store, hitched up by the nose. 

(Exit into the room.) 

Paul. {Calling at the door.) Say, Mas'r 
Scudder, take me in dat telescope? 

Scud. {Inside the room.) Get out, you 
cub! clar out! 

Paul. You got four of dem dishes ready. 
Gosh, wouldn't I like to hab myself 
took ! What 's de charge, Mas'r Scud- 
der? {He runs off.) 

{Enter Scudder, from the room.) 

Scud. Job had none of them critters on 
his plantation, else he 'd never ha' stood 
through so many chapters. Well, that 
has come out clear, ain't it? 

{Showing the plate.) 

Dora. 0, beautiful! Look, Mr. Peyton. 

George. {Looking.) Yes, very fine! 

Scud. The apparatus can't mistake. When 
I travelled round with this machine, the 
homely folks used to sing out, "Hillo, 
mister, this ain't like me!" "Ma'am," 
says I, "the apparatus can't mistake." 
"But, mister, that ain't my nose." 
"Ma'am, your nose drawed it. The ma- 
chine can't err — you may mistake your 
phiz but the apparatus don't." "But, 
sir, it ain't agreeable." "No, ma'am, the 
truth seldom is." 

{Enter Pete, puffing.) 

Pete. Mas'r Scudder! Mas'r Scudder! 

Scud. Hillo! what are you blowing about 
like a steamboat with one wheel for? 

Pete. You blow, Mas'r Scudder, when I 
tole you : dere 's a man from Noo Aleens 
just arriv'd at de house, and he 's stuck 
up two papers on de gates: "For sale — 
dis yer property," and a heap of oder 
tings — an he seen missus, and arter he 
shown some papers she burst out crying 
— I yelled; den de corious of little nig- 
gers dey set up, den de hull plantation 
children — de live stock reared up and 
created a purpiration of lamentation as 
did de ole heart good to har. 

Dora. What's the matter? 

Scud. He 's come. 

Pete. Dass it — I saw 'm ! 



Scud. The sheriff from New Orleans has 
taken possession — Terrebonne is in the 
hands of the law. 

{Enter Zoe.) 

ZoE. 0, Mr. Scudder! Dora! Mr. Pey- 
ton ! come home — there are strangers in 
the house. 

Dora. Stay, Mr. Peyton: Zoe, a word! 
{She leads her forward — aside.) Zoe, 
the more I see of George Peyton the bet- 
ter I like him; but he is too modest — 
that is a very impertinent virtue in a 
man. 

Zoe. I 'm no judge, dear. 

Dora. Of course not, you little fool; no 
one ever made love to you, and you can't 
understand; I mean, that George knows 
I am an heiress; my fortune would re- 
lease this estate from debt. 

Zoe. 0, I see! 

Dora. If he would only propose to marry 
me I would accept him, but he don't 
know that, and he will go on fooling, in 
his slow European wa}^, until it is too 
late. 

Zoe. What's to be done? 

Dora. You tell him. 

Zoe. What? that he isn't to go on fool- 
ing in his slow — 

Dora. No, you goose! twit him on his 
silence and abstraction — I 'm sure it 's 
plain enough, for he has not spoken two 
words to me all the day; then joke round - 
the subject, and at last speak out. I 

Scud. Pete, as you came here, did you " 
pass Paul and the Indian with the letter- 
bags? 

Pete. No, sar; but dem vagabonds neber 
take the 'specable straight road, dey goes 
by de swamp. {Exit up the path.y 

Scud. Come, sir! 

Dora. ( To Zoe. ) Now 's your time. — 
{Aloud.) Mr. Scudder, take us with 
you — Mr. Peyton is so slow, there 's no 
getting him on. 

{Exit Dora and Scudder.) 

Zoe. They are gone! — {Glancing at 
George.) Poor fellow, he has lost all. 

George. Poor child! how sad she looks 
now she has no resource. 

Zoe. How shall I ask him to stay? 

George. Zoe, will you remain here? I 
wish to speak to you. 

Zoe. {Aside.) Well, that saves trouble. 

George. By our ruin you lose all. 

Zoe. 0, I 'm nothing ; think of yourself. 

George. I can think of notliing but the 
image that remains face to face with 



DION BOUCICAULT 



443 



me; so beautiful, so simple, so confiding, 
tligt I dare not express the feelings that 
have grown up so rapidly in my heart. 

ZoE. (Aside.) He means Dora. 

George. If I dared to speak! 

ZoE, That 's just what you must do, and 
do it at once, or it will be too late. 

George. Has my love been divined? 

ZoE. It has been more than suspected. 

George. Zoe, listen to me, then. I shall 
see this estate pass from me without' a 
sigh, for it possesses no charm for me; 
the wealth I covet is the love of those 
around me — eyes that are rich in fond 
looks, lips that breathe endearing words; 
the only estate I value is the heart of 
one true woman, and the slaves I 'd have 
are her thoughts. 

Zoe. George, George, your words take 
away my breath! 

George. The w^orld, Zoe, the free struggle 
of minds and hands is before me; the 
education bestowed on me by my dear 
uncle is a noble heritage which no sheriff 
can seize; with that I can build up a 
fortune, spread a roof over the heads I 
love, and place before them the food I 
have earned; I will work — 

Zoe. AYork! I thought none but colored 
people worked. 

George. Work, Zoe, is the salt that gives 
savor to life. 

Zoe. Dora said you were slow; if she 
could hear you now — 

George. Zoe, you are young; your mirror 
must have told you that you are beauti- 
ful. Is your heart free? 

Zoe. Free? of course it is! 

George. We have known each other but 
a few days, but to me those days have 
been worth all the rest of my life. Zoe, 
you have suspected the feeling that now 
commands an utterance — you have seen 
that I love you. 

Zoe. Me! you love mef 

George. As my wife, — the sharer of my 
hopes, my ambitions, and my sorrows; 
under the shelter of your love I could 
watch the storms of fortune pass un- 
heeded by. 

Zoe. 3Iy love! 3Iy love? George, you 
know not what you say! I the sharer 
of your sorrows — your wife! Do you 
know what I am? 

George. Your birth — I know it. Has not 
my dear aunt forgotten it — she who had 
the most right to remember it? You 
are illegitimate, but love knows no 
prejudice. 



Zoe. (Aside.) ^Alas! he does not know, 
he does not know! and will despise me, 
spurn me, loathe me, when he learns 
who, what, he has so loved. — (Aloud.) 
George, 0, forgive me! Yes, I love you 
— I did not know it until your words 
showed me what has been in my heart; 
each of them awoke a new sense, and 
now I know how unhappy — how very 
unhappy I am. 

George. Zoe, what have I said to wound 
you? 

Zoe. Nothing; but you must learn what 
I thought you already knew. George, 
you cannot marry me; the laws forbid 
it! 

George. Forbid it? 

Zoe. There is a gulf between us, as wide 
as your love, as deep as my despair ; but, 
0, tell me, say you will pity me! that 
you will not throw me from you like a 
poisoned thing! 

George. Zoe, explain yourself — your lan- 
guage fills me with shapeless fears. 

Zoe. And what shall I say? I — my 
mother was — no, no — not her! Why 
should I refer the blame to her? 
George, do you see that hand you hold? 
look at these fingers; do you see the 
nails are of a bluish tinge? 

George. Yes, near the quick there is a 
faint blue mark. 

Zoe. Look in my eyes; is not the same 
color in the white? 

George. It is their beauty. 

Zoe. Could you see the roots of my hair 
you would see the same dark, fatal mark. 
Do you know what that is? 

George. No. 

Zoe. That is the ineffaceable curse of 
Cain. Of the blood that feeds my heart, 
one drop in eight is black — bright red 
as the rest may be, that one drop poisons 
all the flood; those seven bright drops 
give me love like yours — hope like yours 
— ambition like yours — life hung with 
passions like dew-drops on the morning 
flowers; but the one black drop gives me 
despair, for I 'm an unclean thing — for- 
bidden by the laws — I 'm an Octoroon ! 

George. Zoe, I love you none the less; 
tliis knowledge brings no revolt to my 
heart, and I can overcome the obstacle. 

Zoe. But I cannot. 

George. We can leave this country, and 
go far away where none can know. 

Zoe. And our mother, she wiio from in- 
fancy treated me with such fondness, 
she who, as you said, has most reasoa 



444 



THE OCTOROON 



to spurn me, can she forget what I am? 
Will she gladly see you wedded to the 
child of her husband's slave? No! she 
would revolt from it, as all but you 
would; and if I consented to hear the 
cries of my heart, if I did not crush out 
my infant love, what would she say to 
the poor girl on whom she had bestowed 
so much? No, no! 

George. Zoe, must we immolate our lives 
on her prejudice? 

Zoe. Yes, for I 'd rather be black than 
ungrateful! Ah, George, our race has 
at least one virtue — it know^s how to 
suffer ! 

George. Each word you utter makes my 
love sink deeper into my heart. 

Zoe. And I remained here to induce you 
to offer that heart to Dora! 

George. If you bid me do so I will obey 
you — 

Zoe. No, no! if you cannot be mine, 0, 
let me not blush when I think of you. 

George. Dearest Zoe! 

{Exit George mid Zoe.) 

(As they exit, M'Closky rises from 

behind a rock and looks after them.) 

M'Closky. She loves him! I felt it — 
and how she can love! {Advances.) 
That one black drop of blood burns in 
her veins and lights up her heart like a 
foggy sun. 0, how I lapped up her 
words, like a thirsty bloodhound ! I '11 
have her, if it costs me my life! Yon- 
der the boy still lurks with those mail- 
bags; the devil still keeps him here to 
tempt me, dam his yellow skin! I ar- 
rived just too late, he had grabbed the 
prize as I came up. Hillo ! he 's coming 
this way, fighting with his Injiun. 

{Conceals himself.) 

{Enter Paul, wrestling with Wahnotee.) 

Paul. It ain't no use now: you got to 
gib it up! 

Wahno. Ugh ! 

Paul. It won't do! You got dat bottle 
of rum hid under your blanket — gib it 
up now, you — . Yar! {Wrenching it 
from him.) You nasty, lying Injiun! 
It 's no use you putting on airs ; I ain't 
gwine to sit up wid you all night and 
you drunk. Hillo ! war 's de crowd 
gone? And dar 's de 'paratus — 0, 
gosh, if I could take a likeness ob dis 
child! Uh — uh, let's have a peep. 
{Looking through camera.) 0, golly! 
yar, you Walmotee! you stan' dar, I see 
you. Ta deraine usti. 



{Ue looks at Wahnotee through the 
camera; Wahnotee springs hack 
with an expression of alarm.) 

Wahno. No tue Wahnotee. 

Paul. Ha, ha ! he tinks it 's a gun. You 
ign'ant Injiun, it can't hurt you ! Stop, 
here 's dem dishes — plates — dat 's what 
he can 'em, all fix: I see Mas'r Scudder 
do it often — tink I can take likeness — 
stay dere, Wahnotee. 

Wahno. No, carabine tue. 

Paul. I must operate and take my own 
likeness too — how debbel I do dat? 
Can't be ober dar an' here too — I ain't 
twins. Ugh! ach! 'Top; you look, you 
Wahnotee; you see dis rag, eh? Well 
when I say go, den lift dis rag like dis, 
see! den run to dat pine tree up dar 
{Points) and back ag'in, and den pull 
down de rag so, d' ye see ? 

Wahno. Hugh ! 

Paul. Den you hab glass ob rum. 

Wahno. Rum ! 

Paul. Dat wakes him up. Coute, Wah- 
notee in omenee dit go Wahnotee, poina 
la fa, comb a pine tree, la revieut sala, 
la fa. 

Wahno. Fire-water ! 

Paul. Yes, den a glass ob fire-water; now 

den. {Throwing mail-hags down and 

sitting on them.) Pret, now den go. 

(Wahnotee raises the apron and runs 

off. Paul sits for his picture — 

M'Closky appears.) 

M'Closky. Where are they? Ah, yonder 
goes the Indian! 

Paul. De time he gone just 'bout enough 
to cook dat dish plate. 

M'Closky. Yonder is the boy — now is my 
time ! What 's he doing ; is he asleep ? 
{Advancing.) He is sitting on my 
prize ! darn his carcass ! I '11 clear him 
off there — he '11 never know what 
stunned him. 

{He takes Indian's tomahawk and 
steals to Paul.) 

Paul. Dam dat Injiun ! is dat him creep- 
ing dar? I daren't move fear to spile 
myself. 

(M'Closky strikes him on the head — 
he falls dead.) 

M'Closky. Hooraw; the bags are mine — 
now for it! — {Opening the mail-hags.) 
What's here? Sunnyside, Pointdexter, 
Jackson, Peyton; here it is — the Liver- 
pool postmark, sure enough! — {Open- 
ing letter — reads.) "Madam, we are in- 
structed by the firm of Mason and Co., 
to inform you that a dividend of forty 



DION BOUCICAULT 



445 



per cent, is payable on the 1st proximo, 
this amount in consideration of position, 
they send herewith, and you will find 
enclosed by draft to your order, on the 
Bank of Louisiana, which please ac- 
knowledge — tlie balance will be paid in 
full, with interest, in three, six, and nine 
months — your drafts on Mason Brothers 
at those dates will be accepted by La 
Palisse and Compagnie, N. 0., so that 
you may command immediate use of the 
whole amount at once, if required. 
Yours, etc., James Brown." What a 
find! this infernal letter would have 
saved all. {During the reading of letter 
he remains nearly motionless under the 
focus of the camera.) But now I guess 
it will arrive too late — these darned U. S. 
mails are to blame. The Injiun! he 
must not see me. {Exit rapidly.) 

(Wahnotee runs on, and pulls down 
the apron. He sees Paul, lying on 
the ground and speaks to him, think- 
ing that he is shamming sleep. He 
gesticulates and jabbers to him and 
moves him with his feet, then kneels 
down to rouse him. To his horror 
he finds him dead. Expressing 
great grief he raises his eyes and 
they fall upon the camera. Rising 
with a savage growl, he seizes the 
tomahawk and smashes the camera 
to pieces. Going to Paul he ex- 
presses in pantomime grief, sorrow, 
and fondness, and takes him in his 
arms to carry him away.) 



ACT THIRD. 

{A lioom in Mrs. Peyton's house showing 
the entrance on which an auction bill is 
pasted. Solon and Grace are there.) 

Pete. {Outside.) Dis way — dis way. 

{Enter Pete, Pointdexter, Jackson, La- 
FOUCHE and Caillou.) 

Pete. Dis way, genTmen; now, Solon — 
Grace — dey 's hot and tirsty — sangaree, 
brandy, rum. 

Jackson. Well, what d'ye say, Lafouche 
— d 'ye smile ? 

{Enter Thibodeaux and Sunnyside.) 

Thibo. I hope we don't intrude on the 

family. 
Pete. You see dat hole in dar, sar? I 

was raised on dis yar plantation — neb- 



ber see no^door in it — always open, sar, 
for stranger to walk in. 
Sunny. And for substance to walk out. 

{Enter Ratts.) 

Ratts. Fine southern style that, eh! 

Lafouche. {Beading the bill.) "A fine, 
well-built old family mansion, replete 
with every comfort." 

Ratts. There 's one name on the list of 
slaves scratched, I see. 

Lafouche. Yes ; No. 49, Paul, a quadroon 
boy, aged thirteen. 

Sunny. He's missing. 

Point. Run away, I suppose. 

Pete. {Indignantly.) No, sar; nigger 
nebber cut stick on Terrebonne; dat boy 's 
dead, sure. 

Ratts. What, Picayune Paul, as we called 
him, that used to come aboard my boat? 
— poor little darkey, I hope not; many 
a picayune he picked up for his dance 
and nigger songs, and he supplied our 
table with fish and game from the Ba- 
yous. 

Pete. Nebber supply no more, sar — neb- 
ber dance again. Mas'r Ratts, you hard 
him sing about de place where de good 
niggers go, de last time. 

Ratts. Well ! 

Pete. Well, he gone dar hisself; why I 
tink so — 'cause we missed Paul for some 
days, but nebber tout nothin' till one 
night dat Injiun Wahnotee suddenly 
stood right dar 'mongst us — was in his 
war paint, and mighty cold and grave 
— he sit down by de fire. "Whar's 
Paul?" I say — he smoke and smoke, but 
nebber look out ob de fire; well know- 
ing dem critters, I wait a long time — 
den he say, "Wahnotee great chief;" 
den I say nothing — smoke anoder time — 
last, rising to go, he turn round at door, 
and say berry low — 0, like a woman's 
voice he say, "Omenee Pangeuk," — dat 
is, Paul is dead — nebber see him since. 

Ratts. That red-skin killed him. 

Sunny. So we believe; and so mad are 
the folks around, if they catch the red- 
skin they '11 lynch him sure. 

Ratts. Lynch him! Darn his copper 
carcass, I 've got a set of Irish deck- 
hands aboard that just loved that child; 
and after I tell them this, let them get 
a sight of the red-skin, I believe they 
would eat him, tomahawk and all. Poor 
little Paul! 

Thibo. What was he worth? 



446 



THE OCTOROON 



Ratts. Well, near on five hundred dol- 
lars. 

Pete. {Scandalized.) What, sar! You 
p'tend to be sorry for Paul, and prize 
him like dat! Five hundred dollars! 
{To Thibodeaux.) Tousand dollars, 
Massa Thibodeau. 

{Enter Scudder.) 

Scud. Gentlemen, the sale takes place at 
three. Good morning, Colonel. It 's 
near that now, and there 's still the sugar- 
houses to be inspected. Good day, Mr. 
Thibodeaux — shall we drive down that 
way? Mr. Lafouche, why, how do you 
do, sir ? you 're looking well. 

Lafouche. Sorry I can't return the com- 
pliment. 

Ratts. Salem 's looking a kinder hol- 
lowed out. 

Scud. What, Mr. Ratts, are you going to 
invest in swamps? 

Ratts. No; I want a nigger. 

Scud. Hush. 

Pete. Eh! wass dat? 

Scud. Mr. Sunnyside, I can't do this job 
of showin' round the folks; my stomach 
goes agin it. I want Pete here a min- 
ute. 

Sunny. I '11 accompany them certainly. 

Scud. {Eagerly.) Will ye? Thank ye; 
thank ye. 

SuNXY. We must excuse Scudder, friends. 
I '11 see you round the estate. 

{Enter George and Mrs. Peyton.) 

Lafouche. Good morning, Mrs. Peyton. 

{All salute.) 
Sunny. This way, gentlemen. 
Ratts. {Aside to Sunnyside.) I say, I'd 
like to say summit soft to the old woman ; 
perhaps it would n't go well, would it ? 
Thibo. No; leave it alone. 
Ratts. Darn it, when I see a woman in 
trouble, I feel like selling the skin off 
my back. 

{Exit Thibodeaux, Sunnyside, Ratts, 
Pointdexter, Grace, Jackson, La- 
fouche, Caillou, Solon.) 
Scud. {Aside to Pete.) Go outside 
there; listen to what you hear, then go 
down to the quarters and tell the boys, 
for I can't do it. 0, get out. 
Pete. He said "I want a nigger." Laws, 
mussey! What am goin' to cum ob us! 
{Exit slowly, as if trying to conceal 
himself. ) 
George. My dear aunt, why do you not 



move from this painful scene? Go with 
Dora to Sunnyside. 

Mrs. p. No, George; your uncle said to 
me with his dying breath, "Nellie, never 
leave Terrebonne," and I never will leave 
it, till the law compels me. 

Scud. Mr. George, I 'm going to say some- 
thin' that has been chokin' me for some 
time. I know you '11 excuse it. Thar 's 
Miss Dora — that girl 's in love with you ; 
yes, sir, her eyes are startin' out of her 
head with it: now her fortune would re- 
deem a good part of this estate. 

Mrs. p. Why, George, I never suspected 
this ! 

George. I did, aunt, I confess, but — 

Mrs. p. And you hesitated from motives 
of delicacy? 

Scud. No, ma'am; here's the plan of it. 
Mr. George is in love with Zoe. 

George. Scudder ! 

Mrs. p. George! 

Scud. Hold on, now! things have got so 
jammed in on top of us, we ain't got 
time to put kid gloves on to handle them. 
He loves Zoe, and has found out that she 
loves him. {Sighing.) Well, that's all 
right; but as he can't marry her, and as 
Miss Dora would jump at him — 

Mrs. p. Why did n't you mention this be- 
fore? 

Scud. Why, because I love Zoe, too, and 
I couldn't take that young feller from 
her ; and she 's jist living on the sight 
of him, as I saw her do; and they so 
happy in spite of this yer misery around 
them, and they reproachin' themselves 
with not feeling as they ought. I 've 
seen it, I tell you; and darn it, ma'am, 
can't you see that 's what 's been a hok 
lowing me out so — I beg your pardon. 

Mrs. p. 0, George, — my son, let me call 
you, — I do not speak for my own sake, 
nor for the loss of the estate, but for 
the poor people here: they will be sold, 
divided, and taken away — they have 
been born here. Heaven has denied me 
children; so all the strings of my heart 
have grown around and amongst them, 
like the fibres and roots of an old tree in 
its native earth. 0, let all go, but save 
them ! With them around us, if we have 
not wealth, we shall at least have the 
home that they alone can make — 

George. My dear mother — Mr. Scudder — 
you teach me what I ought to do; if 
Miss Sunnyside will accept me as I am, 
Terrebonne shall be saved: I will sell 
myself, but the slaves shall be protected. 



DION BOUCICAULT 



447 



Mrs, p. Sell yourself, George! Is not 
Dora worth any man's — 

Scud. Don't say that, ma'am; don't say 
that to a man that loves another gal. 
He 's going to do an heroic act ; don't 
spile it. 

Mrs. p. But Zoe is only an Octoroon. 

Scud. She 's won this race agin the white, 
anyhow ; it 's too late now to start her 
pedigree. {As Dora enters.) Come, 
Mrs. Peyton, take my arm. Hush! 
here 's the other one : she 's a little too 
thoroughbred — too much of the grey- 
hound ; but the heart 's there, I believe. 
{Exeunt Scudder and Mrs. Peyton.) 

Dora. Poor Mrs. Peyton. 

George. Miss Sunnyside, permit me a 
word: a feeling of delicacy has sus- 
pended upon my lips an avowal, which — 

Dora. {Aside.) 0, dear, has he suddenly 
come to his senses? 

{Enter Zoe, stopping at hack.) 

George. In a word, I have seen and ad- 
mired you! 

Dora. {Aside.) He has a strange way 
of showing it. European, I suppose. 

George. If you would pardon the abrupt- 
ness of the question, I would ask you, 
Do you think the sincere devotion of my 
life to make yours happy would suc- 
ceed? 

Dora. {Aside.) Well, he has the oddest 
way of making love. 

George, You are silent? 

Dora. Mr. Peyton, I presume you have 
hesitated to make this avowal because 
you feared, in the present condition of 
affairs here, your object might be mis- 
construed, and that your attention w^as 
rather to my fortune than myself. {A 
pause.) Why don't he speak? — I mean, 
you feared I might not give you credit 
for sincere and pure feelings. Well, 
you wrong me. I don't think you cap- 
able of anything else but — 

George. No, I hesitated because an at- 
tachment I had formed before I had the 
pleasure of seeing you had not altogether 
died out. 

Dora. {Smiling.) Some of those sirens 
of Paris, I presume, {Pausing.) I 
shall endeavor not to be jealous of the 
past; perhaps I have no right to be. 
{Pausing.) But now that vagrant love 
is — eh, faded — is it not? Why don't 
you speak, sir? 

George, Because, Miss Sunnyside, I have 
not learned to lie. 



Dora, Good gracious — who wants you to? 

George. I do, but I can't do it. No, the 
love I speak of is not such as you sup- 
pose, — it is a passion that has grown up 
here since I arrived; but it is a hopeless, 
mad, wild feeling, that must perish. 

Dora. Here! since you arrived! Impos- 
sible: you have seen no one; whom can 
you mean? 

Zoe. {Advancing.) Me. 

George. Zoe ! 

Dora. You ! 

Zoe. Forgive him, Dora; for he knew no 
better until I told him. Dora, you are 
right. He is incapable of any but sin- 
cere and pure feelings — so are you. He 
loves me — what of that? You know you 
can't be jealous of a poor creature like 
me. If he caught the fever, WTre stung 
by a snake, or possessed of any other 
poisonous or unclean thing, you could 
pity, tend, love him through it, and for 
your gentle care he would love you in 
return. Well, is he not thus afflicted 
now? I am his love — he loves an Oc- 
toroon. 

George. 0, Zoe, you break my heart ! 

Dora. At college they said I was a fool — 
I must be. At New Orleans, they said, 
"She 's pretty, very pretty, but no 
brains." I 'm afraid they must be right; 
I can't understand a word of all this. 

Zoe. Dear Dora, try to understand it with 
your heart. You love George; you love 
him dearly; I know it; and you deserve 
to be loved by him. He will love you — 
he must. His love for me will pass 
away — it shall. You heard him say it 
was hopeless. 0, forgive him and me! 

Dora. {Weeping.) 0, why did he speak 
to me at all then? You've made me 
cry, then, and I hate you both ! 

{Exit through room.) 

{Enter Mrs. Peyton and Scudder, M'Clo- 

SKY and POINTDEXTER, ) 

M'Closky. I 'm sorry to intrude, but the 
business I came upon will excuse me. 

Mrs. Pey. Here is my nephew^, sir. 

ZoE. Perhaps I had better go. 

M'Closky. Wal, as it consarns you, per- 
haps you better had. 

Scud. Consarns Zoe? 

M'Closky. I don't know; she may as well 
hear the hull of it. Go on. Colonel — 
Colonel Pointdexter, ma'am — the mort- 
gagee, auctioneer, and general agent. 

Point, Pardon me, madam, but do you 
know these papers? 



448 



THE OCTOROON 



{lie hands the papers to Mrs. Pey- 
ton.) 

Mrs. Pey. {Taking them.) Yes, sir; 
they were tlie free papers of the girl 
Zoe; but they were in my husband's sec- 
retary. How came they in your pos- 
session ? 

M'Closky. I — I found them. 

Gkorge. And you purloined them? 

M'Closky. Hold on, you '11 see. Go on, 
Colonel. 

Point. The list of your slaves is incom- 
plete — it wants one. 

Scud. The boy Paul — we know it. 

Point. No, sir, you have omitted the 
Octoroon girl, Zoe. 

Mrs. Pey. i Zoe 

Zoe. j Me! 

Point. At the time the judge executed 
those free papers to his infant slave, a 
judgment stood recorded against him; 
while that was on record he had no right 
to make away with his property. That 
judgment still exists: under it and others 
this estate is sold to-day. Those free 
papers ain't worth the sand that 's on 
'em. 

Mrs. Pey. Zoe a slave! It is impossible! 

Point. It is certain, madam: the judge 
was negligent, and doubtless forgot this 
small formality. 

Scud. But the creditors will not claim the 
gal? 

M'Closky. Excuse me; one of the prin- 
cipal mortgagees has made the demand. 
{Exeunt M'Closky and Pointdexter. ) 

Scud. Hold on yere, George Peyton; you 
sit down there. You're trembling so, 
you '11 fall down directly. This blow has 
staggered me some. 

Mrs. Pey. 0, Zoe, my child! don't chink 
too liard of your poor father. 

Zoe. I shall do so if you weep. See, I 'm 
calm. 

Scud. Calm as a tombstone, and with 
about as much life. I see it in your 
face. 

George. It cannot be ! It shall not be ! 

Scud. Hold your tongue — it must. Be 
calm — darn the things; the proceeds of 
this sale won't cover the debts of the 
estate. Consarn those Liverpool Eng- 
lish fellers, why could n't they send some- 
thing by the last mail? Even a letter, 
promising something — such is the feel- 
ing round amongst the planters. Darn 
me, if I couldn't raise thirty thousand 
on the envelope alone, and ten thousand 
more on the postmark. 



George. Zoe, they shall not take you from 
us while I live. 

Scud. Don't be a fool; they'd kill you, 
and then take her, just as soon as — stop: 
old Sunnyside, he'll buy her; that'll 
save her. 

Zoe. No, it won't; we have confessed to 
Dora that we love each other. How can 
she then ask her father to free me? 

Scud. What in thunder made you do 
that? 

Zoe. Because it was the truth, and I had 
rather be a slave with a free soul, than 
remain free with a slavish, deceitful 
heart. My father gives me freedom — at 
least he thought so. May Heaven bless 
him for the thought, bless him for the 
happiness he spread around my life. 
You say the proceeds of the sale will not 
cover his debts. Let me be sold then, 
that I may free his name. I give him 
back the liberty he bestowed upon me; 
for I can never repay him the love he 
bore his poor Octoroon child, on whose 
breast his last sigh w^as drawn, into 
whose eyes he looked with the last gaze 
of affection. 

Mrs. Pey. 0, my husband! I thank 
Heaven you have not lived to see this 
day. 

Zoe. George, leave me ! I would be alone 
a little while. 

George. Zoe ! 

{Turning away overpowered.) 

Zoe. Do not weep, George. Dear George, 
you now see what a miserable thing I 
am. 

George. Zoe ! 

Scud. I wish they could sell me! I 
brought half this ruin on this family, 
with my all-fired improvements. I de- 
serve to be a nigger this day — I feel 
like one, inside. {Exit Scudder.) 

Zoe. Go now, George — leave me — take her 
with you. {Exit Mrs. Peyton and 
George.) A slave! a slave! Is this a 
dream — for my brain reels with the 
blow? He said so. What! then I shall 
be sold! — sold! and my master — 0! 
{She falls on her knees, with her face in 
her hands.) No — no master but one. 
George — George — hush — they come! save 
me! No, {Looks off.) 'tis Pete and the 
servants — they come this way. {Enters 
the inner room.) 

{Enter Pete, Grace, Minnie, Solon, 
Dido, and all Niggers.) 

Pete. Cum yer now — stand round, 'cause 



DION BOUCICAULT 



449 



I 've got to talk to you darkies — keep 
dem chil'ii quiet — don't make no noise, 
de missus up dar bar us. 

Solon. Go on, Pete. 

Pete. Gen'l'men, my colored frens and 
ladies, dar's mighty bad news gone 
round. Dis yer prop'ty to be sold — old 
Terrebonne — whar we all been raised, is 
gwine — dey 's gwine to tak it away — 
can't stop here nohow. 

Omnes. 0-0 ! — 0-0 ! 

Pete. Hold quiet, you trash o' niggers! 
tink anybody wants you to cry ? Who 's 
you to set up screeching? — be quiet! 
But dis ain't all. Now, my cullud 
brethren, gird up your lines, and listen 
— hold on yer bref — it 's a comin'. We 
touglit dat de niggers would belong to de 
ole missus, and if she lost Terrebonne, 
we must live dere allers, and we would 
hire out, and bring our wages to ole 
Missus Peyton. 

Omnes. Ya! ya! Well— 

Pete. Hush ! I tell ye, 't ain't so — we 
can't do it — we 've ^ot to be sold — 

Omnes. Sold! 

Pete. Will you hush? she will har you. 
Yes! I listen dar jess now — dar was ole 
lady cryin' — Mas'r George — ah ! you seen 
dem big tears in his eyes. 0, Mas'r 
Scudder, he didn't cry zackly; both ob 
his eyes and cheek look like de bad Bayou 
in low season — so dry dat I cry for him. 
{Raising It is voice.) Den say de missus, 
" 'T ain't for de land I keer, but for 
dem poor niggers — dey '11 be sold — dat 
wot stagger me." "No," say Mas'r 
George, "I 'd rather sell myself fuss ; 
but (ley shan't suffer, nohow, — I see 'em 
dam fuss." 

Omnes. 0, bless 'um! Bless Mas'r 
George. 

Pete. Hole yer tongues. Yes, for you, 
for me, for dem little ones, dem folks 
cried. Now, den, if Grace dere wid her 
chil'n were all sold, she '11 begin screechin' 
like a cat. She didn't mind how kind 
old judge was to her; and Solon, too, 
he '11 holler, and break de ole lady's 
heart. 

Grace. No, Pete ; no, I won't. I '11 bear 
it. 

Pete. I don't tink you will any more, but 
dis here will; 'cause de family spile 
Dido, dey has. She nebber was worth 
much a' dat nigger. 

Dido. How dar you say dat, you black 
nigger, you? I fetch as much as any 
odder cook in Louisiana. 



Pete. What's the use of your takin' it 
kind, and comfortin' de missus' heart, if 
Minnie dere, and Louise, and Marie, and 
Julie is to spile it? 

Minnie. We won't, Pete; we won't. 

Pete. {To the men.) Dar, do ye hear 
dat, ye mis'able darkies; dem gals is 
worth a boat load of kinder men dem is. 
Cum, for de pride of de family, let every 
darky look his best for the judge's sake 
— dat ole man so good to us^ and dat 
ole woman — so dem strangers from New 
Orleans shall say, Dem 's happy darkies, 
dem's a fine set of niggers; every one 
say when he's sold, "Lor' bless dis yer 
family I 'm gwine out of, and send me as 
good a home." 

Omnes. W^e '11 do it, Pete ; we '11 do it. 

Pete. Hush ! hark ! I tell ye dar 's some- 
body in dar. Who is it? 

Grace. It 's Missy Zoe. See ! see ! 

Pete. Come along; she har what we say, 

and she 's cryin' for us. None o' ye 

. ign'rant niggers could cry for yerselves 

like dat. Come here quite: now quite. 

{Exeunt Pete and all the Negroes, 

slowly.) 

{Enter Zoe who is supposed to have over- 
heard the last scene.) 

Zoe. ! must I learn from these . poor 
wretches how much I owe, and how I 
ought to pay the debt? Have I slept 
upon the benefits I received, and never 
saw, never felt, never knew that I was 
forgetful and ungrateful? 0, my 
father! my dear, dear father! forgive 
your poor child. You made her life too 
happy, and now these tears will flow. 
Let me hide them till I teach my heart. 
0, my — my heart! 

{Exit, with a low, wailing, suffocating 
cry.) 

{Enter M'Closky, Lapouche, Jackson, 
Sunnyside and Pointdexter. ) 

Point. Looking at his ivatch.) Come, 
the hour is past. I think we may begin 
business. Where is Mr. Scudder? 

Jackson. I want to get to Ophelensis to- 
night. 

{Enter Dora.) 

Dora. Father, come here. 

SuxNY. Why, Dora, what 's the matter? 

Your eyes are red. 
Dora. Are they? thank you. I don't 



450 



THE OCTOROON 



care, they were blue this morning, but 

it don't signify now. 
Sunny. My darling! who has been teas- 
ing you? 
Dora. Never mind. I want you to buy 

Terrebonne. 
Sunny. Buy Terrebonne! What for? 
Dora. No matter — buy it! 
Sunny. It will cost me all I 'm worth. 

This is folly, Dora. 
Dora. Is my plantation at Comptableau 

worth this? 
Sunny. Nearly — perhaps. 
Dora. Sell it, then, and buy this. 
Sunny. Are you mad, my love? 
Dora. Do you want me to stop here and 

bid for it? 
Sunny. Good gracious, no! 
Dora. Then I '11 do it if you don't. 
Sunny. I will ! I will ! But for Heaven's 

sake go — here comes the crowd. {Exit 

Dora.) What on earth does that child 

mean or want? 

(Enter Scudder, George, Ratts, Caillou, 
Pete, Grace, Minnie, and all the Ne- 
groes. A large table is in the center of 
the background. Pointdexter mounts 
the table with his hammer, his clerk sit- 
ting at his feet. The Negro mounts the 
table from behind. The rest sit down.) 

Point. Now, gentlemen, we shall proceed 
to business. It ain't necessary for me 
to dilate, describe or enumerate; Terre- 
bonne is known to you as one of the 
richest bits of sile in Louisiana, and its 
condition reflects credit on them as had 
to keep it. I '11 trouble you for that 
piece of baccy. Judge — thank you — so, 
gentlemen, as life is short, we '11 start 
right off. The first lot on here is the 
estate in block, with its sugar-houses, 
stock, machines, implements, good dwell- 
ing-houses and furniture. If there is no 
bid for the estate and stuff, we '11 sell it 
in smaller lots. Come, Mr. Thibodeaux, 
a man has a chance once in his life — 
here 's yours. 

Thib. Go on. What's the reserve bid? 

Point. The first mortgagee bids forty 
thousand dollars. 

Thib. Forty-five thousand. 

Sunny. Fifty thousand. 

Point. When you have done joking, gen- 
tlemen, you '11 say one hundred and 
twenty thousand. It carried that easy 
on mortgage. 

Lafouche. Then why don't you buy it 
yourself, Colonel? 



Point. I 'm waiting on your fifty thou- 
sand bid. 

Caillou. Eighty thousand. 

Point. Don't be afraid : it ain't going for 
that. Judge. 

Sunny. Ninety thousand. 

Point. We're getting on. 

Thib. One hundred — 

Point. One hundred thousand bid for this 
mag — 

Caillou. One hundred and ten thousand — 

Point. Good again — one hundred and — 

Sunny. Twenty. 

Point. And twenty thousand bid. Squire 
Sunnyside is going to sell this at fifty 
thousand advance to-morrow. {Looking 
round.) Where's that man from Mo- 
bile that wanted to give one hundred and 
eighty thousand? 

Thib. I guess he ain't left home yet, 
Colonel. 

Point. I shall knock it down to the 
Squire — going — gone — for one hundred 
and twenty thousand dollars. {Raising 
hammer.) Judge, you can raise the hull 
on mortgage — goinf for half its value. 
{Knocking on the table.) Squire 
Sunnyside, you 've got a pretty bit o' 
land. Squire. Hillo, darkey, hand me a 
smash dar. 

Sunny. I got more than I can work now. 

Point. Then buy the hands along with 
the property. Now, gentlemen, I 'm 
proud to submit to you the finest lot of 
field hands and house servants that was 
ever offered for competition: i\\ey speak 
for themselves, and do credit to their 
owners. {Reading.) ''No. 1, Solon, a 
guest boy, and a good waiter." 

Pete. That 's my son — buy him, Mas'r 
Ratts ; he 's sure to sarve you well. 

Point. Hold your tongue! 

Ratts. Let the old darkey alone — eight 
hundred for that boy. 

Calliou. Nine. 

Ratts. A thousand. 

Solon. Thank you, Mas'r Ratts : I die for 
you, sar; hold up for me, sar. 

Ratts. Look here, the boy knows and 
likes me, Judge; let him come my way? 

Calliou. Go on — I 'm dumb. 

Point. One thousand bid. He 's yours, 
Captain Ratts, Magnolia steamer. (So- 
lon goes and stands behind Ratts.) 
"No. 2, the yellow girl, Grace, with two 
children — Saul, aged four, and Victoria, 
five." {They get on table.) 

Scud. That's Solon's wife and children, 
Judge, 



DION BOUCICAULT 



451 



Grace. [To Ratts.) Buy me, Mas'r 

Ratts, do buy me, sar? 
Ratts. What in thunder should I do with 

you and those devils on board my boat? 
Grace. Wash, sar — cook, sar — anyting. 
Ratts. Eight hundred agin, then — I '11 go 

it. 
Jackson. Nine. 
Ratts. I 'm broke, Solon — I can't stop 

the Judge. 
Tpiib. What's the matter, Ratts? "I '11 

lend you all you want. Go it, if you 're 

a mind to. 
Ratts. Eleven. 
Jackson. Twelve. 
Sunny. 0, 0! 
Scud. {To Jackson.) Judge, my friend. 

The Judge is a little deaf. Hello ! 

{Speaking in his ear-trumpet.) This 

gal and them children belong to that 

boy Solon there. You 're bidding to 

separate them, Judge. 
Jackson. The devil I am! {Rising.) 

I '11 take back my bid. Colonel. 
Point. All right, Judge; I thought there 

was a mistake. I must keep you. Cap- 
tain, to the eleven hundred. 
Ratts. Go it. 
Point. Eleven hundred — going — going — 

sold! "No. 3, Pete, a house servant." 
Pete. Dat 's me — yer, I 'm comin' — stand 

around dar. {Tumbles upon the table.) 
Point. Aged seventy-two. 
Pete. What 's dat ? A mistake, sar — 

forty-six. 
Point. Lame. 
Pete. But don't mount to nuffin — kin 

work cannel. Come, Judge, pick up. 

Now 's your time, sar. 
Jackson. One hundred dollars. 
Pete. What, sar? me! for me — look ye 

here! {He dances.) 

George. Five hundred. 
Pete. Mas'r George — ah, no, sar — don't 

buy me — keep your money for some ud- 
der dat is to be sold. I ain't no 'count, 

sar. 
Point. Five hundred bid — it's a good 

price. He 's yours, Mr. George Peyton. 

{Pete goes down.) ''No. 4, the Octoroon 

girl, Zoe." 

{Enter Zoe, very pale, and stands on table. 
M'Closky who hitherto has taken no in- 
terest in the sale, now turns his chair.) 

Sunny. {Rising.) Gentlemen, we are all 
acquainted with the circumstances of this 
girl's position, and I feel sure that no 
one here will oppose the family who de- 



sires to redeem the child of our esteemed 
and noble friend, the late Judge Peyton. 

Omnes. Hear ! bravo ! hear ! 

Point. While the proceeds of this sale 
promises to realize less than the debts 
upon it, it is my duty to prevent any 
collusion for the depreciation of the 
property. 

Ratts. Darn ye ! You 're a man as well 
as an auctioneer, ain't ye? 

Point. What is offered for this slave? 

Sunny. One thousand dollars. 

M'Closky. Two thousand. 

Sunny. Three thousand. 

M'Closky. Five thousand. 

George. Demon ! 

Sunny. I bid seven thousand, which is 
the last dollar this family possesses. 

M'Closky. Eight. 

Thibo. Nine. 

Omnes. Bravo ! 

M'Closky. Ten. It's no use, Squire. 

Scud. Jacob M'Closky, you shan't have 
that girl. Now, take care what you do. 
Twelve thousand. 

M'Closky. Shan't I! Fifteen thousand. 
Beat that any of ye. 

Point. Fifteen thousand bid for the Oc- 
toroon. 

{Enter Dora.) 

Dora. Twenty thousand. 

Omnes. Bravo ! 

M'Closky. Twenty-five thousand. 

Omnes. {Groan.) 0! 0! 

George. Yelping hound — take that. 

{He rushes on M'Closky. M'Closky 
draws his knife.) 

Scud. {Darting between them.) Hold 
on, George Peyton — stand back. This 
is your own house; we are under your 
uncle's roof; recollect yourself. And, 
strangers, ain't we forgetting there 's a 
lady present? {The knives disappear.) 
If we can't behave like Christians, let 's 
try and act like gentlemen. Go on. Col- 
onel. 

Lafouche. He didn't ought to bid 
against a lady. 

M'Closky. 0, that's it, is it? Then I'd 
like to hire a lady to go to auction and 
buy my hands. 

Point. Gentlemen, I believe none of us 
have two feelings about the conduct of 
that man; but he has the law on his side 
— we may regret, but we must respect it. 
Mr. M'Closky has bid twenty-five thou- 
sand dollars for the Octoroon. Is there 
any other bid? For the first time, 



452 



THE OCTOROON 



tAventy-five thousand — last time! (Brings 
hammer down.) To Jacob M'Closky, 
tlie Octoroon girl, Zoe, twenty-five thou- 
sand dollars. 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene. The Wharf. The Steamer "Mag- 
nolia/' alongside, a hluff rock. Ratts 
discovered, superintending the loading 
of ship. 

(Enter Lafouche and Jackson.) 

Jackson. How long before we start, cap- 
tain? 

Ratts. Just as soon as we put this cot- 
ton on board. 

(Enter Pete, with a lantern, and Scudder, 
with note hook.) 

Scud. One hundred and forty-nine bales. 
Can you take any more? 

Ratts. Not a bale. I 've got engaged 
eight hundred bales at the next landing, 
and one hundred hogsheads of sugar at 
Patten's Slide — that '11 take my guards 
under — hurry up thar. 

Voice. (Outside.) Wood's aboard. 

Ratts. All aboard then. 

(Enter M'Closky.) 

Scud. Sign that receipt, captain, and save 
me going up to the clerk. 

M'Closky. See here — there 's a small 
freight of turpentine in the fore hold 
there, and one of the barrels leaks; a 
spark from your engines might set the 
ship on fire, and you '11 go with it. 

Ratts. You be darned ! Go and try it, if 
you 've a mind to. 

Lafouche. Captain, you 've loaded up 
here until the boat is sunk so deep in 
the mud she won't float. 

Ratts. (Calling off.) Wood up thar, 
you Polio — hang on to the safety valve 
— guess she '11 crawl off on her paddles. 
(Shouts heard.) 

Jackson. What's the matter? 

(Enter Solon.) 

Solon. We got him! 

Scud. Who? 

Solon. The Injiun! 

Scud. Wahnotee? Where is he? D'ye 
call running away from a fellow catch- 
ing him? 



Ratts. Here he comes. 
Omnes. Where? Where? 

(Enter Wahnotee. They are all about to 
rush on him.) 

Scud. Hold on ! stan' round thar ! no vio- 
lence — the critter don't know what wc 
mean. 

Jackson. Let him answer for the boy 
then. 

M'Closky. Down with him — lynch him. 

Omnes. Lynch him! (Exit Lafouche.) 

Scud. Stan' back, I say ! I '11 nip the 
first that lays a finger on him. Pete, 
speak to the red-skin. 

Pete. Whar 's Paul, Wahnotee? What's 
come ob de cliild? 

Wahnotee. Paul wunce — Paul pangeuk. 

Pete. Pangeuk — dead ! 

Wahnotee. Mort ! 

M'Closky. And you killed him? 

(They approach him.) 

Scud. Hold on ! 

Pete. Urn, Paul reste? 

Wahnotee. Hugh vieu. (Goes.) Paul 
reste ci! 

Scud. Here, stay! (Examining the 
ground.) The earth has been stirred 
here lately. 

Wahnotee. Weenee Paul. 

(He points down, and shoivs by pan- 
tomime how he buried Paul.) 

Scud. The Injun means that he buried 
him there ! Stop ! here 's a bit of leather 
(Drawing out the mail-bags.) The mail- 
bags that were lost! (Sees the toma- 
hawk in Wahnotee's belt — draws it out 
and examines it.) Look! here are marks 
of blood — look thar, red-skin, what 's 
that? 

Wahnotee. Paul ! "^ 

(Makes a sign that Paul was killed by 
a blow on the head.) 

M'Closky. He confesses it; the Indian 
got drunk, quarrelled with him, and 
killed him. 

(Ee-enter Lafouche, with smashed appa- 
ratus.) 

Lafouche. Here are evidences of the 
crime; this rum-bottle half emptied — 
this pliotographie apparatus smashed — 
and there are marks of blood and foot- 
steps around the shed. 

M'Closky. What more d 'ye want — ain't 
that proof enough ? Lynch him ! 

Omnes. Lynch him ! Lynch him ! 

Scud. Stan' back, boj^s ! He 's an Injiun 
— fair play. 



DION BOUCICAULT 



453 



Jackson. Try him, then — try him on the 
spot of his crime. 

Omnes. Try him! Try him! 

Lafouche. Don't let him escape! 

Ratts. I '11 see to that. {Drawing re- 
volver.) If he stirs, I'll put a bullet 
through his skull, mighty quick. 

M'Closky. Come, form a court then, 
choose a jury — we '11 fix this varmin. 

{Enter Thibodeaux and Caillou.) 

Thibo. What's the matter? 

Lafouche. We 've caught this murder- 
ing Injiun, and are going to try him. 
(Wahnotee sits, rolled in blanket.) 

Pete. Poor little Paul — poor little nigger! 

Scud. This business goes agin me, Ratts 
— 't ain't right. 

Lafouche. We 're ready ; the jury 's im- 
panelled — go ahead — who '11 be accuser ? 

Ratts. M'Closky. 

M'Closky. Me? 

Ratts. Yes; you was the first to hail 
Judge Lynch. 

M'Closky. Well, what 's the use of ar- 
gument whar guilt sticks out so plain; 
the boy and Injiun were alone when last 
seen. 

Scud. Who says that? 

M'Closky. Everybody — that is, I heard 
so. 

Scud. Say what you know — not what you 
heard. 

M'Closky. I know then that the boy was 
killed with that tomahawk — the redskin 
owns it — the signs of violence are all 
round the shed — this apparatus smashed 
— ain't it plain that in a drunken fit he 
slew the boy, and when sober concealed 
the body yonder? 

Omnes. That 's it — that 's it. 

Ratts. Who defends the Injiun? 

Scud. I will; for it is agin my natur' to 
b'lieve him guilty; and if he be, this 
ain't the place, nor you the authority to 
try him. How are we sure the boy is 
dead at all? There are no witnesses but 
a rum bottle and an old machine. Is it 
on such evidence you 'd hang a human 
being ? 

Ratts. His own confession. 

Scud. I appeal against your usurped au- 
thority. This lynch law is a wild and 
lawless proceeding. Here 's a pictur' 
for a civilized community to afford ; yon- 
der, a poor, ignorant savage, and round 
him a circle of hearts, white with re- 
venge and hate, thirsting for his blood: 
you call yourselves judges — you ain't — 



you 're a jury of executioners. It is such 
scenes as these that bring disgrace upon 
our Western life. 

M'Closky, Evidence! Evidence! Give 
us evidence. We 've had talk enough ; 
now for proof. 

Omnes. Yes, yes! Proof, proof! 

Scud. Where am I to get it? The proof 
is here, in my heart. 

Pete. {Who has been looking about the 
camera.) 'Top, sar! 'Top a bit! 0, 
laws-a-mussey, see dis ! here 's a pictur' 
I found stickin' in that yar telescope 
machine, sar! look, sar! 

Scud. A photographic plate. (Pete 
holds his lantern up.) What's this, eh? 
two forms! The child — 'tis he! dead — 
and above him — Ah! ah! Jacob M'Clo- 
sky, 't was you murdered that boy ! 

M'Closky. Me? 

Scud. You! You slew him with that 
tomahawk; and as you stood over his 
body with the letter in your hand, you 
thought that no witness saw the deed, 
that no eye was on you — but there was, 
Jacob M'Closky, there was. The eye of 
the Eternal was on you — the blessed sun 
in heaven, that, looking down, struck 
upon this plate the image of the deed. 
Here you are, in the very attitude of 
your crime! 

M'Closky. 'T is false! 

Scud. 'T is true ! the apparatus can't lie. 
Look there, jurymen. {Showing plate to 
jury.) Look there. 0, you wanted evi- 
dence — you called for proof — Heaven 
has answered and convicted you. 

M'Closky. What court of law would re- 
ceive such evidence? {Going.) 

Ratts. Stop! this would! You called it 
yourself; you wanted to make us mur- 
der that Injiun ; and since we 've got our 
hands in for justice, we '11 try it on you. 
What say ye? shall we have one law for 
the red-skin and another for the white? 

Omnes. Try him! Try him! 

Ratts. Who '11 be accuser ? 

Scud. I will! Fellow-citizens, you are 
convened and assembled he^e under a 
higher power than the law. What 's the 
law ? When the ship 's abroad on the 
ocean, when the army is before the en- 
emy, where in thunder 's the law ? It is 
in the hearts of brave men, who can tell 
right from wrong, and from whom jus- 
tice can't be bought. So it is here, in 
the wilds of the West, where our hatred 
of crime is measured by the speed of 
our executions — where necessity is law! 



454 



THE OCTOROON 



I say, then, air you honest men? air you 
truef Put your hands on your naked 
breasts, and let every man as don't feel 
a real American heart there, bustin' up 
with freedom, truth, and right, let that 
man step out — that 's the oath I put to 
ye — and then say, Dam ye, go it! 

Omnes. Go on! Go on! 

Scud. No ! I won't go on ; that man 's 
down. I won't strike him, even with 
words. Jacob, your accuser is that pic- 
ter of the crime — let that speak — defend 
yourself. 

M'Closky. (Drawing knife.) I will, 
quicker than lightning. 

Ratts. Seize him, then! (They rush on 
M'Closky, and disarm him.) He can 
fight though he 's a painter : claws all 
over. 

Scud. Stop ! Search him, we may find 
more evidence. 

M'Closky. Would you rob me first, and 
murder me afterwards? 

Ratts. (Searching him.) That 's his pro- 
gramme — here 's a pocket-book. 

Scud. (Opening it.) What's here? 
Letters! Hello! To "Mrs. Peyton, 
Terrebonne, Louisiana, United States." 
Liverpool postmark. Ho ! I 've got 
hold of the tail of a rat — come out. 
(Reading.) What's this? A draft for 
eighty-five thousand dollars, and credit 
on Palisse and Co., of New Orleans, for 
the balance. Hi ! the rat 's out. You 
killed the boy to steal this letter from 
the mail-bags — you stole this letter, that 
the money should not arrive in time to 
save the Octoroon; had it done so, the 
lien on the estate would have ceased, and 
Zoe be free. 

Omnes. Lynch him! Lynch him! Down 
with him ! 

Scud. Silence in the court: stand back, 
let the gentlemen of the jury retire, 
consult, and return their verdict. 

Ratts. I 'm responsible for the crittur — 
go on. 

Pete. (To Wahnotee.) See, Injiun; 
look dar, (Showing him the plate.) see 
dat innocent ; look, dar 's de murderer of 
poor Paul. 

Wapinotee. Ugh! (Examining the plate.) 

Pete. Ya! as he? Closky tue Paul — kill 
de child witli your tomahawk dar: 
't was n't you, no — ole Pete alius say so. 
Poor Injiun lub our little Paul. 

(Wahnotee rises and looks at M'Clo- 
sky — he is in his war paint and 
fully armed.) 



Scud. What say ye, gentlemen? Is the 
prisoner guilty, or is he not guilty? 

Omnes. Guilty ! 

Scud. And what is to be his punishment? 

Omnes. Death! (All advance.) 

Wahnotee. (Crosses to M'Closky.) 
Ugh! 

Scud. No, Injiun; we deal out justice 
here, not revenge. 'T ain't you he has 
injured, 'tis the white man, whose laws 
he has offended. 

Ratts. Away with him — put him down 
the aft hatch, till we rig his funeral. 

M'Closky. Fifty against one! 0! if I 
had you one by one alone in the swamp, 
I 'd rip ye all. 

(He is home off in boat struggling.) 

Scud. Now, then, to business. 

Pete. (Re-enters from boat.) 0, law, 
sir, dat debil Closky, he tore hisself from 
de gen'lam, knock me down, take my 
light, and trows it on de turpentine bar- 
rels, and de shed 's all afire ! 

(Fire seen.) 

Jackson. (Re-entering.) We are catch- 
ing fire forward: quick, cut free from 
the shore. 

Ratts. All hands aboard there — cut the 
starn ropes — give her headway! 

All. Ay, ay! 

(Cry of "Fire" heard — Engiyie hells 
heard — steam whistle noise.) 

Ratts. Cut all away, for'ard — overboard 
with every bale afire. 

(The Steamer moves off with the fire 
still blazing.) 

(M'Closky re-enters, swimming.) 

M'Closky. Ha! have I fixed ye? Burn! 
burn ! that 's right. You thought you 
had cornered me, did ye? As I swam 
down, I thought I heard something in 
the water, as if pursuing me — one of 
them darned alligators, I suppose — they 
swarm hereabout — may they crunch 
every limb of ye. (Exit.) 

(Wahnotee is seen swimming. He 
finds trail and follows M'Closky. 
The Steamer floats on at back, burn- 
ing.) 

ACT FIFTH. 



Scene L Negroes^ Quarters. 

(Enter Zoe.) 

Zoe. It wants an hour yet to daylight — 
here is Pete's hut — ( Knocks, ) He sleeps 
—no; I see a light. 



* 



DION BOUCICAULT 



455 



Dido. {Enters from hut.) Who dat? 

ZoE. Hush, aunty! 'T is I — Zoe. 

Dido. Missey Zoe? Why you out in de 

swamp dis time ob night; you catch de 

fever sure — you is all wet. 
Zoe. Where's Pete? 
Dido. He gone down to de landing last 

night wid Mas'r Scudder; not come back 

since — kint make it out. 
Zoe. Aunty, there is sickness up at the 

house; I have been up all night beside 

one who suffers, and I remembered that 

when I had the fever you gave me a 

drink, a bitter drink, that made me sleep 

— do you remember it? 
Dido. Didn't I? Dem doctors ain't no 

'count; dey don't know nuffin. 
Zoe. No; but you, aunty, you are wise — 

you know every plant, don't you, and 

w^iat it is good for? 
Dido. Dat you drink is fust rate for red 

fever. Is de folks' head bad? 
Zoe. Very bad, aunty; and the heart 

aches worse, so they can get no rest. 
Dido. Hold on a bit, I get you de bottle. 

{Exit.) 
Zoe. In a few hours that man, my master, 

will come for me : he has paid my price, 

and he only consented to let me remain 

here this one night, because Mrs. Peyton 

promised to give me up to him to-day. 
Dido. {Re-enters with phial.) Here 'tis 

— now you give one timble-full — dat 's 

nuff. 
Zoe. All there is there would kill one, 

wouldn't it? 
Dido. Guess it kill a dozen — nebber try. 
Zoe. It 's not a painful death, aunty, is 

it? You told me it produced a long, 

long sleep. 
Dido. Why you tremble so? Why you 

speak so wild? What you 's gwine to 

do, missey? 
Zoe. Give me the drink. 
Dido. No. Who dat sick at de house? 
Zoe. Give it to me. 
Dido. No. You want to hurt yourself. 

0, Miss Zoe, why you ask old Dido for 

dis pizen? 
Zoe. Listen to me. I love one who is 

here, and he loves me — George. I sat 

outside his door all night — I heard his 

sighs — his agony — torn from him by my 

coming fate ; and he said, "I 'd rather 

see her dead than his !" 
Dido. Dead ! 
Zoe. He said so — then I rose up, and stole 

from the house, and ran down to the 

bayou; but its cold, black, silent stream 



terrified me-^drowning must be so hor- 
rible a death. I could not do it. Then, 
as I knelt there, weeping for courage, 
a snake rattled beside me. I shrunk 
from it and fled. Death was there be- 
side me, and I dared not take it. O! 
I 'm afraid to die ; yet I am more afraid 
to live. 

Dido. Die ! 

Zoe. So I came here to you; to you, my 
own dear nurse; to you, who so often 
hushed me to sleep when I was a cliild; 
who dried my eyes and put your little 
Zoe to rest. Ah ! give me the rest that 
no master but One can disturb — the sleep 
from w^hich I shall awake free! You 
can protect me from that man — do let 
me die without pain. 

Dido. No, no — life is good for young ting 
like you. 

Zoe. ! good, good nurse : you will, you 
will. 

Dido. No — g' way. 

Zoe. Then I shall never leave Terrebonne 
— the drink, nurse; the drink; that I 
may never leave my home — my dear, 
dear home. You will not give me to 
that man? Your own Zoe, that loves 
you, aunty, so much, so much. {She 
gets the phial.) Ah! I have it. 

Dido. No, missey. 0! no — don't. 

Zoe. Hush! {Runs off.) 

Dido. Here, Solon, Minnie, Grace. 

{They enter.) 

All. Was de matter? 

Dido. Miss Zoe got de pizen. {Exit.) 

All. 0! 0! {Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. In a Cane-hrake Bayou, on a 
hank, with a canoe near hy, M'Closky 
is seen asleep.) 

M'Closky. Burn, burn! blaze away! 
How the flames crack. I 'm not guilty ; 
would ye murder me? Cut, cut the 
rope — I choke — choke! — Ah! {Waking.) 
Hello ! where am I ? Why, I w^as dream- 
ing — curse it! I can never sleep now 
without dreaming. Hush! I thought I 
heard the sound of a paddle in the water. 
All night, as I fled through the cane- 
brake, I heard footsteps behind me. I 
lost them in the cedar swamp — again 
they haunted my path down the bayou, 
moving as I moved, resting when I rested 
— -hush! there again! — no; it was only 
the wind over the canes. The sun is ris- 



456 



THE OCTOROON 



ing. I must launch my dug-out, and put 
for the bay, and in a few hours I shall 
be safe from pursuit on board of one of 
the coasting schooners that run from 
Galveston to Matagorda. In a little time 
this darned business will blow over, and 
I can show again. Hark ! there 's that 
noise again ! If it was the ghost of that 
murdered boy haunting me! Well — I 
did n't mean to kill him, did I ? Well, 
then, what has my all-cowardly heart got 
to skeer me so for? 

{He gets in canoe and rows off. 
Wahnotee appears in another ca- 
noe. He gets out and -finds trail 
and paddles off after M'Closkt.) 

Scene 3. A cedar Swamp. 

{Enter Scudder and Pete.) 

Scud. Come on, Pete, we shan't reach the 
house before midday. 

Pete. Nebber mind, sa, we bring good 
news — it won't spile for de keeping. 

Scud. Ten miles w^e 've had to walk, be- 
cause some blamed varmin onhitched our 
dug-out. I left it last night all safe. 

Pete. PVaps it floated away itself. 

Scud. No; the hitching line was cut with 
a knife. 

Pete. Say, Mas'r Scudder, s'pose we go 
in round by de quarters and raise de 
darkies, den dey cum long wid us, and 
we 'proach dat ole house like Gin'ral 
Jackson when he took London out dar. 

Scud. Hello, Pete, I never heard of that 
affair. 

Pete. I tell you, sa — hush! 

Scud. What? 

Pete. Was dat? — a cry out dar in the 
swamp — dar again! 

Scud. So it is. Something forcing its 
way through the undergrowth — it comes 
this way — it 's either a bear or a run- 
away nigger. 

{He draws a pistol. M'Closky rushes 
on, and falls at Scudder's feet.) 

Scud. Stand off — what are ye? 

Pete. Mas'r Clusky. 

M'Closky. Save me — save me! I can go 
no farther. I heard voices. 

Scud. Who's after you? 

M'Closky. I don't know, but I feel it 's 
death! In some form, human, or wild 
beast, or ghost, it has tracked me through 
the night. I fled; it followed. Hark! 
there it comes — it comes — don't you 
hear a footstep on the dry leaves ! 



Scud. Your crime has driven you mad. 

M'Closky. D 'ye hear it — nearer — nearer 
—ah! 

(Wahnotee rushes on, and attacks 
M'Closky.) 

Scud. The Injuin! by thunder. 

Pete. You 'se a dead man, Mas'r Clusky 
— you got to b'Heve dat. 

M'Closky. No — no. If I must die, give 
me up to the law; but save me from the 
tomahawk. You are a white man ; you '11 
not leave one of your own blood to be 
butchered by the red-skin? 

Scud. Hold on now, Jacob ; we 've got to 
figure on that — let us look straight at 
the thing. Here w^e are on the selvage 
of civilization. It ain't our side, I be- 
lieve, rightly; but Nature has said that 
where the white man sets his foot, the 
red man and the black man shall up 
sticks and stand around. But what do 
we pay for that possession? In cash? 
No — in kind — that is, in protection, for- 
bearance, gentleness, in all them goods 
that show the critters the difference be- 
tween the Christian and the savage. 
Now, what have you done to show them 
the distinction? for, darn me, if I can 
find out. 

M'Closky. For what I have done, let me 
be tried. 

Scud. You have been tried — honestly 
tried and convicted. Providence has 
chosen your executioner. I shan't inter- 
fere. 

Pete. 0, no; Mas'r Scudder, don't leave 
Mas'r Closky like dat — don't, sa — 't ain't 
what good Christian should do. 

Scud. D'ye hear that, Jacob? This old 
nigger, the grandfather of the boy you 
murdered, speaks for you — don't that glD 
through you? D'ye feel it? Go on, 
Pete, you 've waked up the Christian 
here, and the old hoss responds. 
{He throws howie-knife to M'Closky.) 
Take that, and defend yourself. 

{Exeunt Scudder and Pete. Wah- 
notee faces him. They fight. 
M'Closky runs off, Wahnotee fol- 
lows him. — Screams outside.) 



Scene 4. Parlor at Terrebonne. 

{Enter Zoe.) 

ZOE. My home, my home! I must see 
you no more. Those little flowers can 
live, but I cannot. To-morrow they '11 



DION BOUCICAULT 



457 



bloom the same — all will be here as now, 
and I shall be cold. 0! my life, my 
happy life; why has it been so bright? 

{Enter Mrs. Peyton and Dora.) 

Dora. Zoe, where have you been? 

Mrs. p. We felt quite uneasy about you. 

Zoe. I 've been to the negro quarters. I 
suppose I shall go before long, and I 
wished to visit all the places, once again, 
to see the poor people. 

Mrs. p. Zoe, dear, I 'm glad to see you 
more calm this morning. 

Dora. But how pale she looks, and she 
trembles so. 

Zoe. Do I? {Enter George.) Ah! he 
is here. 

Dora. George, here she is. 

Zoe. I have come to say good-by, sir; two 
hard words — so hard, they might break 
many a heart; mightn't they? 

George. 0, Zoe! can you smile at this 
moment ? 

Zoe. You see how easily I have become 
reconciled to my fate — so it will be wdth 
you. You will not forget poor Zoe! but 
her image will pass away like a little 
cloud that obscured your happiness a 
while — you will love each other; you are 
both too good not to join your hearts. 
Brightness will return amongst you. 
Dora, I once made you weep; those were 
the only tears I caused anybody. Will 
you forgive me? 

Dora. Forgive you — {Kisses her,) 

ZoE. I feel you do, George. 

George. Zoe, you are pale. Zoe! — she 
faints ! 

Zoe. No; a weakness, that's all — -a lit- 
tle water. (Dora gets some water.) I 
have a restorative here — will you pour 
it in the glass? (Dora attempts to take 
it.) No; not you — George. (George 
pours the conteyits of the phial into 
glass.) Now, give it to me. George, 
dear George, do you love me? 

George. Do you doubt it, Zoe? 

Zoe. No! {She drinks.) 

Dora. Zoe, if all I possess would buy 
your freedom, I would gladly give it. 

Zoe. I am free! I had but one Master 
on earth, and he has given me my free- 
dom! 

Dora. Alas! but the deed that freed you 
was not lawful. 

Zoe. Not lawful — no — but I am going to 
where there is no law — where there is 
only justice. 



George. Zoe,* you are suffering — your lips 
are white — ^your cheeks are flushed. 

Zoe. I must be going — it is late. Fare- 
well, Dora. {Retiring.) 

Pete. {Outside.) Whar's Missus — 
whar 's Mas'r George ? 

George. They come. 

{Enter Scudder.) 

Scud. Stand around and let me pass — 
room thar! I feel so big with joy, crea- 
tion ain't wide enough to hold me. Mrs. 
Peyton, George Peyton, Terrebonne is 
yours. It was that rascal M'Closky — 
but he got rats, I swow — he killed the 
boy, Paul, to rob this letter from the 
mail-bags — the letter from Liverpool 
you know — he sot fire to the shed — that 
was how the steamboat got burned up. 

Mrs. p. What d'ye mean? 

Scud. Read — read that. 

{He gives letter to them.) 

George. Explain yourself. 

{Enter Sunnyside.) 

Sunny. Is it true? 

Scud. Every word of it. Squire. Here, 

you tell it, since you know it. If I was 

to try, I 'd bust. 
Mrs. p. Read, George. Terrebonne is 

yours. 

{Enter Pete, Dido, Solon, Minnie, and 
Grace.) 

Pete. Whar is she — whar is Miss Zoe? 

Scud. What's the matter? 

Pete. Don't ax me. Whar's de gal? I 

say. 
Scud. Here she is — Zoe! — water — she 

faints. 
Pete. No — no. 'T ain't no faint — she 's 

a dying, sa: she got pizon from old Dido 

here, this momin'. 
George. Zoe ! 
Scud. Zoe! is this true?^no, it ain't — 

darn it, say it ain't. Look here, you 're 

free, you know; nary a master to hurt 

you now: you will stop here as long as 

you 're a mind to, only don't look so. 
Dora. Her eyes have changed color. 
Pete. Dat 's what her soul 's gwine to do. 

It 's going up dar, whar dere 's no line 

atween folks. 
George. She revives. 
Zoe. {On the sofa.) George — where — 

where — 
George. 0, Zoe! what have you done? 
Zoe. Last night I overheard you weeping 



458 



THE OCTOROON 



in your room, and you said, "I 'd rather 
see her dead than so!" 

George. Have I then prompted you to 
this? 

ZoE. No; but I loved you so, I could not 
bear my fate; and then I stood between 
your heart and hers. When I am dead 
she will not be jealous of your love for 



me, no laws will stand between us. Lift 
me; so — (George raises her head) — let 
me look at you, that your face may be 
the last I see of this world. ! George, 
you may, without a blush, confess your 
love for the Octoroon. 

{She dies. George lowers her head 
gently and kneels beside her.) 



RIP VAN WINKLE 

AS PLAYED BY 

Joseph Jefferson 



Copyright, 1895, by Dodd, Mead and Company 

All Rights Reserved 

Reprinted by special permission of the lieirs of Mr. Joseph 
Jefferson and of Dodd, Mead and Company. 



EIP VAN WINKLE 

Rip Van WinMe is a growth. The first attempts to dramatize Irving 's 
story began about ten years after its publication in 1819. On May 26, 1828, a 
play by that name was produced on the Albany stage by Thomas Flynn, written 
by an anonymous native of that town. Durang tells us that in October, 1829, a 
new drama founded on Washington Irving 's tale was produced for the first time 
in Philadelphia. He further states that it was by John Kerr, an actor to whom 
he refers as "Old Mr. Kerr" and that it had a long run of success. Kerr was 
an English actor, who came to this country in 1827, with his two children, 
a boy and girl. They were all members of the troupe brought by Francis C. 
Wemyss for the Chestnut Street Theatre. This version was printed in Phila- 
delphia without date, and gives the cast at the Walnut Street Theatre and at 
Tottenham Street Theatre in London. In Philadelphia, W. Chapman and later 
Hackett played "Rip" and J. Jefferson, "Knickerbocker." This may have been 
the first Joseph Jefferson as he was still acting that season, or it may have been 
John Jefferson, his son. The cast in London includes Master Kerr as ' ' Gustaff e ' ' 
and Miss Kerr as "Lowenna," and the date of their arrival in Philadelphia 
naturally indicates that this version had an earlier performance in London which, 
indeed, seems to have been the case. Hackett also acted in a version prepared by 
W. Bayle Bernard, and the second Joseph Jefferson had a version also. Charles 
Burke, half brother to the third Joseph Jefferson, revised Kerr^s version and acted 
"Rip" in it, at the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia in 1850. Mr. Jefferson 
himself acted in this version, taking the part of ' ' Seth Slough, ' ' the landlord of 
the inn. While there are certain changes, notably in expression, Burke's ver- 
sion is much like Kerr's. Mr. Jefferson tells us that the idea of acting "Rip" 
came to him in the year 1859 when reading the life of Irving and he proceeded 
first to work up his costume and then with some aid from the older versions to 
produce a play in three acts which was acted in Washington. The play was dis- 
appointing, although the character was there. In 1865 Mr. Jefferson requested 
Dion Boucicault to revise the play, which he did and this composite drama was 
produced at the Adelphi Theatre in London September 4, 1865. 

This was a three-act version, and Mr. Jefferson later changed it to four acts 
by dividing the first act into two. A comparison between the versions of Kerr 
and Burke and that given in this volume will show many changes in the structure 
of the plot. In the first place the plot is simpler and the ending is more natural. 
The pathetic scene at the end of the second act in which Gretchen turns Rip 

461 



462 INTRODUCTION 



out of doors is not found in the earlier versions. In these there is a contract of 
marriage between Rip's daughter and Gustave; in the Jefferson version this 
becomes an acknowledgment that he makes to Derrick that he is to give him all 
his property in exchange for sixteen pounds Derrick has given him. The love 
story between Knickerbocker and Alice is eliminated and Knickerbocker's elec- 
tion to Congress with the consequent political interest is omitted. The changes 
in the plot, however, are not so significant as the changes in character drawing 
and in language. Mr. Jefferson says in his introduction to the play: 

"From the moment Rip meets the spirits of Heildrick Hudson and 
his crew, I felt that the colloquial speech and lazy and commonplace actions of 
Rip should cease. After he meets the elves, in the third act, the play drifts 
from realism into idealism and becomes poetical. After this it is a fairy tale, 
and the prosaic elements of the character should be eliminated, and because 
Rip is a fairy he neither laughs nor eats in the fourth act." Another idea of 
Mr. Jefferson's was to arrange that in his interview with the dwarfs no voice but 
Rip's was to be heard, thus imparting a more lonely and desolate character 
to the scene. 

While the supernatural interest is, therefore, made more definite there is a 
growth also in the depth of the human interest. Fewer characters are intro- 
duced, and consequently there is more time to develop the relations of Rip, 
his wife and his daughter. The language ow^es little to the earlier version — 
outside of a few phrases in the last act, when Rip enters the village, the speeches 
are practically all different. How much of this difference is due to Boucicault 
it is of course now impossible to say, but since Mr. Jefferson undoubtedly made 
changes from time to time it is safe to assume that by the time the play was 
printed in 1895 it was mostly his own. The text of the play as given by him 
was first published in that year by Dodd, Mead and Company, sumptuously il- 
lustrated, with an introduction by Mr. Jefferson. Through the courtesy of the 
Jefferson family, especially Mrs. Joseph Jefferson and Mr. Frank Jefferson, and 
of Dodd, IMead and Company, the editor is able to reproduce this text. 

The version by John Kerr, Rip Van Wmkle or The Demons of the Catskill 
Mountains! A National Drama, Philadelphia, n. d. is hard to obtain. The ver- 
sion by Charles Burke, Rip Van Winkle, a Legend of the Catskills, was published 
by Samuel French as No. CLXXIV, of their "Standard Drama." 

Joseph Jefferson was a member of the fourth generation of a family of 
actors w^ho have borne prominent parts in theatrical history. Thomas Jefferson 
(1728?-1807) his great-grandfather, an English actor, was the first of the line, 
and his son, the first Joseph Jefferson (1774-1832), came to this country in 1795, 
and after a short season in Boston, acted in New York until 1803. He then be- 
came the leading comedian at the Chestnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia, and 
on the stage of this city he remained for twenty-seven years. His son, the sec- 



INTRODUCTION 463 



ond Joseph Jefferson (1804^1842), was also a comedian, though of lesser ability 
than his father or his son. The third Joseph Jefferson, the son of the second 
Joseph and the producer of the present play, was born in Philadelphia, Febru- 
ary 20, 1829, and was on the stage from early childhood. During his early years, 
his family moved from place to place, and in 1849 he came to New York, acting at 
Chanfrau's New National Theatre. After several ventures and a trip to Europe 
in 1856 he joined Laura Keene 's Company in New York. Here he became famous 
for his performance of ''Asa Trenchard'^ in Our American Cousin, in 1857, the 
play afterwards known as Lord Dundreary. In 1861 he sailed for Australia and 
spent four years there, going to London in 1865, and acting "Rip Van Winkle" 
as above described. He returned to America in 1866 and played the revised 
version of ''Rip" at the Olympic Theatre on September 3d. Though he acted 
other parts, notably, "Caleb Plummer," "Bob Acres," "Asa Trenchard," and 
"Dr. Pangloss," he became so definitely associated with his most famous part, 
that to most theatre-goers he is thought of as the impersonator of Rip Van 
Winkle. In 1875 he made a second English tour. Mr. Jefferson was twice 
married, first in 1850 to Miss Margaret C. Lockyer, a member of the company 
at the National Theatre, New York, who died in 1861. In 1867 he married Miss 
Sarah Warren, who survives him. Mr. Jefferson continued acting until less than 
a year before his death, which occurred on April 23, 1905, at Palm Beach, Florida. 
For biography of Mr. Jefferson, see The Autohiographif of Joseph Jefferson, 
New York, 1890 ; William Winter, The Jeffersons, Boston, 1881 ; M. J. Moses, 
Famous Actor Families in America, New York, 1906. For the development oi 
the play, see H. S. Phelps, Players of a Century, Albany, 1880; C. Durang, 
History of the Philadelphia Stage, Second Series, Chap. 48. 



PERSONS OP THE PLAY 

Rip Van Winkle 
Derrick Von Beekman 
Nicholas Vedder 

Hi!NDRICK 

Cockles 
Seth Slough 
Jacob Stein 

Gretchen 

Meenie 

Katchen 

Demons and Villagers 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



ACT I. 

Scene 1. The village of Falling Waters, 
set amid familiar and unmistakable 
Hudson River scenery, with the shining 
river itself and the noble heights of the 
Kaatskills visible in the distance. In 
the foreground, to the left of the stage, 
is a country inn bearing the sign of 
George III. In the wall of the inn, a 
window closed by a solid wooden shutter. 
To the right of the stage, an old cottage 
with a door opening into the interior; 
before the cottage stands a bench hold- 
ing a wash-tub, with a washboard, soap 
and clothes in the tub. In the centre of 
the stage, a table and chairs, and on the 
table a stone pitcher and two tin cups. 

As the curtain rises, Gretchen is discov- 
ered washing, and little Meenie sitting 
near by on a low stool. The sound of a 
chorus and laughter comes from the inn. 

Gretchen". Shouting and drinking day 
and night. {Laughter is heard from the 
inn.) Hark how they crow over their 
cups while their wives are working at 
home, and their children are starving. 

{Enter Derrick from the inn with a green 
bag, followed by Nick Vedder. Der- 
rick places his green bag on the table.) 

Derrick. Not a day, not an hour. If the 
last two quarters' rent be not paid by 
this time tomorrow, out you go! 

Nick. Oh, come, Derrick, you won't do it. 
Let us have a glass, and talk the matter 
over; good liquor opens the heart. 
Here, Hendrick! Hendrick! 

{Enter Hendrick.) 

Hendrick. Yes, father. 

Derrick. So that is your brat? 

Nick. Yes, that is my boy. 

Derrick. Then the best I can wish him 

is that he won't take after his father, 

and become a vagabond and a penniless 

outcast. 
Nick. Those are hard words to hear in 

the presence of my child. 
Hendrick. Then why don't you knock 

him down, father? 



465 



Gretchen. ini tell you why — 

Derrick. Gretchen ! 

Gretchen. {Wiping her arms and com- 
ing to front of tub.) It is because your 
father is in that man's power. And 
what 's the use of getting a man down, 
if you don't trample on him? 

Nick. Oh, that is the way of the world. 

Gretchen. {To Hendrick.) Go in, boy. 
I want to speak to your father, and my 
words may not be fit for you to hear. 
Yonder is my little girl; go and play 
with her. 

(Hendrick a,nd Meenie exeunt into 
the cottage.) 

Gretchen. Now, Derrick, Yedder is right ; 
you won't turn him out of his house 
yonder. 

Derrick. And why not? Don't he owe 
me a year's rent? 

Gretchen. And what do you owe him? 
Shall I sum up your accounts for you? 
Ten years ago, this was a quiet village, 
and belonged mostly to my husband, Rip 
Van Winkle, a foolish, idle fellow. That 
house yonder has since been his ruin. 
Yes; bit by bit, he has parted with all 
he had, to fill the mouths of sots and 
boon companions, gathered around him 
in yonder house. And you, Derrick — 
you supplied him with the money to 
waste in riot and drink. Acre by acre, 
you 've sucked in his land to swell your 
store. Yonder miserable cabin is the 
only shelter we have left; but that is 
mine. Had it been his, he would have 
sold it you. Derrick, long ago, and 
wasted its price in riot. 

(Vedder, who has been enjoying Der- 
rick's discomfiture during this 
speech, is unable to control himself, 
and at the end of the speech, bursts 
into a loud laugh.) 

Gretchen. Aye, and you too, Nick Ved- 
der; you have ruined my husband be- 
tween you. 

Nick. Oh, come, Mrs. Van Winkle, 
you 're too hard. I could n't refuse 
Rip's money in the way of business; I 
had my rent to pay. 

Gretchen. And shall I tell you why you 
can't pay it? it is because you have 



466 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



given Rip credit, and be lias ended by 
drinking you out of bouse and borne. 
Your window-sbutter is not wide enougb 
to bold tbe score against bim; it is full 
of cbalk. Deny it if you can. 

Nick. I do deny it. Tbere now! 

Gretchen. Tben wby do you keep tbat 
sbutter closed ? I '11 sbow you wby. 
(Goes to inn, opens shutter, holds it 
open, pointing at KiP's score.) Tbat 's 
wby, Nick Vedder, you 're a good man 
in tbe main, if tbere is sucb a tbing. 
(Derrick laughs.) Aye, and I doubt it. 
{Turning on him.) But you are tbe 
pest of tbis village; and tbe band of 
every woman in it ougbt to belp pull 
down tbat drunkard's nest of yours, 
stone by stone. 

Nick. Come, Dame Van Winkle, you 're 
too bard entire; now a man must bave 
bis odd time, and be 's none tbe worse 
for being a jolly dog. 

Gretchen. No, none tbe worse. He 
sings a good song; be tells a good story 
— ob, be 's a glorious fellow ! Did you 
ever see tbe wife of a jolly dog? Well, 
sbe lives in a kennel. Did you ever see 
tbe cbildren of a jolly dogf Tbey are 
tbe street curs, and tbeir bome is tbe 
gutter. 

{Goes up to the ivash-tuh, and takes re- 
venge on the clothing she scrubs.) 

Nick. {Getting up and approaching 
Gretchen timidly.) I tell you wbat it 
is. Dame Van Winkle, I don't know 
wbat your bome may be, but judging 
from tbe rows I bear over tbere, and 
tbe damaged appearance of Rip's face 
after baving escaped your clutcbes — 
(Gretchen looks up angrily; Nick re- 
treats a few paces hastily) — I sbould 
say tbat a gutter was a luxurious abode 
compared witb it, and a kennel a peace- 
ful retreat. 

{Exit hurriedly, laughing, to the inn. 
Gretchen looks up angrily, and 
throws the cloth she has been wring- 
ing after him, then resumes wash- 
ing. Derrick laughs at Vedder's 
exit, walks up to Gretchen, and 
puts one foot on the bench.) 

Derrick. Is it true, Gretcben? Are you 
truly miserable witb Rip? 

Gretchen. Ain't you pleased to bear it? 
Come tben and warm your beart at my 
sorrow. Ten years ago I miglit bave 
bad you, Derrick. But I despised you 
for your miserly ways, and tbrew myself 
away on a vagabond. 



Derrick. You and I sbared bim between 
us. I took bis estate, and you took bis 
person. Now, I 've improved my balf . 
Wbat bave you done witb yours? 

Gretchen. I can't say tbat I bave pros- 
pered witb it. I 've tried every means 
to reclaim bim, but be is as obstinate 
and perverse as a Dutcb pig. But tbe 
worst in bim — and wbat I can't stand — 
is bis good-bumour. It drives me fran- 
tic wben, nigbt after nigbt, be comes 
bome drunk and belplessly good-bu- 
moured! Ob, I can't stand tbat! 

Derrick. Wbere is be now? 

Gretchen. We bad a tiff yesterday, and 
be started. He bas been out all nigbt. 
Only wait until be comes back! Tbe 
longer be stops out, tbe worse it will be 
for bim. 

Derrick. Gretcben, you 've made a great 
mistake, but tbere is time enougb to re- 
pair it. You are comely still, tbrifty, 
and tbat bard sort of grain tbat I most 
admire in woman. {Looks cautiously 
around. Leans on tub.) Wby not start 
Rip for ever, and sbare my fortune? 

Gretchen. Ob, no, Derrick ; you 've got 
my busband in your clutcbes, but you 
can't get tbem around me. If Rip 
would only mend bis ways, be would see 
bow mucb I love bim; but no woman 
could* love you. Derrick; for woman is 
not a domestic animal, glad to serve and 
fawn upon a man for tbe food and sbel- 
ter sbe can get ; and tbat is all sbe would 
ever get from you. Derrick. 

{Piling the clothes on the washboard, 
and shouldering it.) 

Derrick. Tbe time may come wben you 'U 
cbange your tune. 

Gretchen. Not wbile Rip lives, bad as 
be is. {Exit into cottage.) 

Derrick. Tben I '11 wait until you 've 
killed bim. Her spirit is not broken 
yet. But patience. Derrick, patience; in 
anotber montb I '11 bave my claws on all 
tbat remains of Rip's property — yonder 
cottage and grounds ; tben I '11 try you 
again, my lady. 

{Enter Cockles, with papers in his hand, 
running towards the inn.) 

Derrick. How now, you imp? Wbat 

brings you bere so full of a burry? 

Some miscbief 's in your bead, or your 

beels would not be so busy. 
Cockles. I 've brougbt a letter for you 

from my employer. There it is. 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



467 



Derrick. {Examining letter.) Why, the 
seal is broken! 

Cockles. Yes, I read it as I came along. 

Derrick. Now I apprenticed this vaga- 
bond to my lawyer, and this is his grati- 
tude. 

Cockles. Don't waste your breath, 
Nunky, for you '11 want it ; for when you 
read that, if it don't take you short in 
the wind, I '11 admire you. 

Derrick. (Reads.) "You must obtain 
from Rip Van Winkle a proper convey- 
ance of the lands he has sold to you. 
The papers he has signed are in fact 
nothing but mortgages on his estate. If 
you foreclose, you must sell the prop- 
erty, which has lately much advanced in 
value; and it would sell for enough to 
pay off your loan, and all your improve- 
ments would enure to the benefit of Rip 
Van Winkle." 

Cockles. There, now, see what you 've 
been doing of! — wasting your money 
and my expectations on another chap's 
property. Do you want to leave me a 
beggar ? 

Derrick. (Reads.) "I enclose a deed 
for him to sign that will make him safe." 

Cockles. Of course he '11 sign it ; he 
won't wait to be asked — he '11 be in such 
a hurry. 

Derrick. All my savings — all my money 
— sunk in improving this village! 

Cockles. Yes, instead of physicking Rip, 
as you thought, you 've been coddling 
him all the while. 

Derrick. All these houses I 've built are 
on another man's land. What shall I 
do? 

Cockles. Pull them down again; pull 
them down. 

Derrick. Ass! — dolt that I have been! 

Cockles. Calling yourself names won't 
mend it, Nunky. 

Derrick. The imp is right. Rip must be 
made to sign this paper. But how — 
how? 

Cockles. How ? How ? How 's a big 
word sometimes, ain't it, Nunky? 

Derrick. Rip would not do it if he knew 
what he was about. But he can't read — 
nor write, for the matter of that. But 
he can make his cross, and I can cajole 
him. 

Cockles. Look sharp, Nunky. The man 
that 's looking round for a fool and 
picks up Rip Van AVinkle, will let him 
drop again very quick. 

Derrick. He is poor ; I '11 show him a 



handful of money. He 's a drunkard ; 

I '11 give hifii a stomachful of liquor. 

Go in, boy, and leave me to work this; 

and let this be a lesson to you hereafter; 

beware of the fatal effects of poverty 

and drink. 
Cockles. Yes, — and parting with my 

money on bad security. 

(Exit. Laughter outside.) 
Derrick. Here Tie comes now, surrounded 

by all the dogs and children in the dis- 
trict. They cling around him like flies 

around a lump of sugar. 

Rip enters, running and skipping, carry- 
ing one small child pickaback, and sur- 
rounded hy a swarm of others hanging 
on the skirts of his coat. He is laugh- 
ing like a child himself, and his merry 
blue eyes twinkle with delight. He is 
dressed in an old deerskin coat, a pair 
of breeches which had once been red, 
now tattered, patched, and frayed, 
leather gaiters and shoes equally dilapi- 
dated, a shapeless felt hat with a bit of 
the brim hanging loose — the whole stained 
and weather-worn to an almost uniform 
clay-colour, except for the bright blue of 
his jean shirt and the scarlet of his long 
wisp of a necktie. One of the hoys car- 
ries his gun.) 

Rip. (Taking his gun from the boy.) 
There, run along mit you; run along. 

Derrick. (The children scamper off.) 
The vagabond looks like the father of 
the village. 

Rip. (Who has stood laughing and 
watching the children, suddenly calls 
after them.) Hey! You let my dog 
Schneider alone there; you hear that. 
Sock der Jacob der bist eine for donner 
spits poo — yah — 

Derrick. Why, what 's the matter. Rip ? 

Rip. (Coming down and shaking liands 
with Derrick.) Oh, how you was, Der- 
rick? how you was? 

Derrick. You seem in trouble. 

Rip. Oh, yah; you know them fellers. 
Veil, I tole you such a funny thing. 
(Laughing.) Just now, as me and 
Schneider was comin' along through the 
willage — Schneider 's my dawg ; I don't 
know whether you know him? (Rip 
always speaks of Schneider as if he were 
a person, and one in whom his hearer 
took as profound an interest as he does 
himself.) Well, them fellers went and 
tied a tin kettle mit Schneider's tail, and 
how he did run then, mit i he kettle bang- 



468 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



ing about. Well, I didn't hi him 
comin'. He run betwixt me and my 
legs, an' spilt me an' all them children 
in tlie mud ; — yah, that 's a fact. 

(Rip leans his gun against the cot- 
tage.) 
Derrick. (Aside.) Now 's my time. 
(Aloud.) Vedder! Vedder! (Vedder 
appears at the door of the inn.) Bring 
us a bottle of liquor. Bring us your 
best, and be quick. 
Nick. What's in the wind now? The 
devil 's to pay when Derrick stands 
treat ! 

(Exit. Re-enters, -with hottle and 
cups in left hand. Hands hottle to 
Derrick. Rip lounges forward, 
and perches on the corner of the 
table.) 
Derrick. (Rising and approaching Rip.) 
Come, Rip, what do you say to a glass? 
Rip. (Takes a cup and holds it to he 
filled.) Oh, yah; now what do I gen- 
erally say to a glass ? I say it 's a fine 
thing — when there 's plenty in it. ( Ve 
gates! Ve gates!) (Shakes hands with 
Nick. ) And then I says more to what 's 
in it than I do to the glass. Now you 
would n't believe it — that 's the first one 
, I 've had today. 
Derrick. How so? 
Rip. (Dryly.) Because I couldn't get it 

before, I suppose. 
Derrick. Then let me fill him up for you. 
Rip. No, that is enough for the first one. 
Nick. Come, Rip, a bumper for the first 

one. 
Rip. That is enough for the first one. 
Derrick. Come, Rip, let me fill him up 

for you. 
Rip. [With ludicrous decision and dig- 
nity.) I believe I know how much to 
drink. When I says a thing, I mean 
it. 
Derrick. Oh, well — 

( Turns aside, and starts to fill his own 
cup.) 
Rip. All right; come along. (Holding 
out his glass, and laughing at his own 
inconsistency.) Here's your good health 
and your families', and may they live 
long and prosper! 

(They all drink. At the end, Nick 

smacks his lips and exclaims ^'Ah!'' 

Derrick repeats the same and Rip 

repeats after Derrick.) 

Rip. (To Nick, sadly.) Ah, you may 

well go "Ah!" and smack your chops 

over that. You don't give me such 



schnapps ^ when I come. Derrick, my 
score is too big now. (Jerking his head 
towards the shutter, he notices for the 
first time that it is open.) What you go 
and open that window for? — That's fine 
schnapps, Nick. Where you got that? 

Nick. That's high Dutch, Rip— high 
Dutch, and ten years in bottle. Why, I 
had that in the very day of your wed- 
ding. We broached the keg under yon- 
der shed. Don't you recollect ? 

Rip. Is that the same? 

Nick. Yes. 

Rip. I thought I knowed that licker. 
You had it ten years ago? (Laughing 
suddenly.) I would not have kept it so 
long. But stop, mein f reund ; that 's 
more than ten years ago. 

Nick. No, it ain't. 

Rip. It's the same day I got married? 

Nick. Yes. 

Rip. Well, I know by that. You think 
I forgot the day I got married? Oh, 
no, my friend; I remember that day 
long as I live. 

(Serious for a moment. Takes off his 
hat, and puts it oji the table.) 

Derrick. Ah! Rip, I remember Gretchen 
then, ten years ago. — Zounds, how I en- 
vied you! 

Rip. (Looking up, surprised.) Did you? 
(Winks at Nick. Then, suddenly re- 
membering.) So did I. You didn't 
know what was comin'. Derrick. 

Derrick. She was a beauty. 

Rip. What, Gretchen? — Yes, she was. 
She was a pretty girl. My ! My ! Yah, 
we was a fine couple altogether. Well, 
come along. 

(Holding out his cup to Derrick, who' 
fills it from the bottle.) 

Nick. Yes, come along. 

(Takes water pitcher from the table,, 
and starts to fill up Rip's cup. Rip 
stops him.) 

Rip. (Who has been lounging against the' 
table, sits on it, and puts his feet on the 
chair.) Stop! I come along mitout 
that, Nick Vedder. (Sententiously.) 
Good licker and water is like man and 
wife. 

Derrick and Nick. How 's that, Rip ? 

Rip. (Laughing.) They don't agree to- 
gether. I always like my licker single. 
Well, here 's your good health, and your 
families', and may they live long and 



prosper 



(They all drink.} 



1 Whiskey. 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



469 



Nick. That 's right, Rip ; drink away, 
and drown your sorrow. 

Rip. {Drolly.) Yes; but she won't 
drown. My wife is my sorrow, and you 
cannick drown her. She tried it once, 
but could n't do it. 

Derrick and Nick. Why, how so? 

Rip. [Puts doicn his cup mid clasps his 
knee, still perched on the corner of the 
table.) Didn't you know tliat Gretchen 
like to got drown? 

Derrick and Nick. No. 

Rip. {Puts hat on.) That's the funniest 
thing of the whole of it. It 's the same 
day I got married ; she was comin' across 
the river there in the ferry-boat to get 
man-ied mit me — 

Derrick and Nick. Yes. 

Rip. Well, the boat she was comin' in got 
upsetted. 

Derrick- and Nick. Ah ! 

Rip. Well, but she was n't in it. 

Derrick and Nick. Oh! 

Rip. {Explaining quite seriously.) No, 
that 's what I say ; if she had been in 
the boat what got upsetted, maybe she 
might have got drowned. {More and 
more reflective.) I don't know how it 
was she got left somehow or other. 
Women is always behind that way — al- 
ways. 

Derrick. But surely. Rip, you would 
have risked your life to save such a glo- 
rious creature as she was. 

Rip. {Incredulously.) You mean I would 
yump in and pull Gretchen out? 

Derrick. Yes. 

Rip. Oh, would I? {Suddenly remem- 
bering.) Oh, you mean then — yes, I 
believe I would then. {With simple 
conviction.) But it would be more my 
duty now than it was then. 

Derrick. How so? 

Rip. {Quite seriously.) Why, you see 
when a feller gets married a good many 
years mit his wife, he gets very much 
attached to her. 

Nick. {Pompously.) Ah, he does in- 
deed. 

Rip. {Winks at Derrick, and points at 
Nick with his thumb.) But if Mrs. 
Van Winkle was a-drowning in the 
water now, an' she says to me, "Rip, 
come an' save your wife!" I would say, 
"Mrs. Van Winkle, I will yust go home 
and think about it." Oh, no, Derrick, 
if ever Gretchen tumbles in the water, 
she 's got to swim now, you mind 
that. 



For me, is that? 



Derrick. She was here just now, anx- 
iously expecting you home. 

Rip. I know she 's keeping it hot for 
me. 

Nick. What, your dinner, Rip? 

Rip. No, the broomstick. 

{Exit Nick into house, laughing.) 

Rip. {Confidentially.) Derrick, whenever 
I come back from the mountains, I al- 
ways stick the game-bag in the window 
and creep in behind. 

Derrick. {Seating himself on the table 
by the side of Rip.) Have you anything 
now? 

Rip. {Dropping into the chair Derrick 
has just left. Leaning back, and putting 
hands behind his head.) What for 
game? No, not a tail, I believe, not a 
feather. 

{With humorous indifference.) 

Derrick. {Touching Rip on the shoulder 
and shaking a bag of money.) Rip, 
suppose you were to hang this bagful of 
money inside, don't you think it would 
soothe her down, eh? 

Rip. {Sitting up. 

Derrick. Yes. 

Rip. {With a shrewd glance.) Ain't you 
yokin' mit me? 

Derrick. No, Rip, I 've prospered with 
the lands you 've sold me, and I '11 let 
you have a loan on easy terms. I '11 
take no interest. 

Rip. {Getting up and walking for- 
ward, with decision.) No, I'm afraid I 
might pay you again some day, Der- 
rick. 

Derrick. And so you shall. Rip, pay me 
when you please. {Puts the bag in 
Rip's hands, and forces his fingers over 
it, turns, and goes to the table, speaking 
as he goes.) Say in twenty years — 
twenty years from this day. Ah, where 
shall we be then? 

Rip. {Quizzically, and half to himself.) 
I don't know about myself; but I think 
I can guess where you'll be about that 
time. 

{Takes chair and sits down.) 

Derrick. Well, Rip, I '11 just step into 
the inn and draw out a little acknowl- 
edgment. 

Rip. {Who has been sitting, leaning for- 
ward with his elbows on his knees, softly 
chinking the bag of money in his hand, 
looks up suddenly.) 'Knowledgment — 
for what is that? 

Derrick. Yes, for you to put your cross 
to. 



470 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



Rip. (Indifferently.) All right; bring it 
along. 

Derrick. No fear of Gretclien now, eli, 
Rip? 

Rip. (Plunged in tJiought.) Ob, no. 

Derrick. You feel quite comfortable 
now, don't you, Rip? (Exit to inn.) 

Rip. Oh, yah! (Suddenly becoming seri- 
ous and much mystified at Derrick's 
conduct.) Well, I don't know about 
that Derrick! Derrick! (Holding up 
the hag and chinking it.) It don't chink 
like good money neither. It rattles like 
a snake in a hole. (Grimly.) 

Gretchen. (Inside the cottage.) Out 
with that lazy, idle cur! I won't have 
him here. Out, I say! 

Rip. I 'm glad I 'm not in there now. I 
believe that 's Schneider what she 's 
lickin'; he won't have any backbone left 
in him. (Sadly.) I would rather she 
would lick me than the dog ; I 'm more 
used to it than he is. (Gets up, and 
looks in at the window.) There she is 
at the wash-tub. (Admiring her energy, 
almost envying it.) What a hard- 
workin' woman that is! Well, some- 
body must do it, I suppose. (With the 
air of a profound moral reflection.) 
She's comin' here now; she's got some 
broomstick mit her, too. 

(Rip snatches up his gun and slinks 
off around the corner of the house.) 

(Enter Gretchen" with hroomstick, fol- 
lowed by Hendrick and Meenie, carry- 
ing clothes-basket.) 

Gretchen. Come along, children. Now, 
you take the washing dow^n to Dame 
Van Sloe's, then call at the butcher's 
and tell him that my husband has not 
got back yet, so I will have to go down 
myself to the marsh, and drive up the 
bull we have sold to him. Tell him the 
beast shall be in his stable in half an 
hour; so let him have the money ready 
to pay me for it. (During this, Rip 
has crept in and sat on the bench by the 
side of the tub behind Gretchen.) Ah, 
it is the last head of cattle we have left. 
Houses, lands, beasts, everything gone 
— everything except a drunken beast 
who nobody would buy or accept as a 
gift. Rip ! Rip ! w^ait until I get you 
home! (Threatening an imaginary Rip 
with broomstick. With a comical gri- 
mace, Rip tiptoes back behind the 
house.) Come, children, to work, to 
work! (Exit.) 



(Re-enter Rip, cautiously.) 

Rip. (Laughing to himself.) She gone 
to look after the bull. She better not 
try the broomstick on him; he won't 
stand it. 

(Drops into the chair, with his back 
to the audience.) 

Hendrick. Oh, Meenie, there's your fa- 
ther. 

Rip. (Holds out his arms, and Meenie 
runs into them. Taking her in his arms, 
and embracing her with great tender- 
ness.) Ah, little gorl, was you glad to 
see your father come home? 

Meenie. Oh, yes! 

Rip. (Holding her close.) I don't believe 
it, was you? Come here. (Getting up 
and leading her to the chair by the side 
of the table.) Let me look at you; I 
don't see you for such a long time; come 
here. I don't deserve to have a thing 
like that belong to me. (Takes his hat 
off as if in reverence.) You're too 
good for a drunken, lazy feller like me, 
that 's a fact. 

(Bites his underlip, looks up, and 
brushes away a tear.) 

Meenie. (Kneeling by him.) Oh, no, 
you are a good papa! 

Rip. No, I was n't : no good father would 

go and rob his child ; that 's what I 've 

done. Why, don't you know, Meenie, 

all the houses and lands in the village 

was mine — they would all have been 

yours when you grew up? Where they 

gone now ? I gone drunk 'em up, that 's 

where they gone. Hendrick, you just 

take warnin' by that ; that 's what licker 

do; see that? (Holds up the skirt of 

coat.) Bring a man to hunger and rags." 

Is there any more in that cup over 

there? Give it to me. (Drinks.) 

(Rip makes this confession with a 

childlike simplicity. The tears come, 

and he brushes them away once or 

twice. When he asks for the cup, 

at the end, it seems but the natural 

conclusion of his speech.) 

Hendrick. (Hands him cup.) Don't 
cry. Rip; Meenie does not want your 
money, for when I 'm a big man I shall 
w^ork for her, and she shall have all I 
get. 

Meenie. Yes, and I '11 have Hendrick 
too. 

Rip. (Greatly amused.) You'll have 
Hendrick, too. (With mock gravity.) 
Well, is this all settled? 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



471 



Hendrick. Yes, Meenie and me have 
made it all up. 

Rip. I didn't know, I only thought you 
might speak to me about it, but if it 's 
all settled, Meenie, then git married mit 
him. {Laughing silently, and suddenly.) 
You goin' to marry my daughter? well, 
now, that 's very kind of you. Marry 
one another? {The children nod. Rip, 
with imynense seriousness. ) Well, here 's 
your good health, and your family, may 
they live long and prosper. {To Hen- 
DRiCK.) What you goin' to do when 
3^ou get married, and grow up and so? 
{Leans forward.) 

Hendrick. I 'm not going to stop here 
with father; oh, no, that won't do. I'm 
going with Uncle Hans in his big ship 
to the North Pole, to catch w^hales. 

Rip. Goin' to cotch wahales mit the North 
Pole? That's a long while away from 
here. 

Hendrick. Yes, but uncle will give me 
ten shillings a month, and I will tell him 
to pay it all to Meenie. 

Rip. There ! He 's goin' to pay it all to 
you ; that 's a good boy, that 's a good 
boy. 

Meenie. Yes, and I '11 give it all to you 
to keep for us. 

Rip. {With one of his little explosive 
laughs.) I wouldn't do that, my dar- 
lin'; maybe if you give it to me, you 
don't get it back again. Hendrick! 
{Suddenly earnest.) You shall marry 
Meenie when you grow up, but you 
must n't drink. 

Hendrick. {Slapping Rip on the knee.) 
I '11 never touch a drop. 

Rip. {Quite seriously.) You won't, nor 
me either; shake hands upon it. Now 
we swore off together. {With a change 
of tone.) I said so so many times, and 
never kept my word once, never. 

{Drinks.) 

Hendrick. I 've said so once, and I '11 
keep mine. 

Derrick. {Outside.) Well, bring it 
along with you. 

Rip. Here comes Derrick; he don't like 
some children; run along mit you. 

{Exit children with basket.) 

{Enter Derrick from inn with document.) 

Derrick. There, Rip, is the little ac- 
knowledgment. {Handing it to him.) 

Rip. 'Knowledgment. {Putting on hat.) 
For what is that? 



Derrick. That is to say I loaned you the 

money. 
Rip. {Lounging back in his chair.) I 

don't want that; I would lose it if I had. 

it, {Fills his cup from the bottle.) I 

don't want it. {Blandly.) 

Derrick. Don't you? But I do. 
Rip. {With simple surprise.) For what? 
Derrick. Why, for you to put your cross 

to. Why, bless me, I 've forgotten my 

pen and ink. 

{Enter Cockles.) 

But luckily here comes my nephew with 
it. {Aside.) And in time to witness 
the signature. 

Rip. Say, Derrick, have you been writing 
all that paper full in the little time you 
been in the house there? 

{Turns the paper about curiously. 
Pours out more schnapps.) 

Derrick. Yes, every word of it. 

Rip. Have you? Well, just read it out 
loud to me. 

{With an air of great simplicity.) 

Derrick. {Aside.) Does he suspect? 
{Aloud.) Why, Rip, this is the first 
time you ever wanted anything more 
than the money. 

Rip. {Clasping his hands behind his head 
with an air of lordly indifference.) Yes, 
I know; but I got nothing to do now. 
I 'm a little curious about that, some- 
how. 

Cockles. {Aside to Derrick.) The fish 
has taken the ground bait, but he 's curi- 
ous about the hook. 

Derrick. {Aside.) I dare not read a 
word of it. 

Cockles. {Aside.) Nunkey 's stuck. 

Derrick. Well, Rip, I suppose you don't 
want to hear the formalities. 

Rip. The what? 

Derrick. The preliminaries. 

Rip. {Indolently.) I'll take it all— Bill, 
Claws, and Feathers. 

{Leans forward and rests his head on 
his hand, and looks at the ground.) 

Derrick. "Know all men by these pres- 
ents, that I, Rip Van Winkle, in consid- 
eration of the sum of sixteen pounds 
received by me from Derrick Von Beek 
man" — {Looks around at Cockles; they 
wink knowingly a" each other. Contin- 
ues as if reading. Watching Rip.) — 
"Do promise and undertake to pay the 
same in twenty years from date." (Rip 
looks up; as he does so, Derrick drops 
his eyes on document, then looks as if 



472 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



he had just finished reading.) There, 
now are you satisfied? 

Rip. {Takes the document. In childlike 
surprise.) Well, well, and does it take 
all that pen and ink to say such a little 
thing like that? 

Derrick. Why, of course it does. 

Cockles. {Aside to Derrick.) Oh, the 
fool! he swallows it whole, hook and all. 

Rip. {Spreading the paper on the table.) 
Where goes my cross. Derrick? 

Derrick. {Pointing.) There, you see 
I 've left a nice little white corner for 
you. 

Rip. {Folds up paper in a leisurely man- 
ner and puts it in game-hag.) W-e-1-1, 
I '11 yust think about it. 

{Looks up at Derrick innocently.) 

Derrick. Think about it? Why, what's 
the matter. Rip, isn't the money cor- 
rect? 

Rip. Oh, yes, I got the money all right. 
{Chuckling.) Oh! you mean about 
signing it. {Rising. At a loss for a 
moment.) Stop, yesterday was Friday, 
wasn't it? 

Derrick. So it was. 

Rip. {With an air of conviction.) Well, 
I never do nothing like that the day after 
Friday, Derrick. 

(Rip walks away towards his cottage.) 

Derrick. {Aside.) The idiot! what can 
that signify? But I must not arouse his 
suspicions by pressing him. {Aloud.) 
You are right, Rip; sign it when you 
please ; but I say, Rip, now that you 're 
in funds, won't you help your old friend 
Nick Vedder, who owes me a year's rent ? 

Rip. {Coming hack to the tahle.) Oh, 
yah, I will wipe off my schore, and stand 
treat to the whole willage. 

Derrick. Run, boy, and tell all the neigh- 
bours that Rip stands treat. 

Rip. {Leans on hack of chair.) An', 
Cockles, tell them we '11 have a dance. 

Cockles. A dance! {Runs off.) 

Derrick. And I '11 order the good cheer 
for you. {Exit.) 

Rip. So do! so do! {Cogitating dubi- 
ously.) I don't understand it. 

{Re-enter Hendrick with the basket over 
his head, followed by Meenie.) 

Oh, you've come back? 

Hendrick. Yes, we 've left the clothes. 

Rip. Meenie, you take in the basket. 
{Exit Meenie with the basket into the 
cottage. Hendrick is following.) Hen- 
drick, come here. (Hendrick kneels be- 



tween Rip's knees.) So you are going to 
marry my daughter? (Hendrick nods.) 
So, so. That 's very kind of yer. (Ab- 
ruptly.) Why you don't been to school 
today, you go to school some times, don't 
you? 

Hendrick. Yes, when father can spare 
me. 

Rip. What do you learn mit that school, 
— pretty much something? {Laughing 
at his mistake.) I mean, everything? 

Hendrick. Yes; reading, writing and 
arithmetic. 

Rip. Reading, and what? 

Hendrick. And writing, and arithmetic. 

Rip. {Puzzled.) Writing and what? 

Hendrick. Arithmetic. 

Rip. {More puzzled.) What meticks is 
that? 

Hendrick. Arithmetic. 

Rip. {With profound astonishment and 
patting Hendrick's head.) I don't see 
how the little mind can stand it all. Can 
you read? 

Hendrick. Oh, yes! 

Rip. {With a serious affectation of in- 
credulity. ) I don't believe it ; now, I 'm 
just goin' to see if you can read. If you 
can't read, I won't let you marry my 
daughter. No, sir. {Very drolly.) 
I won't have nobody in my family what 
can't read. {Taking out the paper that 
Derrick has given him.) Can you read 
ritmatics like that? 

Hendrick. Yes, that 's writing. 

Rip. {Nonplussed.) Oh! I thought it 
was reading. 

Hendrick. It 's reading and writing, too. 

Rip. What, both together. {Suspiciously 
looking at the paper.) Oh, yes; J 
did n't see that before ; go long with it. 

Hendrick. {Reads.) "Know all men by 
these presents" — 

Rip. {Pleased, leaning back in his chair.) 
Yah ! that 's right, what a wonderful 
thing der readin' is; why you can read 
it pretty nigh as good as Derrick, yes 
you do; go long. 

Hendrick. "That I, Rip Van Winkle"— 

Rip. {Taking off his hat, and holding it 
with his hands behind his head.) Yah, 
that 's right ; you read it yust as well as 
Derrick; go long. 

Hendrick. "In consideration of the sum 
of sixteen pounds received do hereby sell 
and convey to Derrick Von Beekman all 
my estate, houses, lands whatsoever" — 

{Hat drops.) 

Rip. {Almost fiercely.) What are you 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



473 



readin', some ritmatics what ain't down 
there : where you got that ? 

{Looking sharply at Hendrick.) 

Hendrick. {Pointing.) There. Houses! 
Lands, whatsoever. 

Rip. {Looking not at the paper hut at 
Hendrick very earnestly, as if turning 
over in his mind whether the hoy has 
read it correctly. Then satisfied of the 
deception Derrick has practiced upon 
him and struck hy the humour of fhe 
way in which he has discovered it, he 
laughs exultantly and looks towards the 
inn-door through which Derrick disap- 
peared a short time hefore.) Yes, so 
it is. Go long mit the rest. 

{He leans forward, and puts his ear 
close to Hendrick, so as not to 
miss a word.) 

Hendrick. "Whereof he now holds pos- 
session by mortgaged deeds, from time 
to time executed by me." 

Rip. {Takes paper, and looks towards the 
inn fiercely exultant.) You read it bet- 
ter than Derrick, my boy, much better. 
{After a moment's pause, recollects him- 
self. Kindly to Hendrick.) That will 
do, run along mit you. 

{Exit Hendrick.) 

Rip. Aha, my friend. Derrick! I guess 
you got some snakes in the grass. Now 
keep sober, Rip; I don't touch another 
drop so long what I live; I swore off 
now, that 's a fixed fact. 

{Enter Derrick, Vedder, Stein, and vil- 
lagers.) 

Derrick. Come, Rip, we '11 have a rouse. 
Rip. {Seriously; half fiercely still.) 

Here, Nick Vedder, here is the gelt; 

wipe off my score, and drink away. I 

don't join you; I swore off. 
Nick. Why, Rip, you 're king of the 

feast. 
Rip. {Ahsently, still intent on Derrick.) 

Am I dat? 
Omnes. Swore off? What for? 
Rip. I don't touch another drop. 
Jacob Stein. {Coming down towards 

Rip with cup.) Come, Rip, take a glass. 
Rip. {Turning on him, almost angry.) 

Jacob Stein, you hear what I said? 
Stein. Yes. 
Rip. {Firmly.) Well, when I said a 

thing, I mean it. 

{Leans hack in his chair with his hands 
hehind his head.) 
Stein. Oh, very well. 

{Turns away; Nick comes down and 



holds cup under Rip's nose. Rip 
looks to see if they are watching 
him. He can resist no longer, and 
takes the cup.) 
Rip. {Laughing.) Well, I won't count 

this one. Here 's your good health and 

your families', may they all live long 

and prosper. 
Derrick. Here come the fiddlers and the 

girls. 

{Enter girls.) 

(Rip walks over and closes the shutter 
which has held his score, then re- 
turns and seats himself on a low 
stool, and keeps time to the music 
as the villagers dance. Finally, the 
rhythm fires his hlood. He jumps 
to his feet, snatches one of the girls 
away from her partner, and whirls 
into the dance. After a round or 
two, he lets go of her, and pirouettes 
two or three times hy himself. Once 
more he catches her in his arms, and 
is in the act of emhracing her, when 
he perceives Gretchen over her 
shoulder. He drops the girl, who 
falls on her knees at Gretchen's 
feet. There is a general laugh at his 
discomfiture, in which he joins half- 
heartedly. As the curtain descends. 
Rip is seen pointing at the girl as 
if seeking, like a modern Adam, to 
put the hlame on her.) 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene 1. The dimly lighted kitchen of 
Rip's cottage. The door and window 
are at the hack. It is night, and 
through the window a furious storm can 
he seen raging, ivith thunder, lightning, 
and rain. A fire smoulders on the 
hearth, to the right, and a candle gutters 
on the table in the centre; a couple of 
chairs, a low stool, and a little cuphoard, 
meagrely provided with cups and plates, 
complete the furniture of the room. 
Between the door and the window a 
clothes-horse, with a few garments hang- 
ing on it, forms a screen. To the left 
is a small door leading to the other rooms 
of the cottage. 

{As the curtain rises, Meenie is seen sit- 
ting hy the window, and Gretchen en- 



474 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



ters, takes off cloak, and throws a broom- 
stick on the table.) 

Gretchen. Meenie! Has your father 
come yet? 

Meenie. No, mother. 

Gretchen. So much the better for him. 
Never let him show his face in these 
doors again — never! 

Meenie. Oh, mother, don't be so hard on 
him. 

Gretchen. I 'm not hard ; how dare you 
say so. (Meenie approaches her.) 
There, child, that father of yours is 
enough to spoil the temper of an angel. 
I went down to the marsh to drive up the 
bull. I don't know what Rip has been 
doing to the beast; he was howling and 
tearing about. I barely escaped with my 
life. {A crash outside.) What noise is 
that? 

Meenie. That 's only Schneider, father's 
dog. 

Gretchen. {Picking up broomstick.) 
Then I '11 Schneider him. I won't have 
him here. {Exit through the door lead- 
ing to the rest of the cottage.) Out, you 
idle, vagabond cur; out, I say! 

Meenie. {Following her to the door, and 
crying.) Oh, don't, don't hurt the poor 
thing ! 

{Re-enter Gretchen.) 

Gretchen. He jumped out of the win- 
dow before I could catch him. He 's 
just like his master. Now, what are you 
crying for? 

Meenie. Because my poor father is out 
in all this rain. {A peal of thunder is 
heard.) Hark, how it thunders! 

Gretchen. Serve him right — do him 
good. Is the supper ready? 

Meenie. Yes, mother; it is there by the 
fireside. {Pointing to the soup-bowl by 
the fire.) Shall I lay the table? 

Gretchen. Yes. {Again it thunders.) 
It 's a dreadful night ; I wonder where 
Rip is? 

Meenie. {Bringing the cups and platters 
from the sideboard, together with a loaf 
of bread.) Shall I lay the table for 
two, mother, or for three? 

Gretchen. For two, girl ; he gets no sup- 
per here tonight. {Another peal of 
thunder.) Mercy, how the storm rages! 
the fool, to stop out in such a down- 
pour. I liope he 's found shelter. I 
must look out the old suit I washed and 
mended for him last week, and put them 



by the fire to air. The idiot, to stop 
out in such a down-pour ! I '11 have him 
sick on my hands next ; that 's all I want 
to complete my misery. {She fetches 
clothes from the horse and hangs them 
on the back of the chair in front of the 
fire.) He knows what I am suffering 
now, and that 's what keeps him out. 
{Lightning.) Mercy, what a flash that 
was! The wretch will be starved with 
the cold! Meenie! 

Meenie. Yes, mother. 

Gretchen. You may lay the table for 
three. {There is a knock at the outer 
door.) There he is now! 

{Enter Hendrick, who shakes rain from 
his hat.) 

Where 's Rip ? Is he not at your 
father's? 
Hendrick. No; I thought he was here. 
Gretchen. He 's gone back to the moun- 
tain. He 's done it on purpose to spite 
me. 
Hendrick. {Going to the fire.) Shall I 
run after him, and bring him home? I 
know the road. We 've often climbed it 
together. 
Gretchen. No; I drove Rip from his 
house, and it 's for me to bring him back 
again. 
Meenie. {Still arranging the supper ta- 
ble.) But, mother — {She pauses, with 
embarrassment.) If he hears your voice 
behind him, he will only run away the 
faster. 
Gretchen. Well, I can't help it; I can't 
rest under cover, while he is out in the 
storm. I shall feel better when I 'm out- 
side sharing the storm with him. Sit 
down, and take your suppers. I '11 take 
my cloak along with me. 

{Exit. Meenie has seated herself by 
the window. Hendrick carries 
stool to the centre of the stage, in 
front of the table.) 
Hendrick. Meenie ! Meenie ! 
Meenie. Eh ? 

(Hendrick beckons to her. She runs 
to him. He stops her suddenly, then 
puts the stool down with great de- 
liberation, and sits on it, while 
Meenie kneels beside him.) 
Hendrick. {In a very solemn tone.) I 
hope your father ain't gone to the moun- 
tains tonight, Meenie? 
Meenie. {In distress.) Oh, dear! he will 

die of the cold there. 
Hendrick. {Suddenly.) Sh! (Meenie 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



475 



starts.) It ain't for that. {Mysteri- 
ously.) I've just heard old Clausen, 
over at father's, saying, that on this 
very night, every twenty years, the 
ghosts — 

Meenie. {Catching his wrist.) The 
what? 

Hendrick. {In an awed tone.) The 
ghosts of Hendrick Hudson, and his pi- 
rate crew, visit the Kaatskills above here. 
{The two children look around, 
frightened.) 

Meenie. Oh, dear! did he say so? 

Hendrick. Sh! {Again they look 
around, frightened.) Yes; and the 
spirits have been seen there smoking, 
drinking, and playing at tenpins. 

Meenie. Oh, how dreadful! 

Hendrick. Sh! {He goes cautiously to 
the chimney, and looks up, while Meenie 
looks under the table; then he returns 
to the stool, speaking as he comes.) 
Yes; and every time that Hendrick Hud- 
son lights his pipe there 's a flash of 
lightning. {Lightning and Meenie gives 
a gasp of fear.) And when he rolls the 
balls along, there is a peal of thunder. 
{Loud rumbles of thunder. Meenie 
screams and throws herself into Hen- 
drick's arms.) Don't be frightened, 
Meenie ; I 'm here. 

{In a frightened tone, but with a 
manly effort to be courageous.) 

{Re-enter Gretchen with her cloak.) 

Gretchen. Here, stop that! {The chil- 
dren separate quickly. Hendrick looks 
up at the ceiling and whistles, with an 
attempt at unconsciousness , and Meenie 
assumes an innocent and unconcerned 
expression.) Now, don't you be filling 
that child's head with nonsense, but re- 
main quietly here until I return. Hush, 
what noise is that? There is someone 
outside the window. 

{She steps behind the clothes-horse. 
Rip appears at the window, which 
he opens, and leans against the 
frame.) 
Rip. Meenie ! 

Meenie and Hendrick. {Trying to make 
him perceive Gretchen, by a gesture in 
her direction.) Sh! 

(Rip turns, and looks around outside 
to see what they mean, then, dis- 
covering nothing, drops his hat in 
at the window, and calls again, cau- 
tiously.) 
Rip, Meenie ! 



Meenie and Hendrick. {With the same 
warning gesture.) Sh ! 

(Gretchen shakes her fist at the chil- 
dren, who assume an air of inno- 
cence.) 
Rip. What's the matter? Meenie, has 
the wild-cat come home? (Rip readies 
in after his hat. Gretchen catches him 
by his hair, and holds his head down.) 
Och, my darlin', don't do that, eh! 
Hendrick and Meenie. {Who run to- 
wards Gretchen.) Don't, mother! 
don't, mother! don't! 
Rip. {Imitating their tone.) Don't, 
mother, don't! Don't you hear the chil- 
dren? Let go my head, won't you? 
{Getting angry.) 
Gretchen. No ; not a hair. 
Rip. {Bantering.) Hold on to it then, 

what do I care? 
Hendrick and Meenie. {Catching Gret- 
chen's dress.) Don't, mother! Don't, 
mother ! Don't ! 

(Gretchen lets go of Rip, and turns 
upon them. They escape, and dis- 
appear through the door to the left.) 
Rip. {Getting in through tJie window, and 
coming forward, apparently drunk, but 
jolly; and his resentment for the treat- 
ment he has just received is half hu- 
morous.) For what you do dat, hey? 
You must want a bald-headed husband, 
I reckon! 

(Gretchen picks up chair, and bangs 
it down; Rip imitates her with the 
stool. She sits down angrily, and 
slaps the table. Rip throws down 
his felt hat with a great show of 
violence, and it makes no noise, then 
seats himself on the stool.) 
Gretchen. Now, then! 
Rip. Now, den; I don't like it den, neider. 
{When Rip is drunk, his dialect grows 
more pronounced.) 
Gretchen. Who did you call a wildcat? 
Rip. {With a sudden little tipsy laugh, 
and confused.) A wildcat — dat 's when 
I come in at the window? 
Gretchen. Yes ; that 's when you came 

in the window. 
Rip. {Rising, and with a tone of finality.) 

Yes ; that 's the time I said it. 
Gretchen. Yes ; and that 's the time I 

heard it. 
Rip. {With drunken assurance.) That's 
all right; I was afraid you wouldn't 
hear it. 
Gretchen. Now who did you mean by 
that wildcat? 



476 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



Rip. (Confused.) Who did I mean? 
Now, let me see. 

Gretchen. Yes; who did you mean? 

Rip. How do I know who-oo I mean? 
{With a sudden inspiration.) Maybe 
it 's the dog Schneider, I call that. 

Gretchen. (Incredulously.) The dog 
Schneider; that's not likely. 

Rip. (Argumentatively.) Of course it is 
likely ; he 's my dog. I '11 call him a 
wildcat much as I please. 

(Conclusively. He sits down in the 
chair on which, his clothes are warm- 
ing, in front of the fire.) 

Gretchex. And then, there 's j^our dis- 
graceful conduct this morning. What 
have you got to say to that? 

Rip. How do I know what I got to say to 
that, when I don't know w^iat I do-a, 
do-a? (Hiccoughs.) 

Gretchen. Don't know what you do-a-oo ! 
Hugging and kissing the girls before my 
face ; you thought I would n't see you. 

Rip. (Boldly.) I knowed you would — I 
knowed you would; because, because — 
(Losing the thread of his discourse.) 
Oh-h, don' you bodder me. 

(He turns and leans his head against 
the hack of the chair.) 

Gretchen. You knew I was there? 

Rip. (Laughing.) I thought I saw you. 

Gretchen. I saw you myself, dancing 
with the girl. 

Rip. You saw the girl dancin' mit me. 
(Gretchen remembers Rip's clothes, 
and goes over to see if he is wet, and 
pushes him towards the center of the 
stage. Rip mistakes her intention.) 
You want to pull some more hair out of 
my head? 

Gretchen. Why, the monster! He isn't 
wet a bit ! He 's as dry as if he 'd been 
aired ! 

Rip. Of course I'm dry. (Laughing.) 
I 'm always dry — always dry. 

Gretchen. (Examines game-hag, and 
pulls out a flask, which she holds under 
Rip's >zose.) Why, what 's here ? AYhy, 
it 's a bottle — a bottle ! 

Rip. (Leaning against the tahle.) Yes; 
it's a bottle. (Laughs.) You think I 
don't know a bottle when I see it? 

Gretchen. That 's pretty game for your 
game-bag, ain't it? 

Rip. (Assuming an innocent air.) Some- 
body must liave put it there. 

Gretchen. (Putting the flask in her 
loocket.) Then, you don't get it again. 

Rip, (With a show of anger.) Now 



mind if I don't get it again — well — all 
there is about it — (Breaking down.) I 
don't want it. I have had enough. 

(With a droll air of conviction.) 

Gretchen. I 'm glad you know when 
you 've had enough. 

Rip. (Still leaning against the tahle.) 
That 's the way mit me. I 'm glad I 
know when I got enough — (Laughs.) 
An' I 'm glad when I 've got enough, 
too. Give me the bottle; I want to 
put it in the game-bag. 

Gretchen. For what? 

Rip. (Lounging off the tahle, and com- 
ing forward and leaning his arms on 
Gretchen's shoulders.) So that I can't 
drink it. Here 's the whole business — 
(He slides his hand down to Gret- 
chen's pocket and tries to find the 
hottle while he talks to her.) Here's 
the whole business about it. What is 
the use of anybody — well — wash the use 
of anybody, anyhow — well — oh — (Miss- 
ing the pocket.) What you talkin' 'bout 
(Suddenly his hand slips in her pocket, 
and he begins to pull the hottle out, with 
great satisfaction.) Now, now I can tell 
you all 'bout it. 

Gretchen. (Discovering his tactics, and 
pushing him away.) Pshaw! 

Rip. If you don't give me the bottle, I 
just break up everything in the house. 

Gretchen. If you dare! 

Rip. If I dare ! Have n't I done it two 
or three times before? I just throw 
everything right out of the window. 
(Rip throws the plates and cups on the 
floor and overturns a chair, and 
seats himself on the table. Gret- 
chen picks them up again.) 

Gretchen. Don't Rip; don't do that!^ 
Now stop, Rip, stop! (Gretchen hangs 
down a chair by the table and seats her- 
self.) Now, then, perhaps you will be 
kind enough to tell where you 've been 
for the last two days. TVhere have you 
been? Do you hear? 

Rip. WHiere I've been? Well, it's not 
my bottle, anyhow. I borrowed that 
bottle from another feller. You want 
to know where I been? 

Gretchen. Yes; and I will know. 

Rip. (Good-humouredly.) Let's see. 

Last night I stopped out all night. 

Gretchen. But why? 

Rip. Why? You mean the reason of it? 

Gretchen. Yes, the reason. 

Rip. {Inconsequently.) The reason is 
why? Don't bother me. 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



477 



Gretchen. {Emphasizing each word with 
a hang on the table.) Why — did — you 
— stop — out — all — night ? 

Rip. {Imitating her tone.) Because — I 

— want — to — get — up — early — in — the — 

morning. {Iliccongh.) Come don't get 

so mad mit a feller. Why, I've been 

fillin' my game-bag mit game. 

(Rip gets down off the table, and 
Gretchen" comes towards him and 
feels his game-bag.) 

Gretchex. Your game-bag is full of 
game, is n't it ? 

Rip. {Taking her hand and holding it 
away from her pocket.) That? Why, 
that would n't hold it. {Finding his way 
into Gretchen's pocket.) Now I can 
tell you all about it. You know last 
night I stopped out all night — 

Gretchen. Yes; and let me catch you 
again. {H^ is pulling the bottle out, 
when Gretchen catches him, and slaps 
his hand.) You paltry thief! 

Rip. Oh, you ain't got no confidence in 
me. Now what do you think was the 
first thing I saw in the morning? 

{Bragging a chair to the front of the 
stage.) 

Gretchen. I don't know. What? 

Rip. {Seating himself.) A rabbit. 

Gretchen. {Pleased.) I like a rabbit. 
I like it in a stew. 

Rip. {Looking at her, amused.) I guess 
you like everything in a stew — every- 
thing w^hat 's a rai)bit I mean. Well, 
there was a rabbit a-feedin' mit the 
grass, — you know they always come out 
early in der mornin' and feed mit the 
grass ? 

Gretchen. Never mind the grass. Go 
on. 

Rip. Don't get so patient; you wait till 
you get the rabbit. {Humorously.) 
Well, I crawl up — 

Gretchen". Yes, yes! 

Rip. {Becoming interested in his own 
powers of invention.) An' his little tail 
was a-stickin' up so — 

{With a gesture of his forefinger.) 

Gretchen. {Impatiently.) Never mind 
his tail. Go on. 

Rip. {Bemonstrating at her interrup- 
tion.) The more fatter the rabbit, the 
more whiter is his tail — 

Gretchen. Well, wtII, go on. 

Rip. {Taking aim.) Well, I haul up — 

Gretchen. Yes, yes! 

Rip. And his ears was a-stickin' up 
so — 



{Making Jhe two ears with his two 
forefingers.) 

Gretchen. Never mind his ears. Go on. 

Rip. I pull the trigger. 

Gretchen. {Eagerly.) Bang went the 
gun, and — 

Rip. {Seriously.) And the rabbit run 
away. 

Gretchen. {Angrily.) And so you shot 
nothing ? 

Rip. How will I shot him when he run 
away? {He laughs at her disappoint- 
ment.) There, don't get so mad mit a 
feller. Now I 'm going to tell you what 
I did shot ; that 's what I did n't shot. 
You know that old forty-acre field of 
ours? 

Gretchen. {Scornfully.) Ours! Ours, 
did you say? 

Rip. {Shamefacedly.) You know the one 
I mean well enough. It used to be ours. 

Gretchen. {Regretfully.) Yes; it used, 
indeed ! 

Rip. It ain't ours now, is it? 

Gretchen. {Sighing.) No, indeed, it is 
not. 

Rip. No? Den I won't bodder about it. 
Better let somebody bodder about that 
field what belongs to it. Well, in that 
field there 's a pond ; and what do you 
think I see in that pond? 

Gretchen. I don't know. Ducks? 

Rip. Ducks! More an' a thousand. 

Gretchen. {Walking to where broom- 
stick is.) More than a thousand ducks? 

Rip. I haul up again — 

Gretchen. {Picking up broomstick.) 
Yes, and so will I. And if you miss fire 
this time — 

{Site holds it threateningly over Rip's 
shoulder.) 

Rip. {Looking at it askance out of the 
corner of his eye, then putting up his 
hand and pushing it aside.) You will 
scare the ducks mit that. Well, I take 
better aim this time as I did before. I 
pull the trigger, and — bang! 

Gretchen. How many down? 

Rip. {Indifferently.) One. 

Gretchen. {Indignantly.) What! only 
one duck out of a thousand? 

Rip. Who said one duck? 

Gretchen. You did! 

Rip. {Getting up and leaning on the back 
of the chair.) I didn't say anything of 
the kind. 

Gretchen. You said "one." 

Rip. Ah! One. But I shot more as one 
duck. 



478 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



Gretchen. Did you? 

Rip. {Crosses over, and sits on the low 
stool, laughing silently.) I shot our old 
bull. (Gretchen flings down the 
broomstick, and throws herself into the 
chair at the right of the table, in dumb 
rage.) I didn't kill him. I just sting 
him, you know. Well, then the bull 
come right after me; and I come right 
away from him. 0, Gretchen, how you 
would laugh if you could see that — 
{With a vain appeal to her sense of 
humor.) the bull was a-eomin', and I 
was a-goin'. Well, he chased me across 
the field. I tried to climb over the 
fence so fast what I could, — {Doubles 
up with his silent laugh.) an' the bull 
come up an' save me the trouble of 
that. Well, then, I rolled over on the 
other side. 

Gretchen. {With disgust.) And then 
you went fast asleep for the rest of the 
dav. 

Rip. ^ That 's a fact. That 's a fact. 

Gretchen. {Bursting into tears, and 
burying her head in her arms on the 
table.) 0, Rip, you'll break my heart! 
You will. 

Rip. Now she's gone crying mit herself! 
Don't cry, Gretchen, don't cry. My 
d-a-r-1-i-n,' don't cry. 

Gretchen. {Angrily.) I will cry. 

Rip. Cry 'way as much as you like. 
What do I care? All the better soon as 
a woman gets cryin' ; den all the danger 's 
over. (Rip goes to Gretchen, leans 
over, and puts his arm around her.) 
Gretchen, don't cry; my angel, don't. 
{He succeeds in getting his hand into 
her pocket, and steals the bottle.) Don't 
cry, my daarlin'. {Humorously.) 
Gretchen, won't you give me a little 
drop out of that bottle what you took 
away from me? 

{He sits on the table, just behind her, 
and takes a drink from the bottle.) 

Gretchen. Here 's a man drunk, and ask- 
ing for more. 

Rip. I wasn't. I swore off. {Coax- 
ingly.) You give me a little drop an' I 
won't count it. 

Gretchen. {Sharply.) No! 

Rip. {Drinking again.) Well, den, 

here 's your good health, an' your family, 

and may they live long and prosper! 

{Puts bottle in his bag.) 

Gretchen. You unfeeling brute. Your 
wife 's starving. And, Rip, your child 's 
in rags. 



Rip. {Holding up his coat, and heaving 
a sigh of resignation.) Well, I'm the 
same way; j'ou know dat. 

Gretchen. {Sitting up, and looking ap- 
pealingly at RiP.) Oh, Rip, if you 
would only treat me kindly! 

Rip. {Putting his arms around her.) 
Well, den, I will. I 'm going to treat 
you kind. I '11 treat you kind. 

Gretchen. Why, it would add ten years 
to my life. 

Rip. {Over her shoulder, and after a 

■ pause.) That's a great inducement; it 
is, my darlin'. I know I treat you too 
bad, an' you deserve to be a widow. 

Gretchen. {Getting up, and putting her 
arms on Rip's shoulder.) Oh, Rip, if 
5^ou would only reform! 

Rip. Well, den, I will. I won't touch an- 
other drop so long as I live. 

Gretchen. Can I trust you? 

Rip. You must n't suspect me. 

Gretchen. {Embracing him.) There, 
then, I will trust you. {She takes the 
candle and goes to fetch the children.) 
Here, Hendrick, Meenie? Children, 
where are you? 

{Exit through the door on the left.) 

Rip. {Seats himself in the chair to the 
right of the table, and takes out flask.) 
Well, it 's too bad ; but it 's all a woman's 
fault anyway. When a man gets 
drinkin' and that, they ought to let him 
alone. So soon as they scold him, he 
goes off like a sky-rocket. 

{Re-enter Gretchen and the children.) 

Gretchen. {Seeing the flask in Rip's 
hand.) I thought as much. 

Rip. {Unconscious of her presence.) 
How I did smooth her down! I must 
drink her good health. Gretchen, here 's 
your good health. {About to drink.) 

Gretchen. {Snatching the bottle, and us- 
ing it to gesticulate with.) Oh, you pal- 
try thief! 

Rip. {Concerned for the schnapps.) 
What you doin' ? You '11 spill the licker 
out of the bottle. {He puts in the cork.) 

Gretchen. {Examining the flask.) 
Why, the monster, he 's emptied the bot- 
tle!^ 

Rip. That's a fac'. That 's a fac'. 

Gretchen. {Throwing down the flask.) 
Then that is the last drop you drink 
under my roof! 

Rip. What! What! 

(Meenie approaches her father on 
tiptoe, and kneels beside him.) 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



479 



GRETCHEi^. Out, you drunkard! Out, 
you sot ! You disgrace to your wife and 
to your child! This house is mine. 

Rip. {Dazed, and a little sobered.) 
Yours ! Yours ! 

Gretchen. {Raising her voice above the 
storm, which seems to rage more fiercely 
outside.) Yes, mine, mine! Had it 
been yours to sell, it would have gone 
along with the rest of your land. Out 
then, I say — {Pushing open the door.) 
for you have no longer any share in me 
or mine. {A peal of thunder.) 

Meenie. {Running over, and kneeling by 
Gretchen.) Oh, mother, hark at the 
storm ! 

Gretchen. {Pushing her aside.) Be- 
gone, man, can't you speak*? Are you 
struck dumb? You sleep no more under 
my roof. 

Rip. {Who has not moved, even his arm 
remaining outstretched, as it was when- 
Meenie slipped from his side, murmurs 
in a bewildered, incredulous way.) 
Why, Gretchen, are you goin' to turn 
me out like a dog? (Gretchen points 
to the door. Rip rises and leans against 
the table with a groan. His conscience 
speaks.) Well, maybe you are right. 
{His voice breaks, and with a despairing 
gesture.) I have got no home. I will 
go. But mind, Gretchen, after what you 
say to me tonight, I can never darken 
your door again — never — {Going to- 
wards the door.) I will go. 

Hendrick. {Running up to Rip.) Not 
into the storm, Rip. Hark, how it thun- 
ders! 

Rip. {Putting his arm around him.) 
Yah, my boy; but net as bad to me as 
the storm in my home. I will go. 

{At the door by this time.) 

Meenie. {Catching Rip's coat.) N©, 
father, don't go! 

Rip. {Bending over her tenderly, and 
holding her close to him.) My child! 
Bless you, my child, bless you! 

(Meenie faints. Rip gives a sobbing 
sigh.) 

Gretchen. {Relenting.) No, Rip — I — 

Rip. {Waving her off.) No, you have 
drive me from your house. You have 
opened the door for me to go. You may 
never open it for me to come back. 
{Leaning against the doorpost, overcome 
by his emotion. His eyes rest on Mee- 
nie, who lies at his feet.) You say I 
have no share in this house. {Points to 
Meenie in profound despair.) Well, 



see, then, I .wipe the disgrace from your 
door. 

{He staggers out into the storm.) 
Gretchen. No, Rip! Husband, come 
back! 

(Gretchen faints, and the curtain 
falls.) 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene 1. A steep and rocky clove in the 
Kaatskill Mountains, down which rushes 
a torrent, swollen by the storm. Over- 
head, the hemlocks stretch their melan- 
choly boughs. It is night. 

(Rip enters, almost at a run, with his head 
down, and his coat-collar turned up, 
beating his way against the storm. 
With the hunter's instinct, he protects 
the priming of his gun with the skirt of 
his jacket. Having reached a compara- 
tively level spot, he pauses for breath, 
and turns to see what has become of his 
dog.) 

Rip. {Whistling to the dog.) Schneider! 
Schneider ! What 's the matter with 
Schneider? Something must have scared 
that dog. There he goes head over heels 
down the hill. Well, here I am again — 
another night in the mountains! 
Heigho! these old trees begin to know 
me, I reckon. {Taking off his hat.) 
How are you, old fellows? Well, I like 
the trees, they keep me from the wind 
and the rain, and they never blow me 
up ; and when I lay me down on the 
broad of my back, they seem to bow their 
heads to me, an' say: Go to sleep, Rip, 
go to sleep. {Lightning.) My, what a 
flash that was ! Old Hendrick Hudson 's 
lighting his pipe in the mountains to- 
night ; now, we '11 hear him roll the big 
balls along. {Thunder. Rip looks back 
over the path he has come and whistles 
again for his dog.) Well, I — no — 
Schneider! No; whatever it is, it's on 
two legs. Why, what a funny thing is 
that a comin' up the hill? I thought 
nobody but me ever come nigh this 
place. 

{Enter a strange dwarfish figure, clad all 
in gray like a Dutch seaman of the 
seventeenth century, in short-skirted 
doublet, hose, and high-crowned hat 
drawn over his eyes. From beneath the 



480 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



latter his long gray heard streams down 
till it almost touches the ground. He 
carries a keg on his shoulder. He ad- 
vances slowly towards Rip, and, hy his 
gesture, begs Rip to set the keg down for 
him. Rip does so, and the dwarf seats 
himself upon it.) 

Rip. {With good-humoured sarcasm.) 
Sit down, and make yourself comfort- 
able. {A long pause and silence.) 
What? What's the matter? Ain't ye 
goin' to speak to a feller? I don't want 
to speak to you, then. Who you think 
you was, that I want to speak to you, 
any more than you want to speak to me ; 
you hear what I say? (Rip pokes the 
dwarf in the rihs, who turns, and looks 
up. Rip retreats hastily.) Donner an' 
Blitzen! What for a man is das? I 
have been walking over these mountains 
ever since I was a boy, an' I never saw 
a queer looking codger like that before. 
He must be an old sea-snake, I reckon. 
{The dwarf approaches Rip, and mo- 
tions Rip to help him up the moun- 
tain with the keg.) 
Rip. Well, why don't you say so, den? 
You mean you would like me to help you 
up with that keg? {The dwarf nods in 
the affirmative.) Well, sir, I don't do 
it. {The dwarf holds up his hands in 
supplication.) No, there's no good you 
speakin' like that. I never seed you be- 
fore, did I? {The dwarf shakes his 
head. Rip, with great decision, walking 
away, and leaning against a tree.) I 
don't want to see you again, needer. 
What have you got in that keg, 
schnapps? {The dwarf nods.) 1 don't 
believe you. {The dwarf nods more af- 
firmatively.) Is it good schnapps? 
{TJie dwarf again insists.) Well, I'll 
help you. Go 'long; pick up my gun, 
there, and I follow you mit that keg on 
my shoulder. I '11 follow you, old 
broadchops. 

{As Rip shoulders the keg, a furious 
blast whirls up the valley, and seems 
to carry him and his demon com- 
panion before it. The rain that fol- 
lows blots out the landscape. For a 
few moments, all is darkness. Grad- 
ually, the topmost peak of the 
Kaatskill Mountains becomes visible, 
far above the storm. Stretching 
below, the country lies spread out 
like a map. A feeble and watery 
moonlight shows us a weird group^ 



gathered upon the peak, — Hendrick 
Hudson, and his ghostly crew. In 
the foreground, one of them poises 
a hall, about to bowl it, while the 
others lean forward in attitudes of 
watchful expectancy. Silently he 
pitches it; and, after a momentary 
pause, a long and rumbling peal of 
thunder reverberates among the val- 
leys below. At this moment, the 
demon, carrying Rip's gun, appears 
over the crest of the peak in the 
background, and Rip toils after with 
the keg on his shoulder. Arrived at 
the summit, he drops the keg on his 
knee, and gasps for breath.) 
Rip. {Glancing out over the landscape.) 
I say, old gentleman, I never was so high 
up in the mountains before. Look down 
into the valley there; it seems more as 
a mile. I — {Turning to speak to his 
companion, and perceiving another of 
the crew.) You're another feller! 
{The second demon nods assent.) 
You 're that other chap's brother? 
{The demon again assents. Rip carries 
the keg a little further, and comes face 
to face with a third.) You're another 
brother? {The third demon nods as- 
sent. Rip takes another step, and per- 
ceives Hendrick Hudson in the centre, 
surrounded hy many demons.) You're 
his old gran'father? (Hudson nods. 
Rip puts down the keg in perplexity, not 
untinged with alarm.) Donner and 
Blitzen! here's the whole family; I 'm a 
dead man to a certainty. 

{The demons extend their arms to 

Hudson, as if inquiring what they 

should do. lie points to Rip, th^ 

do the same.) 

Rip. My, my, I suppose they're speakin' 

about me! {Looking at his gun, which 

the first demon has deposited on the 

ground, and which lies within his reach.) 

No good shootin' at 'em; family's too 

big for one gun. 

(Hendrick Hudson advances, and 

seats himself on the keg facing Rip. 

The demons slowly surround the 

two.) 

Rip. {Looking about him with growing 

apprehension.) My, my, I don't like 

that kind of people at all! No, sir! 

I don't like any sech kind. I like that 

old gran'father worse than any of them. 

{With a sheepish attempt to be genial, 

and appear at his ease.) How you was, 

old gentleman? I didn't mean to in- 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



481 



trude on you, did I? (Hudson shakes 
his head.) What? {No reply.) I'll 
tell you how it was; I met one of your 
gran'children, I don't know which is the 
one — {Glancing around.) They're all 
so much alike. Well — {Embarrassed 
and looking at one demon.) That's the 
same kind of a one. Any way, this one, 
he axed me to help him up the mountain 
mit dat keg. Well, he was an old fel- 
ler, an' I thought I would help him. 
{Pauses, troubled by their silence.) 
Was I right to help him? Hudson 
nods.) I say, was I right to help him? 
(Hudson nods again.) If he was here, 
he would 3'Ust tell you the same thing 
any way, because — {Suddenly perceiv- 
ing the demon he had met below.) 
Why, dat's the one, ain't it? {The 
demon nods.) Yes: dat is the one, dat 's 
the same kind of a one dat I met. Was 
I right to come? (Hudson nods ap- 
proval.) I didn't want to come here, 
anyhow ; no, sir, I did n't want to come 
to any such kind of a place. {After a 
pause, seeing that no one has anything 
to say.) I guess I better go away from 
it. (Rip picks up his gun, and is about 
to return hy the way he came; but the 
demons raise their hands threateningly, 
and stop him. He puts his gun down 
again.) I didn't want to come here, 
anyhow — {Grumbling to himself, then 
pulling himself together with an effort, 
and facing Hudson.) Well, old gentle- 
man, if you mean to do me anj^ harm, 
just speak it right out — {Then with a 
little laugh.) Oh! I will die game — 
{Glancing around for a means of escape, 
and half to himself.) If I can't run 
away. 

(Hudson extends a cup to Rip, as if 
inviting him to drink.) 
Rip. {Doubtfully.) You want me to 
drink mit you? (Hudson nods. Rip 
approaches him cautiously, unable to re- 
sist the temptation of a drink.) Well, 
I swore off drinkin' ; but as this is the 
first time I see you, I won't count this 
one — {He takes the cup. Hudson 
holds up another cup. Rip is reassured, 
and his old geniality returns.) You 
drink mit me? We drink mit one an- 
other? Hudson nods affirmatively. 
Rip feels at home under these familiar 
circumstances, and becomes familiar and 
colloquial again.) What's the matter 
mit you, old gentleman, anyhow? You 
go and make so {Imitating the demon) 



mit your head every time; was you deaf? 
(Hudson shakes his head.) Oh, nein. 
{Laughing at his error.) If you was 
deaf, you would n't hear what I was 
sayin'. Was you dumb? (Hudson 
nods yes.) So? You was dumb? 
(Hudson nods again.) Has all of your 
family the same complaint? (Hudson 
nods.) All the boys dumb, hey? All 
the boys dumb. {All the demons nod. 
Then, suddenly, as if struck with an 
idea.) Have you got any girls? (Hud- 
son shakes his head.) Don't you? 
Such a big family, and all boys? 

(Hudson nods.) 
Rip. ( With profound regret. ) That 's a 
pity ; my, that 's a pity. Oh, my, if you 
had some dumb girls, what wives they 
would make — {Brightening up.) Well, 
old gentleman, here 's your good health, 
and all your family — {Turning, and wav- 
ing to them.) — may they live long and 
prosper. 

(Rip drinks. As he does so, all the 
demons lean forward, watching the 
effect of the liquor. Rip puts his 
hand to his head. The empty cup 
falls to the ground.) 
Rip. {In an awed and ecstatic voice.) 
What for licker is that! {As he turns, 
half reeling, he sees Hudson holding out 
to him another cup. He snatches it 
with almost frantic eagerness.) Give 
me another one! {He empties it at a 
draught. A long pause follows during 
which the effect of the liquor upon Rip 
becomes apparent; the light in his eyes 
fades, his exhilaration dies out, and he 
loses his grasp on the reality of his sur- 
roundings. Finally, he clasps his head 
with both hands, and cries in a muffled, 
terrified voice.) Oh, my, my head was 
so light, and now, it 's heavy as lead ! 
{He reels, and falls heavily to the 
ground. A long pause. The demons 
begin to disappear. Rip becomes dimly 
conscious of this, and raises himself on 
his elbow.) Are you goin' to leave me, 
boys? Are you goin' to leave me all 
alone? Don't leave me; don't go away. 
{With a last effort.) I will drink your 
good health, and your family's — 

{He falls back heavily, asleep ) 



CURTAIN. 



482 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene 1. As the curtain rises, the same 
high peaks of the Kaatskills, and the 
far-stretching valley below, are disclosed 
in the gray light of dawn. 

Rip is still lying on the ground, as in the 
last act, hut he is no longer the Rip we 
knew. His hair and heard are long and 
white, hleached hy the storms that have 
rolled over his head during the twenty 
years he has been asleep. 

As he stirs and slowly rises to a half-sit- 
ting posture, we see that his former 
picturesque rags have become so dilapi- 
dated that it is a matter of marvel how 
they hold together. They have lost all 
traces of color^ and have assumed the 
neutral tints of the moss and lichens that 
cover the rocks. 

His voice, when he first speaks, betrays 
even more distinctly than his appear- 
ance the lapse of time. Instead of the 
full round tones of manhood, he speaks 
in the high treble of feeble old age. His 
very hands have grown old and weather- 
beaten. 

Rip. {Staring vacantly around.) 1 won- 
der where I was. On top of the Kaats- 
kill Mountains as sure as a gun ! Won't 
my wife give it to me for stopping out 
all night? I must get up and get home 
with myself. {Trying to rise.) Oh, I 
feel very bad! Vat is the matter with 
my elbow f {In trying to rub it, the 

' other one gives him such a twinge that 
he cries out.) Oh! the other elbow is 
more badder than the other one. I must 
have eotehed the rheumatix a-sleepin' 
mit the wet grass. {He rises with great 
difficulty.) Och! I never had such 
rheumatix like that. {He feels himself 
all over, and then stands for a moment 
pondering, and bewildered by a strange 
memory.) I wasn't sleeping all the 
time, needer. I know I met a queer 
kind of a man, and we got drinkin' and 
I guess I got pretty drunk. Well, I 
must pick up my gun, and get home mit 
myself. {After several jDainful at- 
tempts, he succeeds in picking up his 
gun, which drops all to pieces as he lifts 
it. Rip looks at it in amazement.) My 
gun must have cotched tlie rheumatix 
too. Now, that 's too bad. Them fel- 
lows have gone and stole my good gun, 
and leave me this rusty old barrel. (Rip 
begins slowly to climb over the peak 



towards the path by which he had as- 
cended, his memory seeming to act auto- 
matically. When he reaches the highest 
point, where he can look out over the 
valley, he stops in surprise.) Why, is 
that the village of Falling Waters that 
I see? Why, the place is more than 
twice the size it was last night. I — 
{He sinks down.) I don't know whether 
I am dreaming, or sleeping, or waking. 
{Then pulling himself together with a 
great effort, and calling up the image of 
his wife to act as whip and spur to his 
waning powers, he says, with humorous 
conviction, as he gets up painfully, 
again: — ) I go home to my wife. 
She '11 let me know whether I 'm asleep 
or awake or not. {Almost unable to 
proceed.) I don't know if I will ever 
get home, my k-nees are so stiff. My 
backbone, it 's broke already. 

{As the curtain falls, Rip stands lean- 
ing on the barrel of his gun as on a 
staff, with one hand raised, looking 
out over the valley.) 

Scene 2. A comfortable-looking room in 
Derrick's house. As the curtain rises, 
Meenie and Gretchen enter. Meenie 
is a tall young woman of twenty-six, and 
Gretchen is a matronly figure with 
white hair. They are well dressed, and 
have every appearaiice of physical and 
material prosperity. 

Gretchen. I am sent to you by your fa- 
ther, Meenie. 

Meenie. Oh, don't call him so; he is not 
my father! He is your husband, 
mother; but I owe him no love. And 
his cruel treatment of you — 

Gretchen. Hush, child ! Oh, if he heard 
3^ou, he would make me pay for every 
disrespectful word you utter. 

Meenie. Yes; he would beat you, starve 
and degrade you. You are not his wife, 
mother, but his menial. 

Gretchen. My spirit is broken, Meenie. 
I cannot resent it. Nay, I deserve it; 
for as Derrick now treats me, so I 
treated your poor father when he was 
alive. 

Meenie. You, mother? You, so gentle? 
You, who are weakness and patience it- 
self? 

Gretchen. Yes; because for fifteen years 
I have been Derrick's wife. But it was 
my temper, my cruelty, that drove your 
father from our home twenty years ago. 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



483 



You were too young then to remember 
him. 

Meenie. No, mother, I recollect dear fa- 
ther taking me on his knee, and saying 
to Hendrick that I should be his wife; 
and I promised I would. 

Gretchen. Poor Kip ! Poor, good-na- 
tured, kind creature that he was! How 
gentlj^ he bore with me; and I drove 
him like a dog from his home. I hunted 
him into the mountains, where he per- 
ished of hunger or cold, or a prey to 
some wild beast. 

Meenie. Don't cry, mother! 

{Enter Derrick, now grown old and hent 
over his cane, and infinitely more dis- 
agreeable titan before. He, too, has 
thriven, and is dressed in a handsome 
full suit of black silk.) 

Derrick. Snivelling again, eh? Teach- 
ing that girl of yours to be an obstinate 
hypocrite ? 

Meenie. Oh, sir, she — 

Derrick. Hold your tongue, Miss. Speak 
when you 're spoken to. I '11 have you 
both to understand that there 's but one 
master here. Well, mistress, have you 
told her my wishes; and is she prepared 
to obey them? 

Gretcheist. Indeed, sir, I was trying to — 

Derrick. Beating about the bush, pre- 
varicating, and sneaking, as you usually 
do. 

Meenie. If you have made her your slave, 
you must expect her to cringe. 

Derrick. {Approaching her threaten- 
ingly.) What's that? 

Gretchen. Meenie ! Meenie ! For Heav- 
en's sake, do not anger him ! 

Derrick. {Raising his cane.) She had 
better not. 

Meenie. {Defiantly.) Take care how 
you raise your hand to me, for I '11 keep 
a strict account of it. And when Hen- 
drick comes back from sea, he '11 make 
you smart for it, I promise you. 

Derrick. Is the girl mad? 

Meenie. He thrashed your nephew once 
for being insolent to me. Go and ask 
him how Hendrick pays my debts; and 
then when you speak to me you '11 mind 
your stops. 

Derrick. {To Gretchen.) Oh, you shall 
pay for this! 

Gretchen. No, Derrick, indeed, indeed I 
have not urged her to this! 0, Meenie, 
do not speak so to him ; for my sake for- 
bear! 



Meenie. For your sake, yes, dear mother. 
I forgot that he could revenge himself 
on you. 

Derrick. As for your sailor lover, Hen- 
drick Vedder, I 've got news of him at 
last. His ship, the Mayflower, was lost 
three years ago, off Gape Horn. 

Meenie. No, no. Not lost? 

Derrick. If you doubt it, there 's the 
Shipping Gazette, in on my office table. 
You can satisfy yourself that your sailor 
bully has gone to the bottom. 

Gretchen. Oh, sir, do not convey the 
news to her so cruelly. 

Derrick. That 's it. Because I don't 
sneak and trick and lie about it, I 'm 
cruel. The man 's dead, has been dead 
and gone these two years or more. The 
time of mourning is over. Am I 
going to be nice about it this time of 
day? 

Meenie. Then all my hope is gone, gone 
forever ! 

Derrick. So much the better for you. 
Hendrick's whole fortune was invested 
in that ship. So there 's an end of him 
and your expectations. Now you are 
free, and a beggar. My nephew has a 
fancy for you. He will have a share of 
my business now, and my money when 
— when I die. 

Gretchen. Do not ask her to decide 
now ! 

Derrick. Why not? If she expects to 
make a better bargain by holding off, 
she 's mistaken. 

Gretchen. How can you expect her to 
think of a husband at this moment? 

Derrick. Don't I tell you the other one 
is dead these two years? 

Gretchen. {Leading Meenie away.) 
Come, my child. Leave her to me, sir; 
I will try and persuade her. 

Derrick. Take care that you do; for if 
she don't consent to accept my offer, she 
shall pack bag and baggage out of this 
house. Aye, this very day! Not a 
penny, not a stitch of clothes but what 
she has on her back, shall she have! 
Oh, I 've had to deal with obstinate 
women before now, and I 've taken them 
down before I 've done with them. You 
know who I mean? Do you know who 
I mean? Stop. Answer me! Do you 
know who I mean? 

Gretchen. {Submissively.) Yes, sir. 

Derrick. Then why didn't you say so 
before? Sulky, I suppose. There, you 
may be of. (Exeunt,) 



484 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



Scene 3. The village of Falling Waters, 
which has grown to he a smart and flour- 
ishing town, hut whose chief features 
remain unchanged. 

To the left, as of yore, is the inn, hearing 
scarcely any mark of tJte lapse of time, 
save that the sign of George III has heen 
replaced hy a portrait of George Wash- 
ington. To the right, wJtere Rip's cot- 
tage used to stand, nothing remains, 
however, hut the hlackened and crum- 
hling ruins of a chimney. A tahle and 
chairs stand in front of the inn porch. 

Into tliis familiar scene Rip makes his en- 
trance, hut not as hefore, — in glee, with 
children clinging ahout him. Faint, 
weak, and weary, he stumhles along, fol- 
lowed hy a jeering, hooting moh of vil- 
lagers; while the children hide from him 
in fear, hehind their elders. His eyes 
look dazed and uncomprehending, and 
he catches at the hack of a chair as if in 
need of physical as well as mental sup- 
port. 

Katchen. {As Rip enters.) Why, what 
queer looking creature is this, that all 
the boys are playing — 

Seth. Why, he looks as though he ^s been 
dead for fifty years, and dug up again! 

Rip. My friends, Kanst du Deutsch 
sprechenf 

First Villager. I say, old fellow, you 
ain't seen anything of an old butter-tub 
with no kiver^ on, no place about here, 
have you? 

Rip. {Bewildered, hut with simplicity.) 
What is that? I don't know who that is. 

Second Villager. I say, old man, who 's 
your barber? 

{The crowd laughs, and goes off re- 
peating, "Who's your harherf" 
Some of the children remain to stare 
at Rip; hut when he holds out his 
hand to them, they, too, run off 
frightened.) 

Rip. Who's my barber; what dey mean 
by dat? {Noticing his heard.) Why is 
that on me? I didn't see that before. 
My beard and hair is so long and white. 
Gretchen won't know me with that, when 
she gets me home. {Looking towards 
the cottage.) Why, the home's gone 
away ! 

(Rip hecomes more and more puzzled 
like a man in a dream who sees un- 
familiar things amid familiar sur- 
roundings, and cannot make out 
what has happened; and as in a 

1 Cover. 



dream a man preserves his individ- 
uality, so Rip stumhles along 
through his bewilderment, exhibit- 
ing flashes of his old humour, wit, 
and native shrewdness. But with 
all this he never laughs.) 

Seth. I say, old man, hadn't you better 
go home and get shaved? 

Rip. {Looking ahout for the voice.) 
What? 

Seth. Here, this way. Hadn't you bet- 
ter go home and get shaved? 

Rip. My wife will shave me when she gets 
me home. Is this the village of "Falling 
Waters" where we was? 

Seth. Yes. 

Rip. {Still more puzzled, not knowing his 
face.) Do you live here? 

Seth. Well, rather. I was born here. 

Rip. {Reflectively.) Then you live here? 

Seth. Well, rather; of course I do. 

Rip. {Feeling that he has hold of some- 
thing certain.) Do you know where I 
live? 

Seth. No; but I should say you belong 
to Noah's Ark. 

Rip. {Putting his hand to his ear.) That 
I belong mit vas? 

Seth. Noah's Ark. 

Rip. {Very much hurt.) Why w^ill you 
say such thing like that? {Then, with 
a flash of humour, and drawing his heard 
slowly through his fingers.) Well, look 
like it, don't I? {Beginning all over 
again to feel for his clue.) My friend, 
did you never hear of a man in this place 
whose name was Rip Van Winkle? 

Seth. Rip Van Winkle, the laziest, 
drunken vagabond in the country? 

Rip. {Somewhat taken ahack hy this de^ 
scription, hut obliged to concur in it^ 
Yah, that is the one; there is no mis- 
taking him, eh? 

Seth. I know all about him. 

Rip. {Hopefully.) Do you? 

Seth. Yes. 

Rip. {Quite eagerly.) Well, if you know 
all about him; well, what has become of 
him? 

Seth. What has become of him? Why, 
bless your soul, he 's been dead these 
twenty years! 

Rip. {Looking at Seth.) Then I am 
dead, I suppose. So Rip Van Winkle 
was dead, eh? 

Seth. Yes; and buried. 

Rip. {Humorously.) I'm sorry for 
that; for he was a good fellow, so he 
was. 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEJi^FERSON 



485 



Seth. (Aside.) There appears to be 
something queer about this old chap; I 
wonder who he is. [Rising and taking 
chair over to Rip.) There, old gentle- 
man, be seated. 

Rip. (Seating himself with great diffi- 
culty, assisted by Seth.) Oh, thank 
you ; every time I move a new way, I get 
another pain. My friend, where is the 
house what you live in? 

Seth. (Pointing at inn.) There. 

Rip. Did you live there yesterday? 

Seth. Well, rather. 

Rip. No, it is Nick Vedder what live in 
that house. Where is Nick Vedder? 

Seth. Does he? Then I wish he'd pay 
the rent for it. Why, Nick Vedder has 
been dead these fifteen years. 

Rip. Did you know Jacob Stein, what was 
with him? 

Seth. No ; but I Ve heard of him. He 
was one of the same sort as Rip and 
Nick. 

Rip. Yes, them fellows was all pretty 
much alike. 

Seth. Well, he went off the hooks a short 
time after Rip. 

Rip. Where has he gone? 

Seth. Off the hooks. 

Rip. What is that, when they go off the 
hooks? 

Seth. Why, he died. 

Rip. (With a?i air of hopelessness.) Is 
there anybody alive here at all? (Then, 
with a sudden revulsion of feeling, con- 
vinced of the impossibility of what he 
hears.) That man is drunk what talks 
to me. 

Seth. Ah, they were a jolly set, I reckon. 

Rip. Oh, they was. I knowed them all. 

Seth. Did you? 

Rip. Yes, I know Jacob Stein, and Nick 
Vedder, and Rip Van Winkle, and the 
whole of them. (A neiv idea strikes 
him, and he beckons to Seth, whom he 
asks, very earnestly.) Oh, my friend, 
come and see here. Did you know 
Schneider? 

Seth. Schneider! Schneider! No, I never 
heard of him. 

Rip. (Sirnply.) He was a dog. I thought 
you might know him. Well, if dat is so, 
what has become of my child Meenie, 
and my wife Gretchen? Are they gone, 
too? (Turning to look at tJie ruins of 
the house.) Yah, even the house is 
dead. 

Seth. Poor, old chap! He seems quite 
cast down at the loss of his friends. I '11 



step in and ^et a drop of something to 
cheer liim up. (Exit.) 

Rip. (Puzzling it out with himself.) I 
can't make it out how it all was; because 
if this here is me, what is here now, and 
Rip Van Winkle is dead, then who am 
I? That is w^iat I would like to know. 
Yesterday, everybody was here; and now 
they was all gone. (Very forlorn.) 

(Re-enter Seth, followed by the villagers.) 

Seth. (Offering Rip the cup.) There, 
old gent, there 's a drop of something to 
cheer you up. 

Rip. (Shaking hands with Seth and 
Katchen.) Oh, thank you. I — I — I 
swore off; but this is the first time what 
I see you. I won't count this one. 
(His voice breaks.) My friend, you 
have been very kind to me. Here is 
your good health, and your family's, and 
may they all live long and prosper! 

Seth. I say, wife, ain't he a curiosity fit 
for a show? 

Rip. (Aside.) That gives me courage to 
ask these people anodder question. (He 
begins with difficulty.) My friend, I 
don't know whether you knowed it or 
not, but there was a child of Rip, — 
Meenie her name was. 

Seth. Oh, yes; that's all right. 

Rip. (With great emotion, leaning for- 
icard.) She is not gone? She is not 
dead? No, no! 

Seth. No; she is alive. 

Rip. (Sinking back with relief.) Meenie 
is alive. It 's all right now, — all right 
now. 

Seth. She 's the prettiest girl in the vil- 
lage. 

Rip. I know dat. 

Seth. But if she wastes her time waiting 
on Hendrick Vedder, she '11 be a middle- 
aged woman before long. 

Rip. (Incredulously.) She's a little child, 
only six years old. 

Seth. Six-and-twenty, you mean. 

Rip. (Thinking they are making fun of 
him.) She's a little child no bigger 
than that. Don't bodder me; I don't 
like that. 

Seth. Why, she 's as big as her mother. 

Rip. (Very much surprised that Seth 
knows Gretchen.) What, Gretchen? 

Seth. Yes, Gretchen. 

Rip. Isn't Gretchen dead? 

Seth. No. She 's alive. 

Rip. (With mixed emotions.) Gretchen 
is alive, eh! Gretchen 's alive I 



486 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



Seth. Yes; and married again. 

Rip. {Fiercely.) How would she do such 

a thing like that? 
Seth. Why, easy enough. After Rip 

died, she was a widow, was n't she ? 
Rip. Oh, yes. I forgot about Rip's being 

dead. Well, and then? 
Seth. Well, then Derrick made love to 

her. 
Rip. {Surprised, and almost amused.) 

What for Derrick? Not Derrick Von 

Beekman ? 
Seth. Yes, Derrick Von Beekman. 
Rip. {Still more interested.) Well, and 

then? 
Seth. Well, then her affairs went bad; 

and at last she married him. 
Rip. {Turning it over in his mind.) Has 

Derrick married Gretchen? 
Seth. Yes. 
Rip. {With a flash of his old humour, hut 

still with no laughter.) Well, I didn't 

think he would come to any good; I 

never did. So she cotched Derrick, eh? 

Poor Derrick! 
Seth. Yes. 
Rip. Well, here 's their good health, and 

their family's, and may they all live long 

and prosper! {Drinks.) 

Seth. Now, old gent, hadn't you better 

be going home, wherever that is? 
Rip. {With conviction.) Where my home 

was ? Here 's where it is. 
Seth. What, here in this village? Now 

do you think w^e 're going to keep all the 

half-witted strays that choose to come 

along here? No; be off with you. 

Why, it 's a shame that those you belong 

to should allow such an old tramp as you 

to float around here. 
Villagers. {Roughly, and trying to push 

him along.) Yes; away with him! 
Rip. {Frightened, and pleading with 

them.) Are you going to drive me away 

into the hills again? 
First Villager. Yes; away with him! 

He 's an old tramp. 

{Enter Hendrick, with stick and bundle, 
followed by some of the women of the 
village.) 

Villagers. Away with him! 

Hendrick. {Throwing down bundle.) 
Avast there, .mates. Where are you 
towing that old hulk to? What, you 
won't? {Pushing crowd aside, and go- 
ing forward.) Wiiere are you towing 
that old hulk to? 

Seth. Who are you? 



Hendrick. I 'm a man, every inch of me ; 
and if you doubt it, I '11 undertake to 
remove the suspicions from any two of 
you in Ave minutes. Ain't you ashamed 
of yourselves? Don't you see the poor 
old creature has but half his w4ts? 

Seth. Well, this is no asylum for worn 
out idiots. 

Villagers. {Coming forward.) No, it 
ain't ! 

Hendrick. Ain't it? 

Omnes. No, it ain't. 

Hendrick. Then I '11 make it a hospital 
for broken heads if you stand there 
much longer. Clear the decks, you 
lubberly swabs! {Drives them aside. 
Turns to Rip, wJio stands bewildered.) 
What is the cause of all this? 

Rip. {Helplessly.) I don't know, do you? 

Hendrick. {To villagers.) Do any of 
you know him? 

First Villager. No; he appears to be a 
stranger. 

Hendrick. {To Rip.) You seem bewil- 
dered. Can I help you? 

Rip. {Feebly.) Just tell me where I live. 

Hendrick. And don't you know? 

Rip. No; I don't. 

Hendrick. Why, what's your name? 

Rip. {Almost childishly.) 1 don't know; 
but I believe I know vat it used to be. 
My name, it used to be Rip Van Winkle. 

Villagers. {In astonishment.) Rip Van 
Winkle? 

Hendrick. Rip Van Winkle? Impossi- 
ble! 

Rip. {Pathetically feeble, and old. ) Well, 
I w^ould n't swear to it mj'self . I tell 
you how it was: Last night, I don't 
know about the time, I went away up 
into the mountains, and while I was 
there I met a queer kind o' man, and 
we got drinkin'; and I guess I got pretty 
drunk. And then I went to sleep ; and 
when I woke up this morning, I was 
dead. {All laugh.) 

Hendrick. Poor old fellow ; he 's crazy. 
Rip Van Winkle has been dead these 
twenty years. I knew him when I was 
a child. 

Rip. {Clutching at a faint hope.) You 
don't know me? 

Hendrick. No; nor anybody else here, it 
seems. 

{The villagers, finding that there is to 
be no amusement for them, straggle 
off to their occupations.) 

Seth. {As he goes into the inn.) Why, 
wife, he 's as cracked as our old teapot. 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



487 



Rip. {With simple pathos.) Are we so 
soon forgot when we are gone"? No one 
remembers Rip Van Winkle. 

Hendrick. Come, cheer up, my old 
hearty, and you shall share my break- 
fast. {Assists Rip to sit at the table. 
Rip has fallen into a dream again. 
To Katchen.) Bring us enough for 
three, and of your best. 

Katchen. That I will. {Exit into inn.) 

Hendrick. So here I am, home again. 
And yonder 's the very -spot where, five 
years ago, I parted from Meenie. 

Rip. {Roused by the name.) What, 
Meenie Van Winkle? 

Hendrick. And she promised to remain 
true to Hendrick Vedder. 

Rip. Oh, yah; that was Nick Vedder's 
son. 

Hendrick. {Turning to Rip.) That's 
me. 

Rip. {Resentfully.) That was you! You 
think I'm a fool? He's a little child, 
no bigger than that, — the one I mean. 

Hendrick. How mad he is! 

{Enter Katchen from inn with tray, on 
which is laid a breakfast. She puts it 
on table, and exits into inn.) 

There, that 's right. Stow your old 
locker full while I take a cruise around 
yonder house, where, five years ago, I 
left the dearest bit of human nature that 
was ever put together. I '11 be back di- 
rectly. Who comes here ? It 's surely 
Derrick and his wife. Egad, I 'm in 
luck; for now the old birds are out, 
Meenie will surely be alone. I '11 take 
advantage of the coast being clear, and 
steer into harbour alongside. {Exit.) 

{Enter Derrick, followed by Gretchen.) 

Derrick. So you have come to that con- 
clusion, have you? 

Gretchen. I cannot accept this sacrifice. 

Rip. {Starting from his reverie, and turn- 
ing to look at her.) Why, that is Gret- 
chen's voice. {As he recognizes her, 
and sees how aged she is.) My, my! Is 
that my wife? 

Derrick. Oh, you can't accept! Won't 
you kindly allow me a word on the sub- 
ject? 

Rip. {Aside, humorously.) No, indeed, 
she will not. Now, my friend, you are 
going to coteh it. 

Gretchen. There is a limit even to my 
patience. Don't drive me to it. 



Rip. {Aside, ^ drolly.) Take care, my 
friend; take care. 

Derrick. Look you, woman; Meenie has 
consented to marry my nephew. She 
has pledged her word to do so on con- 
dition that I settle an annuity on you. 

Gretchen. I won't allow my child to 
break her heart. 

Derrick. You won't allow? Dare to 
raise your voice, dare but to speak ex^ 
cept as I command you, you shall re- 
pent it to the last hour of your life. 

Rip. {Expectantly.) Now she'll knock 
him down, flat as a flounder. 

Derrick. {Sneeringly.) You won't al- 
low? This is something new. Who are 
you; do you think you are dealing with 
your first husband? 

Gretchen. Alas, no; I wish I was. 

Rip. {Lost in wonderment.) My, my, if 
Rip was alive, he never would have be- 
lieved it! 

Derrick. So you thought to get the upper 
hand of me, when you married me; 
didn't you? 

Gretchen. I thought to get a home for 
my little girl — shelter, and food; want 
drove me to your door, and I married 
you for a meal's victuals for my sick 
child. 

Derrick. So you came to me as if I was 
a poor-house, eh? Then you can't com- 
plain of the treatment you received. 
You sacrificed yourself for Meenie, and 
the least she can do now, is to do the 
same for you. In an hour, the deeds 
will be ready. Now, just you take care 
that no insolent interference of yours 
spoils my plans; do you hear? 

Gretchen. Yes, sir. 

Derrick. Why can't you be kind and af- 
fectionate to her, as I am to you. There, 
go and blubber over her; that's your 
way. You are always pretending to be 
miserable. 

Gretchen. Alas, no sir! I am always 
pretending to be happy. 

Derrick. Don't cry. I won't have it; 
come now, none of that. If you come 
home today with red eyes, and streaky 
cheeks, I '11 give you something to cry 
for ; now you know what 's for supper. 

{Exit.) 

Rip. {Still amazed.) Well, if I hadn't 
seen it, I never would have believed it ! 

Gretchen, {Absorbed in Iter grief.) Oh, 
TVTetch that I am, I must consent, or 
that man will surely thrust her out of 
doors to starve, to beg, and to become — : 



488 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



{Seeing Rip.) Yes, to become a thing 
of rags and misery, like that poor soul. 
Rip. She always drived the beggars away; 
I suppose I must go. 

{Getting up, and starting to go.) 
Gretchen. {Taking penny from her 
pocket.) Here, my poor man, take this. 
It is only a penny; but take it, and may 
God bless you, poor wanderer, so old, so 
helpless. Why do you come to this 
strange place, so far from home? 
Rip. {Keeping his face turned away from 
her.) She don't know me; she don't 
know me ! 
Gretchen. Are you alone in the world? 
Rip. {Trying to bring himself to look di- 
rectly at Gretchen.) My wife asks me 
if I 'm alone. 
Gretchen. Come with me. How feeble 
he is; there, lean on me. Come to yon- 
der house, and there you shall rest your 
limbs by the fire. 

(Gretchen takes his arm, and puts it 
in her own. As they move towards 
her house. Rip stops, and, with an 
effort, turns and looks her full in 
the face, with a penetrating gaze, as 
if imploring recognition, hut there 
is none; and, sadly shaking his head, 
he shrinks into himself, and allows 
her to lead him tottering off.) 



Scene 4. The same room in Derrick's 
home as in Scene 2. 

{Enter Derrick.) 

Derrick. I don't know what women were 
invented for, except to make a man's life 
miserable. I can get a useful, hard- 
working woman to kee^ my house clean, 
and order my dinner for me, for half 
that weak, snivelling creature costs me. 

{Enter Cockles.) 

Cockles. Well, uncle, what new^s ; w^ill she 
have me? 

Derrick. Leave it to me; she must, she 
shall. 

Cockles. If she holds out, what are we 
to do? It was all very well, you marry- 
ing Rip's widow, that choked off all in- 
quiry into his affairs; but here's Meenie, 
Rip's heiress, who rightly owns all this 
property ; if we don't secure her, we 're 
not safe. 

Derrick. You 've got rid of Hendrick 
Vedder ; that '^ one obstacle removed, 



Cockles. I 'm not so sure about that. 
His ship was wrecked on a lonely coast; 
but some of the crew may have, unfor- 
tunately, been saved. 

Derrick. If he turns up after you 're 
married, what need you care? 

Cockles. I 'd like nothing better; I 'd like 
to see his face when he saw my arm 
around his sweetheart — my wife. But 
if he turns up before our marriage — 

Derrick. I must put the screw on some- 
where. 

Cockles. I '11 tell you, Meenie will do 
anything for her mother's sake. Now 
you are always threatening to turn her 
out, as she turned out Rip. That 's the 
tender place. Meenie fears more for her 
mother, than she cares for herself. 

Derrick. Well, what am I to do? 

Cockles. Make Gretchen independent of 
you; settle the little fortune on her, 
that you are always talking about do- 
ing, but never keeping your word. The 
girl will sell herself to secure her mother's 
happiness. 

Derrick. And it would be a cheap rid- 
dance for me. I was just talking about 
it to Gretchen this morning. You shall 
have the girl; but I hope you are not 
going to marry her out of any weak feel- 
ing of love. You 're not going to let her 
make a fool of you by and by? 

Cockles. I never cared for her until she 
w^as impudent to me, and got that sailor 
lover of hers to thrash me; and then I 
began to feel a hunger for her I never 
felt before. 

Derrick. That 's just the way I felt for 
Gretchen. 

Cockles. 'T ain't revenge that I feel; it 's 
enterprise. I want to overcome a diffi- 
culty. 

Derrick. {Chuckling.) And so you 
shall. Come, we '11 put your scheme in 
train at once; and let this be a warning 
to you hereafter, never marry another 
man's widow. 

Cockles. No, uncle ; I '11 take a leaf out 
of your book, and let it be a warning to 
her. {Exeunt.) 



Scene 5. A plain sitting-room in Der- 
rick's house. A table stands in the cen- 
tre with several chairs around it. There 
are cups, a jug, and a workbasket on 
the table. As the curtain rises, Meenib 
is discovered seated/ 1?y the table. 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



489 



Meenie. Why should I repine? Did my 
mother hesitate to sacrifice her life to 
make a home for me? No; these tears 
are ungrateful, selfish. 

{The door at the hack opens.) 

(Gretchen enters, leading Rip, who seems 
very feeble and a little wild,) 

Gretchen. Come in and rest a while. 

Rip. This your house, your home? 

Gretchen. Yes. Meenie, Meenie, bring 
him a chair. 

Rip. {Turning aside so as to shield his 
face from Meenie.) Is that your 
daughter ? 

Gretchen. Th^t is my daughter. 

Rip. {Looking timidly at Meenie, as 
Gretchen helps him into a chair.) I 
thought you was a child. 

Gretchen. {Crossing to go into another 
room, and speaking to Meenie, who 
starts to follow her.) Stay with him 
until I get some food to fill his wallet. 
Don't be -frightened, child, he is only a 
simple, half-witted creature whose mis- 
ery has touched my heart. 

{Exit. Meenie takes her workhasket 
and starts to follow.) 

Rip. {Holding out his hand to detain her, 
and speaking with hardly suppressed ex- 
citement.) One moment, my dear. 
Come here, and let me look at you. 
{Pathetically.) Are you afraid? I 
won't hurt you. I only want to look at 
you; that is all. Won't you come? 
(Meenie puts down her workhasket; 
and Rip is relieved of his great fear that 
she might leave him. His excitement in- 
creases as he goes on in his struggle to 
make her recognize him.) Yes, I tliought 
you would. Oh, yah, that is Meenie! 
But you are grown! (Meenie smiles.) 
But see the smile and the eyes! That is 
just the same Meenie. You are a 
woman, Meenie. Do you remember 
something of your father? 

{He looks at her eagerly and anx- 
iously, as if on her answer hung his 
reason and his life.) 

Meenie. I do. I do. Oh, I wish he was 
here now! 

Rip. {Half rising in his chair, in his ex- 

■ citement.) Yah? But he isn't? No? 
No? 

Meenie. No ; he 's dead. I remember him 
so well. No one ever loved him as I did. 

Rip. No; nobody ever loved me like my 
child. 



Meenie. Never shall I forget his dear, 
good face. Tell me — 

Rip. {Eagerly and expectantly.) Yah? — 

Meenie. Did you know him? 

Rip. {Confused hy her question, and 
afraid to answer.) Well — I thought I 
did. But I — When I say that here, in 
the village, the people all laugh at me. 

Meenie. He is wandering. 

{She starts to go.) 

Rip. {Making a great effort of will, and 
resolved to put the question of his iden- 
tity to the test.) Don't go away from 
me. I want you to look at me now, and 
tell me if you have ever seen me before. 

Meenie. {Surprised.) No. 

Rip. {Holding out his arms to her.) Try, 
my darlin', won't you? 

Meenie. {Frightened.) What do you 
mean? Why do you gaze so earnestly 
and fondly on me? 

Rip. {Rising from his chair, in tremhling 
excitement, and approaching her.) I 
am afraid to tell you, my dear, because 
if you say it is not true, it may be it 
would break my heart. But, Meenie, 
either I dream, or I am mad; but I am 
your father. 

Meenie. My father! 

Rip. Yes ; but hear me, my dear, and then 
you will know. {Trying to be logical 
and calm, hut labouring under great ex- 
citement.) This village here is the vil- 
lage of Falling Waters. Well, that was 
my home. I had here in this place my 
wife, Gretchen, and my child Meenie — 
little Meenie — {A long pause, during 
which he strives to reassemble his ideas 
and memories more accurately.) and my 
dog Schnei(}er. That 's all the family 
what I 've got. Try and remember me, 
dear, won't you? {Pleadingly.) I 
don't know when it was — This night 
there was a storm; and my wife drived 
me from my house; and I went away — 
I don't remember any more till I come 
back here now. And see, I get back now, 
and my wife is gone, and my home is 
gone. My home is gone, and my child 
— my child looks in my face, and don't 
know who I am! 

Meenie. {Rushing into his arms.) I do! 
Father! 

Rip. {Sobbing.) Ah, my child! Some- 
body knows me now! Somebody knows 
me now! 

Meenie. But can it be possible? 

Rip. Oh, yah; it is so, Meenie! {With a 
patheth return of his uncertainty.) 



490 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



Don't say it is not, or you will kill me 
if you do. 

Meenie. No. One by one your features 
come back to my memory. Your voice 
recalls that of my dear father, too. I 
cannot doubt; yet it is so strange. 

Rip. Yah, but it is me, Meenie; it is me. 

Meenie. I am bewildered. Surely mother 
will know you. 

Rip. (Smiling.) No, I don't believe 
she '11 know me. 

Meenie. She can best prove your iden- 
tity. I will call her. 

Rip. No. You call the dog Schneider. 
He '11 know me better than my wife. 
(They retire to a sofa in the back- 
ground, ivhere Rip sits with his arm 
around Meenie.^) 

(Enter Derrick, with documents.) 

Derrick. What old vagabond is this? 
(Meenie starts to resent insult.) 

Rip. Don't you say a word. 

Derrick. Here, give him a cold potato, 
and let him go. (To Gretchen, ivlio 
has entered, followed by Cockles. 
Gretchen seats herself in the chair at 
the right of the table.) Come you here, 
mistress. Here are the papers for the 
young couple to sign. 

Cockles. (Aside.) And the sooner, the 
better. Hush, Uncle, Hendrick is here. 

Derrick. Young Vedder? Then we must 
look sharp. (To Gretchen.) Come, 
fetch that girl of yours to sign this deed. 

Gretchen. Never shall she put her name 
to that paper with my consent. Never. 

Derrick. Dare you oppose me in my own 
house? Dare you preach disobedience 
under my roof? 

Gretchen. I dare do anything when my 
child's life 's at stake. No, a thousand 
times, no! You shall not make of her 
what you have of me. Starvation and 

1 In reply to a question why "Rip" should sit 
with his arm around "Meenie," during the next 
scene, when the other persons in the driuna are still 
present, and are still ignorant of his identity, Mr 
Jefferson said: "The other persons are occupied 
with their own affairs, and are not svipposed to see 
this. It is natural that 'Rip' should embrace his 
daughter whom he has just found, but the others are 
not supposed to see this. It is like a side speech on 
a stage. I went to a Chinese theatre once, and after 
the Chinese lady got through with her song, they 
brought her a glass of gin; she turned her back to 
the audience, and drank it. as much as to say, 'That's 
not in the play.' We are dealing with the impos- 
sible all the time on the stage ; and we have got 
to make it appear possible. Dramatically, things 
may often be right, when, realistically, they are 
wrong. What we do is often tlie result of averag- 
ing the thing, determining how far good taste will 
admit of an error, you see ; like the discord in music, 
— not good in itself, but good in its place." 



death are better than such a life as I 
lead. 

Derrick. (liaising cane.) Don't provoke 
me. 

Gretchen. (Kneeling.) Beat me, starve 
me. You can only kill me. After all, I 
deserve it. (Rising.) But Meenie has 
given her promise to Hendrick Vedder, 
and she shall not break her word. 

Cockles. (Seated at right of table.) 
But Hendrick Vedder is dead. 

(The door is flung open, and Hendrick 
enters. ) 

Hendrick. That 's a lie ! He 's alive ! 

Gretchen and Meenie. (Rushing to 
him.) Alive! 

Hendrick. ( To Meenie.') I 've heard all 
about it. They made you believe that I 
was dead. (To Derrick.) Only wait 
till I get through here. (Embracing 
Meenie.) What a pleasure I've got to 
come! (To Derrick.) And what a 
thrashing I 've brought back for you two 
swabs. 

Derrick. (Angrily.) Am I to be bullied 
under my own roof by a beggarly sailor? 
Quit my house all of you. (Seizes Gret- 
chen, and drags her away from the 
crowd.) As for you, woman, this is 
your work, and I '11 make you pay for 
it. 

Gretchen. Hendrick, save me from him. 
He will kill me. 

Hendrick. Stand off! 

Derrick. (Raising cane.) No; she is my 
wife, mine. 

Gretchen. Heaven help me, I am! 

(Rip has risen from the sofa, and 
come forward, and leans against the 
centre of the table, witli one hand irt 
his game-bag. lie is fully awake 
now, and has recovered all his old 
shrewdness.) 

Rip. Stop. I am not so sure about that. 
If that is so, then what has become of 
Rip Van Winkle? 

Cockles. He's dead. 

Rip. That 's another lie. He 's no more 
dead than Hendrick Vedder. Derrick 
Von Beekman, you say this house and 
land was yours? 

Derrick. Yes. 

Rip. Where and what is the paper what 
you w\anted Rip Van Winkle to sign 
when he was drunk, but sober enough 
not to do it? (Taking an old paper out 
of game-bag, and turning to Hendrick.) 
Have you forgot how to read? 



AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 



491 



Hexdkiok. No. 

Rip. Then you read that. 

(Hendkick takes the document from 
Rip, and looks it over.) 

Derrick. What does this mad old vaga- 
bond mean to say? 

Rip. I mean, that is my wife, Gretchen 
Van Winkle. 

Gretchen. [Hushing to Rip.) Rip! 
Rip! 

Cockles. I say, uncle, are you going to 
stand that? That old impostor is going 
it under your nose in fine style. 

Derrick. I'm dumb with rage. (To the 
villagers, who have come crowding in.) 
Out of my house, all of you! Begone, 
you old tramp ! 

Hendrick. Stay where you are. {To 
Derrick.) This house don't belong to 
you. Not an acre of land, not a brick 
in the town is yours. They have never 
ceased to belong to Rip Van Winkle; and 
this document proves it. 

Derrick. 'T is false. That paper is a 
forger3^ 

Hendrick. Oh, no, it is not ; for I read it 
to Rip twenty years ago. 

Rip. Clever boy! Clever boy! Dat 's 
the reason I did n't sign it then. Derrick. 

Derrick. (J.pproac/</wY/ Hexdrick.) And 
do you think I 'm fool enough to give up 
my property in this way? 

Hendrick. No. You 're fool enough to 
hang on to it, until we make you refund 
to Rip every shilling over and above the 
paltry sum you loaned him upon it. 
Now^, if you are wise, vou '11 take a hint. 
There 's the door. Go ! And never let 
us see your face again. 

Rip. Yaii; give him a cold potato, and let 
him go. 

{Exit Derrick in a great rage. All 
the villagers laugh at him.) Hen- 
drick follows him to the door.) 



Cockles, {kneeling to Meenie.) 0, 
Meenie ! Meenie ! 

Hendrick. {Coming down, and taking 
him by the ear.) I '11 Meenie you! 

{Takes him and pushes him out. All 
the villagers laugh. Meenie gives 
Rip a chair.) 

Gretchen. {Kneeling by the side of 
Rip.) 0, Rip! I drove you from your 
home ; but do not desert me again. I '11 
never speak an unkind word to you, and 
you shall never see a frown on my face. 
And Rip — 

Rip. Yah. 

Gretchen. You may stay out all night, 
if you like. 

Rip. {Leaning back in his chair.) No, 
thank you. I had enough of that. 

Gretchen. And, Rip, you can get tight 
as often as you please. 

Rip. ( Taking . bottle, and filling the cup 
from it.) No; I don't touch another 
drop. 

Meenie. {Kneeling by the other side of 
Rip.) Oh, yes, you will, father. For 
see, here are all the neighbours come to 
w^elcome you home. 

(Gretchen offers Rip the cup.) 

Rip. {With all his old kindliness and hos- 
pitality.) Well, bring in all the chil- 
dren, and the neighbours, and the dogs, 
and — {Seeing the cup which- Gret- 
chen is offering to him.) I swore off, 
you know. Well, I won't count this one ; 
for this w^ill go down with a prayer. I 
will take my cup and pipe and tell my 
strange story to all my friends. Here is 
my child Meenie, and my wife Gretchen, 
and my boy Hendrick. I '11 drink all 
your good health, and I '11 drink your 
good health, and your families', and may 
they all live long and prosper! 

CURTAIN. 



HAZEL KIRKE 

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
BY 

Steele MacKaye 



Copyright, 1860, by J. S. MacIvaye 

Copyright, 1908, by M. M. MacKaye 
[In Renewal] 



Copyright in Great Britain and Ireland, and in all Countries 
Subscribing to the Bern Convention, 

Published, 1916. 



Special Notice. 

This play in its printed form is designed for the reading 
public only. All dramatic rights in it are fully protected by 
copyright, both in the United States and in Great Britain, and 
no puhlic or private performance — professional or amateur — 
may he given icithout the loritten permission of the owner of 
the copyright and the payment of royalty. As the courts have 
also ruled that the public reading of a play, for pay or 
where tickets are sold, constitutes a "performance," no such 
reading may be given except under conditions as above stated. 
Anyone disregarding the author's rights renders himself liable 
to prosecution. For permission to perform or read in pitllic 
this play, communication should he sent to Mrs. Steele Mac- 
Kaye, in care of the puhlishers. 



HAZEL KIRKE 

Eazel Kirke represents the domestic drama of the late seventies, and the 
work of a singularly interesting pioneer in the dramatic and theatrical history 
of this country. (James) Steele MacKaye was born June 6, 1842, at Fort Por- 
ter, in 'Buffalo, New York. His father. Colonel James M. MacKaye, a promi- 
nent lawyer and art connoisseur, was an abolitionist and a friend of Garrison, 
Emerson, and Lincoln. As a lad, Steele MacKaye studied art first at Newport 
under William Hunt in 1858 and 1859 and later in Paris in the Ecole des 
Beaux Arts and under Gerome, Couture, and others. The Civil War brought 
him back to this country and he served for eighteen months, in the Seventh 
Regiment of New York and then in Colonel Burney's regiment, where he had 
the rank of Major. Illness compelling his retirement, he went again to Paris, 
and here, while executing commissions as an expert buyer of paintings, he became 
interested in photo-sculpture and afterwards introduced it into this country. On 
his return to Paris in 1869 he met Francois Delsarte and became his disciple in 
his classes in expression. The war of 1870 broke up this occupation and he re- 
turned to America where by lecturing on the principles of Delsarte, he secured 
funds with which he aided his master who had been ruined by the war.. His 
initial lecture given in Boston, March 21, 1871, marks an epoch in our theatrical 
history, since his gospel was that of quiet natural force in expression as op- 
posed to the artificial, over-emphatic style of the day. To express these ideas 
further he appeared on the stage in New York at the St. James Theatre, Janu- 
ary 8, 1872, in his adaptation of Washington Allston's novel Monaldi, in which 
Francis Durivage was his collaborator. His success was real in all but financial 
return, and worn out with his first efforts as a manager he returned to Paris, 
studying and acting in French at the Conservatoire, under Regnier, where he 
played ''Hamlet" among other parts and then going to England, where he be- 
came acquainted with Charles Reade and Tom Taylor. Under the latter 's 
management, he acted "Hamlet" from May 3, 1873, to August of the same year 
in London and the provinces. After that, except for occasional benefits he 
acted only in his own plays, his most important parts being ''Dunsfan Kirke," 
"Arthur Carringford" and "Aaron Rodney" in Hazel Kirke, "Paul Kau- 
var" and "Duroc" in Paul Kauvar, and "John Fleming" in Won at Last. 

Steele MacKaye 's work as a teacher was of great significance. He founded 
and conducted four schools of expression, the most important being the Lyceum 
Theatre School in New York which began in 1884, This school, through Mac- 

495 



496 INTRODUCTION 



Kaye 's association with the Frohmans and Mr. David Belasco, had a strong influ- 
ence on the future of the stage, while his direct influence on his many pupils is 
hard properly to estimate. As an organizer and stage manager he had to his 
credit two theatres, numerous theatrical companies, and the Spectatorium at Chi- 
cago in 1893. He built the Madison Square Theatre and the Lyceum Theatre in 
New York, modeling the former on the Theatre Francais, and hoping to bring 
together a permanent company of artists. He planned also to pay properly the 
dramatists who were to write plays for his company. Yet, so careless was he 
in financial dealings, that his contract with the capitalists who controlled the 
theatre gave him but a salary of $5,000 yearly and he shared in none of the 
profits of Hazel Kirke, which amounted to $200,000 in two years. His final 
achievement as an organizer and director was the Spectatorium in Chicago in 
connection with the "World's Fair in 1893, a great project which failed owing 
to the financial crisis of that summer. In this immense auditorium he was 
planning to produce The World Finder, a "Spectatorio" based on the Colum- 
bus story. He died February 25, .1894, having lived to see some of his ideas 
vindicated on a smaller scale in the production of a working model of the 
original plan, known as the Scenitorium, on February 5, 1894. 

As a dramatist, Steele MacKaj^e represents the transition from the older 
theatrical tradition to the newer realism. His work was not by any means free 
from the older devices, but there is a decided advance in the naturalness of the 
characters and in the quietude of expression. His acted plays were as follows: 

Monaldi, with Francis Durivage, first produced at the St. James Theatre, 
New York, January 8, 1872 ; Marriage, adapted from the French of Octave Feuil- 
let's Julie, first produced at the St. James Theatre, New York, February 12, 
1872; Arkivright's Wife, with Tom Taylor, first produced at the Theatre Eoyal, 
Leeds, England, July 7, 1873 ; Rose Micliel, based on the French of Ernest Blum, 
produced for the first time at the Union Square Theatre, New York, November 
23, 1875 ; Queen and Woman, with J. V. Pritchard, first produced at the Brooklyil 
Theatre, Brooklyn, New York, February 14, 1876; Twins, with A. C. Wheeler, 
produced for the first time at Wallack's Theatre, New York, April 12, 1876 ; Won 
at Last, produced at Wallack's Theatre, New York, December 10, 1877; Through 
the Dark, produced for the first time at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, 
IMarch 10, 1879; An Iron Will, produced for the first time at Low's Opera House, 
Providence, Rhode Island, October 27, 1879 ; its revision. Hazel Kirke, produced 
for the first time at the Madison Square Theatre, New York, February 4, 1880 ; 
A FooVs Errand, a dramatization of Judge Tourgee's novel, first produced at the 
Arch Street Theatre, Philadelphia, October 26, 1881 ; Dakolar, based on Georges 
Ohnet's Le Maitre de Forges, first produced at the Lyceum Theatre, New 
York, April 6, 1885; In Spite of All, a play based on Sardou's Andrea, first 
produced at the Lyceum Theatre, New York^ September 15^ 1885 ; Blenzi, based 



INTRODUCTION 497 



on Bulwer Lytton 's novel of the same name, first perf armed at Albaugh 's Opera 
House, Washington, December 13, 1886; The Drama of Civilization, a pageant 
from W. F. Cody's ''Wild West," first performed at the Madison Square Garden, 
New York, November 27, 1887; Anarchy, first performed at the Academy of 
Music, Buffalo, New York, May 30, 1887, and afterward revised as Paul Kauvar, 
at the Standard Theatre, New York, December 24, 1887 ; A Nolle Rogue, first 
performed at the Chicago Opera House, Chicago, Illinois, July 3, 1888 ; An Ar- 
rant Knave, first produced at the Chicago Opera House, Chicago, Illinois, Sep- 
tember 30, 1889; Colonel Tom, first produced at the Tremont Theatre, Boston, 
Massachusetts, January 20, 1890; Money Mad, first produced at the Standard 
Theatre, New York, April 7, 1890. 

Of these nineteen plays, none was an utter failure, nearly all were successes 
in their day, and three, Hazel Kirke, Won at Last, and Paul Kauvar, were 
played for years in stock. Hazel Kirke was written in the town of Dublin, New 
Hampshire, where Steele MacKaye spent the summers of 1878 and 1879. The 
heroine's name was suggested by the sprigs of hazel boughs nearby. It was first 
played under the title of An Iron Will. It had been the intention of its author 
to present it at the Madison Square Theatre, but owing to delay in the comple- 
tion of that theatre it was first produced in Providence, Rhode Island, October 
27, 1879, and taken on tour through Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and 
other cities. On February 4, 1880, the play was put on at the Madison Square 
Theatre under the present name, and ran consecutively for about two years. It 
has continued on the stage for thirty years and in America has been acted at the 
same time by ten companies. It has been produced in England, Australia, Japan, 
Hawaii, and elsewhere. Its success has been due to its human qual- 
ity, and to the fact that it appeals to the primary instincts. It was noteworthy 
in the absence of ''the stage villain" — the incidents were developed naturally, 
and it points forward in our stage technique. 

Hazel Kirke has so far been the only play of Steele MacKaye 's to be pub- 
lished. It was privately printed in New York in 1880 and has been reprinted 
in the Samuel French series. For permission to reprint the play, the ed- 
itor is indebted to the courtesy of Mrs. Steele MacKaye who, with her son, ]\Ir. 
Percy MacKaye, has carefully collated the two editions, and prepared a definitive 
text and furnished valuable biographical and critical information. The present 
editor also acknowledges his indebtedness to the article on ' ' Steele MacKaye, Dy- 
namic Artist of the American Theatre, ' ' by Percy MacKaye, The Drama, Nos. 4 
and 5, November, 1911, and February, 1912. 

Mr. MacKaye has in preparation a memorial volume dealing with the work 
of his father and in this volume Hazel Kirke and Paul Kauvar are to be included. 



The original cast of Hazel Kirke, as first produced at the Madison Square Thea- 
tre, New York City, February 4th, 1880 

HAZEL KIRKE 

A Comedy Drama in Four Acts, written expressly for this Theatre 

STEELE MACKAYE 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Hazel Kirke Miss Effie Ellsler 

Dolly Dutton Miss Gabrielle Du Sauld 

Emily Carringford [Lady Travers] Mrs. Cecil Rush 

jMercy Kirke Mrs. Thomas Whiffen 

Clara, a maid Miss Annie Ellsler 

Arthur Carringford [Lord Travers] Mr. Eben Plympton 

DuNSTAN Kirke Mr. C. W. Couldock 

Aaron Rodney Mr. Dominick Murray 

PiTTACUs Green Mr. Thomas Whiffen 

jMethuselah Miggins [called Met] Mr. Joseph Frankau 

Barney O'Flynn, a valet Mr. Edward Coleman 

Joe, a miller Mr. Fred P. Barton 

Dan, a miller Mr. George Grey 

Thomas, a servant Mr. Henry Jones 

Millers, Servants, etc. 

ACT I. — Scene. — Exterior of Blackburn Mill. 
ACT II. — Scene. — A boudoir in the villa of Fairy Grove. 
ACT III.— Scene.— Kitchen of Blackburn Mill. Night. 
ACT IV.- Scene.— Kitchen of Blackburn Mill. Morning. 

100th performance. May 11, 1880. 

300th performance November 29, 1880. 

Withdrawn May 31, 1881, after 486 consecutive performances. 



HAZEL KIRKE 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene. Exterior of Dunstan Kirke's 
mill. At right, exterior of house, open- 
ing into courtyard; at left, a large gate- 
way. Walls to courtyard covered with 
vines; view of mill-iuheel in background. 
Down right, a bench ; down left, a rustic 
table and two chairs; a pile of empty 
hags up stage center; broom in porch; 
piano visible within. As curtain rises, 
Joe is discovered marking bags; mil- 
ler boys cross behind the wall, ivith hags 
of grain on their shoulders. 

DuNSTAN. {Inside.) Now, then, Dan, 

you dolt — more bags! Be off, boys! 
Dan. {Appearing behind wall, to Joe.) 

More bags — more bags for market. 
Joe. Drat it. Give me time to mark 'em, 

can't ye? 
Dan. Oh! I don't care how long ye take 

— but old man Kirke is gettin' into one 

of his tempers. 
Joe. Oh! His tempers be hanged! I'm 

doin' my best — no man can do more. 

(Met. is heard outside playing a pipe.) 

There 's that young ne'er-do-weel, Me- 

thusaleh Miggins, blowing that frightful 

pipe o' his again! 
Dan. Aye, and he 's always a-blowin' it. 
. By the way, wherever did Maister Kirke 

find the creature? 
Joe. He was left on Maister Kirke's 

hands b\^some help he had, who had the 

impudence to die, and leave this baby 

for maister to take care on. He growed 

up the mischievous booby ye see him — 

and nobody can do nothin' wi' him. 
Dan. Except Mistress Hazel Kirke. She 

can manage him wi' a look. 
DuNSTAN. {Outside.) Hi there! Are 

ye never coomin' wi' those bags? 
Dan. There goes the miller. Hoorry, 

man ! or we '11 all be killed. 
Joe. {Handing bags to him.) Here, take 

these and coom back for more. 
Dun STAN. {Outside.) Will ye bring 

those bags, ye lazy dolts? 
Dan. {Running off.) Aye, aye — I'm 

coomin'. {Exit.) 

{Enter Mercy.) 



Mercy. {Calls.) Dolly! Dolly, child! 
Dolly. {Inside.) Aye, aye, aunt. 
Mercy. Hoorry! Bring the bundles for 

market into the courtyard, lass. 

{Millers appear with bags on their 
shoulders.) 
Dan. {Bushing in.) Bags! More bags, 

Joe! 
Joe. {Handing hags.) Here ye are, I '11 

bring the rest myself. 

{Takes up hags; passes through gate- 
way behind wall, and disappears 
right.) 
Mercy. {Impatiently.) Dolly! Dolly, 

lass — what 's keepin' ye ? 
Dolly. {Entering with bundles.) Here I 

am. Aunt Mercy. 
Mercy. Has thee got the homespun, lass? 
Dolly. Aye — here 't is, bundled and ready 

to go. 
Mercy. That's a good child. Here, tie 

it up wi' the rest o' these. 
Dolly. {Tying bundles.) La, Aunt 

Mercy! Is Uncle Kirke going to take 

all these to market wi' him? 
Mercy. Aye, girl — times be hard, and 

money must be had for Hazel's wedding- 
day. 
Dolly. Hazel's wedding day! 
Mercy. Aye, child, that '11 soon be now. 

Her father has decided that Hazel must 

marry Squire Rodney within three 

months. 
Dolly. Oh! How I hate that Squire 

Rodney ! 
Mercy. Hate him? What for, pray? 
Dolly. For stealing our Hazel away from 

her happiness. 
Mercy. What dost mean, girl? 
Dolly. You're going to make Hazel 

marry Squire Rodney for gratitude, but 

it won't do. Aunt Mercy — Gratitude is 

not the stuff to make a happy marriage 

of. 
Mercy. Peace, lass — peace! 
Dolly. La, Aunt Mercy ! Thee 'd say 

peace to the wicked one himself, if he 

were here. 
Mercy. I think he be here indeed, Dolly 

— in thy temper. 
Dolly. Temper! Well, who has a better 

right to a temper: — my mother was thy 



499 



500 



HAZEL KIRKE 



husband's sister, and all the world knows 
that Dunstan Kirke has the worst tem- 
per in all Lancashire! 

Dunstan {Outside, in rage.) Coom! 
Coom! off wi' 3'e — don't lollop around 
here all day! {Millers cross as before, 
with hags, followed by Dunstan.) 
Hoorry to market, and don't loaf, for 
I '11 be after ye wi' the young colt, as 
fast as ever I can. 

{He goes out after them behind the 
wall. ) 

Mercy. Is everything here, Dolly? 

Dolly. Aye, all I had to get. 

Dunstan. {Outside, left.) Here! here, I 
say ! Stand round and make them things 
right. So — and — so and so — don't ye 
see? 

Dolly. Talk of tempers — listen to Uncle 
Kirke, raging like a maddened bull. 

Met. {Flying across.) Hi! look out, 
he 's comin'! {Exit.) 

Dunstan. {Entering excitedly.) Drat 
'em ! drat 'em, I say ! They 're enough 
to make a divil o' a saint, so they are! 

Mercy. {Soothingly.) There, there, dear 
heart, have patience, patience. 

Dunstan. Patient ! I am patient — pa- 
tient as an angel. — Confound 'em. It 's 
taken me all day to get 'em off. (Hazel 
sings outside. As he listens, Dunstan's 
anger passes away, and he sinks into a 
chair near the table.) Ah! that does me 
good ! that does me good ! My Hazel 's 
a lasSj bless her, to gladden a feyther's 
heart: as modest as a girl should be, 
and as fine-mannered and accomplished 
as any lady i' the land. 

{Enter Rodney, left, with samples of 
grain.) 

Mercy. Yes, she 's well eddicated, now. 

Dunstan. Thanks to Squire Rodney,' God 
bless him. 'T was he got her the lamin'. 

Dolly. And he '11 be well paid for it too, 
when she 's his wife. 

Dunstan. Weel, that '11 soon be now — 
that '11 soon be now. 

(Mercy and Dolly go in the house.) 

Rodney. {Advancing.) I'm not so sure 
of that. 

Dunstan. Ah ! Maister Rodney, I do de- 
clare, here at last ! An' what 's that 
ye 're not so sure on ? 

Rodney. {Sits at left of table.) That 
Hazel will ever be my wife. 

Dunstan. {Seated at right.) Not be thy 
wife ! Why, man, what 's coom to thee, 
man, to say so strange a word? Didn't 



ye save me from ruin, and the whole mill 
from changin' hands, seven year ago, and 
did n't Hazel promise then to be your 
wife, and did n't ye send her oft' to school, 
that she might learn to be the lady o' 
Rodney Hall? 

Rodney. True, Dunstan, but she was only 
fourteen then, and I in my forties; but 
I forgot that when she came of age I 'd 
be fifty and growing old. There 's many 
a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, ye 
know. 

Dunstan. Why! whatever do ye mean, 
man? 

Rodney. Why, I mean accidents may hap- 
pen, and a young girl's heart may 
change. 

Dunstan. Oh! no, no! 

Rodney. Ever since you saved young 
Carringford from drowning, and 
brought him in here, I 've noticed a 
change in Hazel's manner to me. You 
don't look with my eyes, Dunstan, you 
don't see what I see. 

Dunstan. And what dost see, sir? 

Rodney. I see a fine, handsome, brave 
young man lying ill and helpless; I see 
a lovely young girl waiting upon him, 
nursing him back to life ; I see two young 
hearts looking at each other through 
young eyes; talking to each other with 
young tongues; touching each other with 
young hands, and — well, Dunstan, I 
know what this must come to soon. 

Dunstan. Maister Rodney, there is a 
holy book, that my bairn reads to us 
every day. Dost think that she can ever 
forget that the book commands us to 
keep our faith? 

Rodney. Ah! Dunstan, when the heart 
S]:)eaks, all other voices are dumb. 

Dunstan. {Bising.) A promise be a 
promise! {Striking the table.) If my 
child were to break her word, I 'd drive 
her out as I would a scorpion on my 
hearth. Everybody knows the metal 
I 'm made on. What I say, I '11 do. 
{He strikes the table again.) And I tell 
thee now, Aaron Rodney, that this day 
three months Hazel Kirke shall be thy 
wife. 

Hazel. {Outside.) Thanks, I've found 
them — I '11 go myself. 

Rodney. {Rising.) Hush! That's her 
voice, she 's coming ! Not a word of my 
fears to her! 

Dunstan. Oh ! That 's all right. 

Hazel. {Entering, porch, right, goes to 
Dunstan.) Here, father, are some let- 



STEELE MACKAYE 



501 



ters I want you to post. You won't for- 
get? 
DuNSTAN, Notliing that thee can ask, lass 
— not while thy face shines as bright 
wi' innocence as it does now! But look, 
child, there 's Maister Rodney, child. 

{Enter Mercy and Dolly.) 

Hazel. Good-morning, Mr. Rodney. 

{She gives her hand.) 

DuNSTAN. Nay, lass, don't mind us, .give 
him a kiss — a good, hearty, honest girl's 
kiss. 

Hazel. {Laughing.) That's something 
I never refused him yet. (Rodney kisses 
her; she turns to Mercy.) Now, mother, 
have you given father the list of things 
you want? 

Mercy. Not yet, lass — sit down and write 
it for him. 

(Hazel sits at table and writes.) 

DuNSTAN. {To Rodney.) Well, now, 
what girl could have given a franker 
kiss than that? 

Rodney. Aye, Dunstan, 'twas frank 
enough ; 't was frank enough. 

Dunstan. To be sure it was. 

Hazel. {Going to Dunstan.) Here, 
father, is the list of things for you to 
get. 

Dunstan. A' reet, girl. Now, wife, where 's 
the stuff for me to take to market? 
{All begin to load him with things.) 

Dolly. Here 's the rags and the hose. 

Mercy. And here 's the homespun. 

Rodney. And here are my samples of 
grain. 

Hazel. And here are my letters. Be sure 
you don't forget the list! 

Dunstan. No, girl, I shan't forget any- 
thing. I am not the forgettin' kind. 
{Going, stops and turns.) Ah! I'm 
forgettin' one thing now, to ask after 
Maister Carringford. How is he this 
mornin', lass? 

Hazel. Better, I think. 

Dunstan. Ah ! he better be. He 's been 
here more nor a month. He 's a long 
time a-gettin' well. 

Hazel. But think how horribly he was 
hurt! {Exit Rodney.) 

Dunstan. Aye, but I 've seen older 
bones sooner mended. It 's time he were 
well and off to his work; this is no place 
for idle hands. Give him a hint, girl — 
and here, my darling, gi' me a partin' 
kiss. {He kisses her.) God be wi' ye, 
child, and keep ye always the blessin' 
ihat ye are. {Exit.) 



Hazel. {Sitting.) Ah! thank heaven! 

he cannot *see the wickedness in my 

wretched, wretched heart. 
Joe. {Outside.) Get out of this! 



Met. {Outside.) 

that! 
Hazel. 
Dolly. 

Met. 
Hazel. 



Hi! Hold on! take 
{A crash is heard.) 
{Starting.) What's that? 
Oh I another row between Joe and 

Joe is always abusing poor Met. 
{Cries are heard outside.) 

(Met rushes in.) 

Met. {Hiding behind Hazel.) Save me! 
save me! 

(Joe enters.) 

Joe. {With a stick.) Where is he? Let 
me get at him. 

Hazel. No, no, you shall not touch him. 

Joe. {In rage.) I will, and no woman 
shall stop me! 

Met. {Squaring off.) Come on, Joe! 
I 'd rather fight than blow my pipe. 

Dolly. {Laughing.) Ha, ha! The boy 
has found a bit of pluck at last. 

Hazel. {Soothingly.) Let him alone. 
There, there, Joe, let him alone; no more 
of this — leave him to me, and I '11 punish 
him for you. 

Met. I 'd rather be punished by you, 
missus, than petted by a' the rest. 

Hazel. Well, then, come with me. 

Met. {Suspiciously.) Are ye goin' to 
Maister Carringford? 

Hazel. Why do you ask that? 

Met. Because if ye are, I won't go. — J 
hate him! 

Hazel. Hate him? What for? 

Met. Because you love him so. 

Hazel. {Severely.) How dare you say 
that? 

Met. Because it 's true. 

Hazel. {With mock severity, extending 
her hand.) Met, come with me this in- 
stant, sir. 

Met. Where ? 

Hazel. To pick some flowers. 

Met. Oh ! then I '11 go, mistress — then 
I '11 go. {He takes her hand, turns at 
gate, bahs at Joe, and goes out with 
Hazel. Joe starts after him.) 

Dolly. {Holding Joe back.) Oh! never 
mind that fellow. Come, come, Joe — I 
w^ant you to help me bring my things 
out here. — It 's cooler working here than 
inside. 

Joe. {Going with her.) All right, Miss 



502 



HAZEL KIRKE 



Dolly, show me the things you want. 
{They go into the house.) 

{Enter Barney, followed by Dan.) 

Dan. Here 's the house and this be the 
mill ye 're askin' after. {Exit.) 

Barney. Thankee ! thankee ! So there 's 
the mill-dam, where my master was 
drowned about six weeks since. 

Dolly. {Appears at the door with Joe, 
carrying table.) Take care now, Joe — 
don't spill the potatoes. 

Barney. {Stepping aside.) Some one 
coming ; I '11 step aside and recognog 
the situation. 

(Dolly and Joe place the table left.) 

Dolly. There, now ; that 's all I want of 
you. Go and look after Met. 

Joe. {Going.) Look after Met? I'd 
rather look after the fiend himself. 
{Exit. Barney comes forward and 
coughs.) 

Dolly. {Turns.) Who's this? 

Barney. Only myself, Miss. 

Dolly. And who are you? 

Barney. Barney O'Flynn — the lackey of 
my lord. 

Dolly. And who 's he ? 

Barney. One of your lodgers, I belave. 

Dolly. A lord lodging here ! Ye 're 
wrong, man; this is no place for lords. 

Barney. True enough, darlin', true 
enough, darlin' — but still my lord is here. 

Dolly. Will you give me the lie in my 
own house? Get out of this, ye un- 
mannerly brute! 

{Raises broom and chases him.) 

Barney. Hould now! hould now! hould! 
sure, here 's his own direcshon in my 
own hand this minute. {lie shows a let- 
ter.) Lord Travers, at Dunstan Kirke's 
mill, Blackburn, Lancashire — Isn't this 
Lancashire ? 

Dolly. Yes. 

Barney.. And isn't this the mill of Dun- 
stan Kirke? 

Dolly. Yes. 

{She turns and slaps her broom at 
him. ) 

Barney. Very well, thin. Lord Travers is 
here, just as sure as I 'm Barney 
O'Flynn, an' there 's the proof av it, a 
letter calling Master Arthur home to 
onst. 

Dolly. Arthur — Arthur Carringford! 

Barney. Yes, of course, he 's Lord Trav- 
ers, and my master. 

Dolly. Mr. Carringford a lord! 



Barney. Of course he 's a lord — of course 
he 's a lord, and I 've been sent down 
from London to take him home, in a 
howl of a hurry too. Where is he? 

Dolly. There — {pointing right) in the 
house. 

Barney. Oh! he is, is he? Now ain't you 
ashamed of yourself, and you were going 
to drive me out of tins! {Imitating 
her.) "Will ye give me the lie in my 
own house?" Never mind, darlin', I for- 
give ye, I forgive — 

Dolly. {Striking him with the broom.) 
Get out o' this, ye fool! {Exit Barney, 
with a howl into the house.) Mr. Car- 
ringford a lord! And in love with 
Hazel too! Aye he is — I know he is — I 
can see it in his face every time he looks 
at her. Ah! if poor Hazel were only 
free, she might be Lady Travers, rich 
and grand! He has her heart already, 
aye, and except for Mr. Rodney, he 'd 
have her hand as wtII. {Goes to table 
and begins to clean carrots.) Ah! if I 
were Hazel, I know what I 'd do. I 'd 
marry the man I loved in spite of all the 
world. (Green is heard singing outside 
^'The King's Highway.") Ah! who's 
that fine young swell coming this way? 

(Green enters humming; sees her, stops, 
strikes an attitude, sings "My face is my 
fortim.e, sir, she said." Dolly stares, 
amazed.) 

What sort of a creature is this? 

{Holding a carrot in her hand, she 
moves toward him.) 

Green. Stand where you are. 

You 're the sweetest picture of surprise, 
That ever yet has blessed my eyes ! ^ 

Oh ! 't is true, and by my soul I swear it ! 
{Pointing to the wall.) Will you per- 
mit me? 

Dolly. Permit ye what? 

Green. To change the situation — thus. 
{He leaps over the wall.) Ha! ha! 

Dolly. Who are ye, sir? 

Green. A hunter of heroes. 

Dolly. What brings you here? 

Green. A tyrant called Curiosity. 

Dolly. La, the man is mad! 

Green. No, I grieve to say I 'm not. 1 
wish I were: — madmen are monsters, 
everything monstrous is fascinating, but 
I, alas ! I 'm not fascinating, am I ? 

Dolly. La, man! I don't know what ye 
are. 

Green. You may not believe it, but I 



STEELE MACKAYE 



503 



once was born, a baby too! Oh! I tell 
you funny things have happened to me. 
At the early age of one minute, (Dolly 
starts) I howled to see the world. 

Luckily my father made 

A handsome fortune in lemonade, 

By aid of which aid, I am glad to say 

I am enabled now to-day 

To see the world and have my way; 

That way, remark, is this: 

(Dolly, slightly frightened, looks at 
Green in astonishment during this 
tirade. ) 

Green. I go where I please, say what I 
please, and please where I can; do you 
understand ? 

Dolly. Not a single word you say. 

Green. That's just what I supposed. 
Then I will be plain with you: plain in 
fact; to be plain in feature is impossible. 
I was born — is that clear? 

Dolly. {Keeps her eye on Green, won- 
dering.) Of course. 

Green. And bom queer. 

Dolly. That's clearer still. 

Green. 

That queerness born in me, 
Now brings me here to thee — 
For let me tell you here 
That this is how I 'm queer. 

(Dolly starts hack.) A monster or a 
hero I adore; ordinary mortals I de- 
test; they are too much like Pittacus 
Green. 

Dolly. And who is Pittacus Green ? 

Green. The humble and devoted slave 
now gazing in those lovely eyes. {See- 
ing the carrot in her hand.) Will you 
permit me to relieve you of the ponderous 
vegetable that cumbers these fair hands? 
Ah, yes! Thank you. 

{He takes it to the table.) 

Dolly. And so you are Pittacus Green? 

Green. That is my distinguished name: 
Pit-ta-cus Green, or, as I am called for 
short, Pitty Green, which is maddening! 
If it was Pitty Brown, Black, or Blue, 
but Pitty Green — it 's so hanged appro- 
priate. Of course everybody does pity 
Green. You may not believe it, but they 
say I 'm cracked. 

{Very serious, he slowly crosses to 
right center.) 

Dolly. {Drawing hack.) I knew it. 

Green. Don't be alarmed. It's lovely to 
be cracked! 



Dolly. Lovely to be cracked ! 

Green. Of * course. Convince men that 
you are cracked, and they will let you 
do the oddest things. They '11 smile in- 
stead of frown, and I, to gain a smile 
from lips like yours, again I 'd play any 
game. Do you understand me now? 

Dolly, {Laughing.) I 'd be a donkey if 
I didn't. I understand and like you, 
too, and {frankly) there 's Dolly Dut- 
ton's hand to prove it. 

Green. You maj^ not believe it, but you 're 
an angel! Dolly Dutton! So your 
name is Dolly Dutton? Delightful 
Dolly Dutton. D, D, D, indeed! You 
are an angel. {Pointing to her hand.) 
Will you permit me? 

Dolly. Anything that 's honest. 

(Green attempts to kiss her hand. 
She snatches her hand away and he 
kisses his own hand.) 

Green. 'T is honest. Fair exchange is no 
robbery. Ah! I see! Consider me a 
beggar at your feet. 

Dolly. Now tell me truly — what it is 
that brings you here. 

Green. As I said before, a monster or a 
hero I adore. 

Dolly. And do you expect to find a mon- 
ster here? 

Green. Yes, one in particular, Dunstan 
Kirke, the miller of Blackburn Mill. He 
is the monster that I mean, the rarest 
monster ever seen. A monster of good- 
ness, who, during the last ten years, has 
saved from death by drowning at least 
forty souls, with their bodies attached 
to them. 

Dolly. And so you 're here to see my 
surly old uncle, who saves other folks, 
perhaps, while he destroys his own 
daughter. 

Green. Destroys his own daughter? Su- 
perb! Does he destroy her often? I 
mean is he taken so frequently? A 
charming old creature! Sit down. 
{Politely bowing, showing chair.) Make 
yourself at home; I do. Tell me all 
about him. {He sits at the table.) 

Dolly. {Joining him at the table.) 
Well, sir, you 've heard of the many he 's 
saved. Have you heard of the one he 's 
sold? 

Green. No! Someone sold? Delightful! 
Who was it? 

Dolly. The pride of this family, sir, my 
cousin. Hazel Kirke ; she 's the one that 's 
sold. 

Green, Oh! Is she? Indeed! poor 



504 



HAZEL KIRKE 



thing, I synipatliize ; I 've been sold my- 
self. Who sold her? 

Dolly. Her own father, Dunstan Kirke, 
your hero! 

Green. Dear me! Why did he do it? 

Dolly. Because he loves his old mill more 
than anything else in the world. Seven 
years ago the bank that held my uncle's 
savings broke, and the old man was 
about to lose the mill, when Aaron Rod- 
ney loaned him money without interest 
or security. 

Greex. He was a jolly old idiot! What 
was his little game? 

Dolly. When the mill was safe, Dunstan 
Kirke asked the 'Squire what he could 
do to prove his thankfulness. 

Green. Oh! ho! I smell a rat. 

Dolly. "Sir," said the 'Squire, "you have 
a daughter whom I like; give me leave 
to send her off to school, have her taught, 
and then become my wife and the lady of 
Rodney Hall." 

Green. Just so. That 's the rat I smelt. 
Ah! ha! precisely — Rodney goes to her, 
makes love to her, fills her mind with 
gaudy pictures, chromos, thromos, and 
tells her of the good his wealth will do 
for her and hers; and so she, a thought- 
less child, makes a rash promise to an 
old scoundrel, which promise is sure to 
play the dev — Mephistopheles with them 
both. 

Dolly. Why, man, how did you know 
that? 

Green. Quite simply; I guessed it. 
{Rising slightly, he leans over the table.) 

Dolly. Well, then, ye 're not so much of 
a fool as ye look. 

Green. Bless you for those kind words! 
{Drawing hack.) Tell me, what became 
of your cousin? 

Dolly. Seven years ago she was sent to 
school; six months ago she returned. 

Green. Then she was awfully fond of old 
Rod, of course? 

Dolly. She 's proud and silent, sir, but 
I, who love her, read her heart, and I 
know that Aaron Rodney is not the man 
she loves. 

Green. Egad! The situation inspires 
me! Wliat would you say if I were to 
clear your Cousin Hazel of her bargain 
with the 'Squire? 

Dolly. {Rises and goes toward the house.) 
I 'd say ye were the best man that ever 
crossed the threshold of Blackburn 
Mill. 

Green. {Excited, follows her.) That be- 



ing the case, what would you give me to 
have it done? 

Dolly. Anything I 've got. 

Green. Even your heart? 

Dolly. La, man ! I have n't got any. 

Green. Haven't you? Well, then, would 
you give this fashionable substitute? 

Dolly. Oh, yes, if ye 'd care to take it. 
{Sticking out a dirty hand.) 

Green. {Taking it.) H'm! It's a little 
mouldy, misty, mildewy, millery, the soil 
of honest labor, I mean. Yes, this is 
romance, and I 'm the Roman. I '11 be 
your best man ; I '11 outwit old Rod or 
die. 

Dolly. But how, man? How? 

Green. You may not believe it, but I 
once had a mother; funny things have 
happened to me. That mother, she never 
could wind a yarn without making a 
snarl, and I could never undo the snarl 
without telling a yam. 

Dolly. What of that? 

Green. I have great faith in the power of 
a yarn to undo a snarl. Now there 's a 
snarl in this family; give me the leave 
to tell yarns enough, and I '11 guarantee 
to undo the snarl. Ha! ha! ha! Why, 
bless me, it 's perfectly delightful ! 
{He paces up and down, Dolly follow- 
ing him.) I'm tempted to play a new 
role, turn dramatist in real life ! We 've 
only to manage a little to make the play 
what we please. There 's the stern 
father, Dunstan Kirke; the heavy vil- 
lain, old Rod; the pretty victim. Hazel 
Kirke ; the scheming cousin, that 's you ; 
the good-natured idiotic busy-body, — 

Dolly. That's you; and why do you 
stop? 

Green. Confound it, there 's something 
lacking ! We '11 imagine here 's our 
Andromeda chained to a rock, and about 
to be devoured by a dragoon — no, a 
dragon: — wanted, the hero, Perseus, to 
deliver her. Where shall we get a hero? 
As Byron says: "I want a hero; an 
uncommon want, when every month 
sends forth a new one." — that 's Don 
Juan. Egad! I have it! We'll ad- 
vertise. (Arthur whistles outside.) 
Hello ! How 's this ? Who 's that ? 

Dolly. Only one of my uncle's patients. 

Green. Who is he? 

{Enter Arthur.) 

Dolly. Here he comes ; find out for your- 
self. 
Green. Fate, I thank thee! The con- 



STEELE MACKAYE 



505 



quering hero comes. {He goes right.) 

Arthur. Ah, Miss Dolly ! Have you seen 
my dog? 

Dolly. Perhaps he 's with Hazel. She 
went off with' Met a little while ago. 
Shall I find her for you? 

Arthur. You 're very kind ; if it is n't 
too much trouble. I should be glad of 
a little of Miss Hazel's company, if she 's 
at leisure. You know I must soon leave 
this dear old place. 

(He sits at the table.) 

Dolly. I '11 try to find her, sir. 

{Exit left center.) 

Green. {Looks at Arthur and starts.) 
Ye great gods of war! 

Arthur. {Noticing him for the first 
time.) Ha! What idiot is this? 

Green. It is, it is ! By the bolts of Jove, 
it is! 

Arthur. {Coolly.) Indeed! Is it? — what 
is? 

Green. You is — am — you are — Either 
I 'm a cow, or this is Lord Travers ! 

Arthur. {Rising angrily.) Who is Lord 
Travers? 

Green. You is — am — are. Look at me 
sharp. Don't you remember P. G.? 
Have you forgotten our tiger hunt in 
India? Ah! there was a monster worth 
meeting: he met you and treed you too. 
Can't you recall your old comrade of the 
jungle, Pittacus, the mouse that freed 
you, the lion ? Why, it was the proudest 
shot of my life ! 

Arthur. {Extending his hand.) On my 
word! Is it possible — you here? 

Green. Of course I am! {Wringing Ar- 
thur's hand.) And, bless my soul, how 
glad I am to see you. 

Arthur. Hold on, stop; do you know 
what you are doing? 

Green. What am I doing? 

Arthur. The arm you are torturing is 
only half mended. 

Green. Gracious! What do you mean? 

Arthur. That this is a broken arm but 
slightly convalescent. 

Green. {Seizing a carrot from the table.) 
Travers, I 'm a brute ! Take that indi- 
gestible vegetable and crack my skull! 
{He offers the carrot.) 

Arthur. {Sitting again.) Thanks, dear 
boy, it 's cracked enough already. 

Green. Yes, precisely; I see your ven- 
geance is complete. (Green keeps the 
carrot and seats himself.) 

Arthur. Now tell me how you found me 
out? 



Green. Oh!^ Quite naturally! By acci- 
dent, the usual way. How did you get 

here? 

Arthur. Came to Lancashire to escape 
the tiresome nonsense of town life; went 
shooting with my dog, attempted to cross 
the stream by a tree that lay over it, 
just above the dam there. {Points.) 

Green. The what? 

Arthur. The dam. 

Green. Oh! dam! 

Arthur. Slipped like a fool, fell, broke 
my arm in falling and sank unconscious 
into the water. 

Green. {Breaking the carrot in two.) 
Merciful powers! 

Arthur. My dog sprang in and held me 
above the surface; Kirke, the miller, 
caught sight of us, and jumped in; 
pulled me out and lodged me here, where 
I 've had the best of care for six weeks. 

Green. {Holds up each half of the car- 
rot, to represent the sold and the saved, 
and at end of his speech, places the small 
half on top of the other and holds it 
upright.) Great fortune! I see it all. 
It 's the saved and the sold, side by side, 
beneath the same roof; she is the sold, 
and you are now the saved. Two hearts 
with but a single stock. Travers, my 
dear boy, you may not believe it, but 
there 's more than accident in this ar- 
rangement. 

Arthur. Undoubtedly, but your exclama- 
tions are somewhat obscure. 

Green. Look here, old man, let 's get to 
business. Time flies. I helped you 
when you were in a carrot — no, no — I 
mean a stew, a pickle; and now you 
must help me. 

Arthur. With pleasure! How can I do 
it? 

Green. By falling desperately in love. 

Arthur. {Laughing.) Oh! Falling in 
love ! Why, that 's your business ; you 
were always falling in love. 

Green. Of course, why not? "I love to 
live, and I live to love." As the poet 
says, "Come live with me and be my 
love." 

Arthur. Eccentric dog! You always 
manage to make logic and delight agree. 

Green. Ah ! Travers, I 've met my fate at 
last! 

Arthur. Nonsense! You were always 
meeting your fate. Who is it this time? 

Green. Dolly Dutton, the miller's niece. 

Arthur. You '11 find her rather a Uvely 
fate, I fancy. 



506 



HAZEL KIRKE 



Green. Precisely ! I know I shall, that 's 
the way I like 'em. She 's a perfect 
monster. 

Arthur. Monster? 

Green. Yes, a monster of beauty and 
goodness; but come, I say again, will 
you do me a favor and fall in love? 

Arthur. Certainly, with whom? 

Green. With a friend of mine. Will you 
do it? 

Arthur. Certainly. I find there 's noth- 
ing easier than to fall ; I 've tried one 
element, I 've no fear to try another. 
With whom must I fall in love? 

Green. An angel in a fix; Hazel Kirke, 
the miller's daughter. 

Arthur. [Sternly.) Stop, sir; I shall 
not tolerate nonsense that touches her 
good name. Understand this at once. 

Green. {Staring.) Capital! I'm more 
than satisfied ! I 'm ecstatic. You 're 
in love with her already. 

Arthur. {Rising angrily.) Sir! (Hazel 
sings outside. Green crosses to right 
center. Arthur goes to the gate, starts, 
returns slowly and seats himself. At the 
end of the song he goes to Green.) 
Green, Miss Kirke is coming. I 'm 
known here simply as Arthur Carring- 
ford; you must not betray my title; it 
would only raise a barrier between me 
and the golden hearts to whom I owe so 
much. 

Green. {Taking his hand.) Travers, I 
honor your sentiments, and will respect 
your wish. 

Dolly. {Appearing at gate.) Here she 
is, Mr. Carringford. 

{Enter Hazel, with a basket of flowers, 
followed hy Met.) 

Hazel. {At gate, to Met.) Now, Met, go 
to Mother Weedbury's cottage and cut 
some wood for the poor thing, and stop 
there till I come. I will be there to help 
her with the children this afternoon. 

Met. All right. Missus, I '11 go ; but mind 
it 's for you, not for the old woman. 

{Exit.) 

Hazel. Good-morning, Mr. Carringford. 

Arthur. Good-morning, Miss Hazel, I 'm 
glad to have a glimpse of you at last. 

Met. {Appearing in gate.) Hi! Missus, 
I say, may I go by the big woods? 

Hazel. No, Met, take the straight path. 

Green. And follow your nose. {Exit 
Met. ) I 'm afraid you 've given him a 
terrible task; if he follows his nose he 
will have a long journey before he gets 



to the end of it. Still, a brute with a 
long nose generally has some scents 
about him, ha, ha, ha! Do you see? 
you may not believe it, but that 's a joke. 
(Hazel notices him with surprise.) Oh! 
Excuse me! (Green speaks aside to 
Arthur.) Travers, don't you see what 
an idiot I am making of myself? Have 
mercv! Why don't you present me to 
the lady? 

Arthur. Miss Kirke, permit me to pre- 
sent a very dear old friend, Mr. Pittacus 
Green. 

Hazel. {Extending her hand.) He's 
doubly welcome, as your friend, and for 
his own frank face. 

Green. {Clasping her hand.) Ah! Miss 
Kirke, I 'm a very old-fashioned young 
fool. Will you permit me? {Kisses her 
hand.) I am your slave. {Aside.) 
Pittacus, there 's no use, you 're an as- 
sassin from this hour; the one dear pur- 
pose of your life is to get Squire Rod- 
ney cremated without delay. 

{Enter Rodney hy the gate. He watches 
Hazel.) 

Hazel. Let me share my treasures. {She 
places a flower in Green's coat.) There, 
what do you say to that? 
Green. I say nothing, nothing! I am 
dumb with delight. {Aside.) Decid- 
edly, old Rod is a doomed man. 

(Pittacus goes toward the wall and 
sees Rodney appear in the gate- 
way.) 
Hazel. (To Arthur, em&arrassef?.) Will 

you accept a flower? 
Arthur. {Taking it.) Thanks. 

{lie withdraws a little.) 
Rodney. {Coming forward.) Hazel, now 
ye 've serv^ed the others, can't ye think 
o' me a little? 
Hazel. {Starting ; then with composure.) 
I beg your pardon. I did not see you, 
Mr. Rodney; you are welcome to what 
remains. 

{She hands him the basket.) 
Rodney. {Taking out leaves.) Emblem 
of my hopes, nothing but leaves; dead 
and withered leaves ! 

{Tie puts the basket on the table, and 

goes out through the gate.) 

Green. {Looking after him.) As Dr. 

Hamlet says, that 's nux vomica for the 

gentleman. 

Arthur. {Coming down, right, speaks to 

Green.) Let us go, we're in the way. 

— Miss Hazel, if you '11 permit me, I '11 



STEELE MACKAYE 



507 



take my friend to my room for a talk 
of old times. 

Hazel. Sorry to lose you. 

(Arthur goes out.) 

Greex. My dear Miss Kirke, you may not 
believe it," but, by the justice of Jove, 
we '11 meet again. 

(Hazel goes out through the gate. 
Green sings "We shall meet again/' 
and goes towards the porch.) 

Dolly. [Barring his passage.) Stop! 
stop! stop! 

Green. [Ending his song with a trill.) 
I must finish in the right key. 

Dolly. Well, now, look here; you prom- 
ised me to free my cousin Hazel from 
her bargain with the Squire. When are 
you going to begin? 

Green. The very next time I meet old 
Ram Rod. He was here just now. If 
there 's a timid bone in his body, I '11 
make him come to terms, and he '11 die 
a bachelor, just as sure as — you 're the 
prettiest girl that ever blest my eyes. 

Dolly. La, Mr. Green, you 're too full of 
sweet words, I 'm thinking. 

Green. Dear me, if my words were only 
as sweet as your face, I 'd put 'em on 
the market and bust up the sugar trade, 
I would. 

Dolly. Hoity toity, man! [Going.) 
Keep your promise, Master Green, an' 
I '11 keep mine. 

[She goes out through the porch.) 

Green. [Looking after her, at door.) 
Pittacus, you may not believe it, but the 
day that girl was born was the brightest 
in all the year! Oh, love! love! love! 
Romeo and Juliet! Oh, roses! Nightin- 
gales! balconies, rope ladders, and vari- 
ous things attached to the passion of 
love! At last, poor Pitty, you have a 
work to do. And what a work! To 
save two young and loving hearts from 
misery and a monster! [Turns and sees 
Rodney coming.) Stars of the summer 
night, far in yon azure height! The 
monster ! 

[Enter Rodney, hy gate.) 

Why, you 're the very man I want to see. 

Rodney. Well, sir, I 'm here and easily seen. 

Green. [At right of table.) You'll per- 
mit me? [He shows a chair. Rodney 
drops into the chair at left of table.) 
First, then, let me inform you that 

I 'm Captain Green, of Her Majesty's marine. 
But I 'm not so verdant as my name may seem ! 



I know a wronged man when I see him, 
sir, and permit me to assure you, sir, 
that you are one. 

[He sits at right of table.) 

Rodney. Indeed, sir, how am I wronged? 

Green. As Shakespeare, a poet, says: 
"She who steals my heart steals trash: 
'twas mine, 'tis hers, and hath been 
slave to thousands; but she who filches 
from me my purse, robs me of that 
which much enriches her, and leaves me 
poor indeed." (Rodney laughs.) Do 
you see the point? 

Rodney. No, it 's a little dull. 

Green. Then I '11 sharpen it. A certain 
rich Squire saves a certain poor father 
from ruin, and spends a little* fortune 
in having the daughter taught to become 
his wife — that is the taking of the purse. 

Rodney. Well? 

Green. Before the wedding 's had, and 
the purse is paid for, a good-for-nothing 
young fellow tumbles into a ditch, is 
fished out by the father, nursed by the 
daughter, and that is the stealing of the 
heart — do you understand? 

Rodney. I think I do. 

Green. Do you see the danger? 

Rodney. Not yet. 

Green. Why, it 's as plain as your face, 
ha, ha, ha, ha ! You see, women are curi- 
ous creatures. You may not believe it, 
but the silly fools prefer hearts to pen- 
nies; youth and beauty they like better 
than age and ugliness. Do you see now? 

Rodney. [Rises.) Thanks to your ex- 
treme politeness, I should think I might. 
[He crosses to gate.) 

Green. Squire, there 's but one way out 
of this: Threaten to fight the fellow, 
challenge him and frighten him away. 
Do you take? 

Rodney. [At gate.) I do. 

Green. Spoken like a man. When shall 
the fight begin? 

(Dolly enters, watching them from the 
porch.) 

Rodney. Without delay. 

(Dolly draws back in door, right.) 

Green. You 're a hero, sir, a man of 
nerve ; I 'm proud to know you. Count 
on me, count on me, sir, to fix things 
right. [He offers his hand. Rodney 
does not take it, but lifts his hat and 
goes out.) Still, Squire, I'm exceed- 
ingly proud to know you. [With de- 
light.) Splendissimus ! Gloria et vic- 
toria .' 



508 



HAZEL KIRKE 



Dolly. {In disgust, coming forward.) 
So, sir, you be mighty thick with Maister 
Rodney now! 

Green. Exactly; but my thickness is the 
thinnest thickness that ever was thicked; 
do you understand that? 

Dolly. My heart, man! Ye daze me 
dumb with your talk. 

Green. My dear, the snarl is settled. 
He 's the easiest ass to manage I ever 
met. Before another day, he '11 chal- 
lenge Carringford and go in haste 
{Pointing downward.) — to heaven. 

Dolly. {In astonishment.) To heaven! 

Green. Then, Miss Dolly, your cousin 
will be free, and you '11 be bound, yes, 
bound," to keep your promise: your 
heart, your hand, or both. 

Dolly. You '11 get my hand over your 
head if you don't mind. 

Green. Delightful! I'd like that— let 
me show you how. {Taking her hand, 
he lifts it over his head.) There, over 
my head, so. {Putting it round his neck, 
he kisses her.) — And so! 

Dolly. {Flinging him off.) How dare 
you, sir? 

Green. Now I 've done my part, it is 
your turn. (Dolly pretends to strike 
him.) Oh, no, not that! 

Mercy. {Outside.) All right, Mr. Rod- 
ney, I '11 tell Dunstan what ye say. 

Green. Whose honey-laden organ is that? 

Dolly. That 's Hazel's mother. 

Green. Dear me! Hazel had a mother? 

Dolly. Why, of course, she has her now. 

Green. Oh! I see, funny things happen 
to others as well as me! Well, then, 
now, seriously your part is to see her 
mother, and tell her you know that Rod- 
ney is not the man that Hazel loves. 

Dolly. I 'd never dare do that. 

Green. What ! would you desert me now ? 
upon the verge of great success? No! 
Courage! Speak! and your cousin will 
be blest. 

{Enter Mercy at door.) 

Ah ! Here she comes ! I '11 leave her 
to the tender mercies of your tongue. 
{He goes to the table for his hat.) 
Madame, will you permit me? (He 
takes the hat, going.) I'll humbly take 
my leaf. {Takes a leaf from the basket. 
At door.) Madame, in the words of the 
immortal bard, Avon, if all the world 
were in the right, you and I would never 
be in the wrong. This was sometime a 
paradox, but now — {Sings, "When the 



bloom is on the rye.") you may not 

believe it, it 's true, it 's true ! 

{Exit through the porch, putting on 
his hat.) 
Mercy. Dolly, who be that? 
Dolly. A man named Pitty Green. 
Mercy. Pitty Green! An odd name, an' 

he seems queer a bit, here! 

{Points to her forehead.) 
Dolly. That 's all right. Aunt, so long as 

he's sound here. {Points to her heart.) 
Mercy. Aye, that's true, Dolly, that's 

true. 
Dolly. Aunt Mercy! ' 
Mercy. Well, Dolly? 
Dolly. Did ye mark the look in HazePs 

face this morning, when her father told 

her Mr. Carringford had been here long 

enough ? 
Mercy. What sort o' look, girl? 
Dolly. A pale, frightened, suffering look, 
. Aunt; she's in love with Mr. Carring- 
ford, as sure as I 'm a living woman. 
Mercy. {Starting.) My heart, child! 

does thee really mean what thee says? 
Dolly. Indeed I do. 

{Enter Hazel.) 

But hush! Here she comes. 

Hazel. Mother dear, be sure to let me 
know when father returns. You won't 
forget? Don't forget it, please. 

Mercy. Where's thee goin', child? 

Hazel. I 'm going to take my drawing 
lesson from Mr. Carringford. 

Mercy. Thee can wait a bit. I 've a 
word to say to thee. Dolly, thee '11 find 
work in the house. 

Dolly. All right, aunt. {Exit.) 

Mercy. {Sitting left.) Hazel, child, come 
here and kneel at my feet as thee did" 
when a little one, and I taught thee to 
pray. (Hazel kneels beside her.) My 
child, many i' this world may say they 
love thee, but none '11 ever do it as I do. 
Thee may have loads o' friends and lov- 
ers too, but thee can never have but one 
mother. Well, child, can't thee trust 
her? 

Hazel. Trust her? Have I ever dis- 
trusted her? 

Mercy. Aye, thee 's distrustin' her now — 
there 's that in thy heart she ought to 
know. 

Hazel. {Embarrassed.) Why, mother, 
what do you mean? 

Mercy. Oh! Thee knows well eno' what 
I mean ; I 've been foolish, child, and 
blind. I forgot the dangers o' youthful 



STEELE MACKAYE 



509 



blood, and I felt too sure o' thy promise 
to be Aaron Rodnej^'s wife. But my 
eyes are open now ; I 've discovered thy 
secret, lass; and I must speak to thee. 

Hazel. {In anguish.) Oh! mother, spare 
me — spare me — it is too late! It is too 
late! 

{Buries her face in Mercy's lap.) 

Mercy. {In horror, rising.) Too late! 

what does thee mean, child? Speak! 

Lift up thy head and look me i' the "face. 

(Hazel looks her in the face.) 

Hazel. Mother ! 

Mercy. {Believed.) Ah! it's a' reet, 
thee can look me i' the eye still, like an 
honest lass. But oh! I see it all now. 
That Maister Cairingford be a bad man 
— a bad man. 

Hazel. {Indignantly.) Mother! 

Mercy. There 's no use, Hazel — I know 
all thee 'd say for him ! But thy f ey- 
ther saved his life, and cherished him 
in his house, and this is his gratitude, 
to make love to thee — the plighted wife 
o' another man. 

Hazel. No, mother, you wrong him! He 
has never spoken a word of love to me 
in his life. 

Mercy. An' has thee been won then wi'- 
out wooing? 

Hazel. Oh! how can I tell? All that I 
know is that day by day his voice has 
grown sweeter, his words wiser, his very 
presence more precious. I did not real- 
ize how empty my life would be without 
him, till now the time has come for him 
to go. It seems as if the shadow of 
death were upon my heart — it has grown 
so dull and heavy — so dull and heavy! 

Mercy. Does thee say he has never told 
thee that he loves thee? 

Hazel. Never! And yet I know he does. 
Wlien my back is turned I can feel his 
eyes upon me. — I saw them once by ac- 
cident in the glass. I knew all then, for 
I saw in them my own misery — my own 
love. 

{She goes to Mercy's arms.) 

Mercy. My poor child! But we must do 

the right, if it kills us. There 's but one 

remedy for this, the short and sharp one. 

{Starts to go.) 

Hazel. Where are you going, mother? 

Mercy. He must leave this house at once. 

( Going. ) 

Hazel. {Stops her.) No, it is not for 
you to send him away; that is my duty. 
It will be less of insult to him, and less 
of agony to me. 



Mercy. Theg has not the strength to do 
it. 

Hazel. I will find it! Send him here to 
me, and I promise you I will tell him 
we must part at once. 

Mercy. {Speaks as she goes.) Aye, it's 
better so. Perhaps thee '11 fret less if 
thee send him away. Thee shall have it 
thy way, Hazel, child. (Hazel comes to 
her and she kisses her.) Courage, lass, 
be strong i' the battle today, and thee '11 
be rich i' the triumph tomorrow. 

{She goes out through the porch.) 

Hazel. What am I going to do? Drive 
away the happiness that heaven sends 
me? Insult the man I honor most — and 
all for what? To keep the rash promise 
of a silly, thoughtless girl, and so break 
two harmless loving hearts! {She 
crosses to the table, and sits at right.) 
Oh! I must not think of it or I shall 
rebel. 

{Enter Arthur.) 

Arthur. {Coming to the table.) Why, 
Hazel, what's the matter? {She rises 
coldly. He checks himself.) Pardon 
me, Miss Kirke, I have just learned that 
you wished to speak to me. 

Hazel. {With emotion, looks about the 
room.) Mr. Carringford, I have sent 
for you to say what may sound strangely 
from me — but you must leave this place 
at once. 

Arthur. Leave this — ? May I know 
why? 

Hazel. No, not from my lips. 

Arthur. Do you wish me to go? 

Hazel. {With nervous vehemence.) Yes, 
yes, go quickly! 

(Rodney enters, unseen by them.) 

Arthur. {After a pause; sadly.) Yes, 
you are right — I will go — I was going. 
{Extending his hand.) Bid me good- 
bye. {She turns her face away; extends 
her hand. He takes it, kisses it tenderly. 
She falls sobbing in the chair; he leans 
over her.) Hazel! You must have 
mercy upon me, and let me speak. 

Hazel. No, I beseech you, leave me — 
leave me without a word. 

(Arthur tur^is to go.) 

Rodney. {Coming forward.) Stay, Mr. 
Carringford, one word with me. I know. 
(Arthur stares; Hazel turns in con- 
sternation; Rodney controls his emo- 
tion.) I know that you love Hazel, and 
that she loves you. (Hazel draws 



510 



HAZEL KIRKE 



back.) Have no fear, Hazel, child, I'm 
not the man to rail at ye. (Hazel looks 
at him.) I shall only — 

{He pauses, staggers.) 

Hazel. {Rushing to him.) Oh! Mr. Rod- 
ney! 

Rodney. Nay, it 's nothing, lass — it 's 
nothing ! I 'm a bit dazed — that 's all. 
{He sinks into chair, hiding his face 
in his hands.) 

Hazel. {Kneeling.) Oh! Mr. Rodney, 
forgive us — forgive us! He did not 
know, for I was resolved to do my duty 
to you. 

{She hows her head on his knees.) 

Rodney. Nay, nay, now — no more o' 
that ! Tliere 's misery enough i' this 
world without an old thing like me mak- 
ing more of it. Don't weep, child, don't 
weep. Every tear you shed falls like 
hot lead on my heart. There, there, 
child, cheer up, cheer up, and we '11 see 
what 's best to be done. 

Hazel. You do not hate me, then? 

Rodney. Hate ye? Aaron Rodney will 
never live to see the day he can hate ye. 
No, lass, I love ye still, God help me; 
love ye too well to ask anything save 
your own happiness. I only fear for 
w4iat your father may do ; you know how 
headstrong he is, and how wildly he 
rages at things he thinks are wrong. 

Hazel. I cannot help the past, but I can 
be brave for the future. I can do my 
duty, keep my promise — 

Rodney. And become my wife? No, 
child, no. {He walks away.) I would 
not ask it of ye. But this is a bad af- 
fair. Hazel. A bad affair. I did not 
know how far things had gone, or I 
would not have done what I have done. 

Arthur. What have you done? 

Rodney. I have written to your mother, 
Mr. Carringford, begging her to call you 
away from this place at once. I know 
the pride of your race, sir, and I know 
too well your mother will never consent 
to your marriage with this child, and I 
warn ye, if ye seek to dishonor her — ■ 
there is no living power will prevent me 
from murdering you. 

Arthur. And I should deserve something 
worse if I could be false to her. 

Rodney. {Taking his hand.) I believe 
ye, lad, I believe ye, and I '11 not stand 
in your way. 

Hazel. Oh! Mr. Rodney, my noble 
friend ! 

Rodney. Aye, lass, only thy friend now, 



but stanch till death. {Holding Hazel's 
hand.) Mr. Carringford, this child has 
been bound up in my heart ever since, 
as a little one, I held her on my knee. 
Well, sir, for the sake of her happiness, 
I '11 cancel my prior claim to her hand 
in your favor, but you must promise me 
to love and cherish her so long as life 
shall last. 

Arthue. I promise. 

{He approaches them.) 

Rodney. Give me your hand. As far as 
it lies in my power, I here bestow upon 
you a treasure that I would have sacri- 
ficed life itself to obtain. Take her, sir, 
take her, and for her sake may heaven 
be with you both. 

{He extends his left hand to Arthur, 
and is joining their hands, when 
Dunstan is heard outside; instantly 
they separate.) 

Dunstan. {Outside.) There, there! No 
matter yet, let the horses stand till I 've 
taken in these things. 

Rodney. Your father's back. Hazel. 
Not a word to him of what has passed 
between us. I must speak with him my- 
self first, but I cannot do it now ; I 've 
not the strength to meet him yet. I '11 
go this way. {In the porch he turns, 
extending his arms. She goes to him; 
he kisses her forehead.) Have no fear, 
child ! I '11 do what I can to soften him, 
and so God bless you, my darling, God 
bless you. {He goes out.) 

Arthur. {Taking her hand.) This is the 
bitterest and sweetest moment of my life. 

{Enter Dunstan with bundles. They 
separate.) 

Dunstan. Ah ! lass, and here 's thy bun^ 
dies. I got thy things, but left the rest 
for Farmer Kennedy to bring along. 

Hazel. Thanks, father, but how quickly 
you 've returned. 

Dunstan. Aye, lass, there was a letter 
at post, so I hurried home. They said 
it was for me. Here, lass, read it for 
me. — Let me hear what it says. {He 
hands her the letter; she opens it and 
starts.) Well, lass, and what says the 
letter? (Hazel becomes faint; he as-, 
sists her to a chair.) My heart, child, 
what be the matter? There, sit down, 
sit down. What 's the trouble : is it bad 
news? Out with it. Who's it from? 
Let 's hear. 

Hazel. It is signed, "Emily Carringford." 
(Arthur starts.) 



STEELE MACKAYE 



511 



DuNSTAN. {Looking at him.) What ha' 
she got to say to me? Read it, lass, 
what does she say? 

Hazel. (Aside.) There's no use, I shall 
be forced to read it. "Dunstan Kirke: 
Dear Sir, I have been startled by learn- 
ing of my son's presence in your home, 
and deeply pained by hearing of his con- 
duct with your child — ." 

DiTNSTAN. Eh? What be that? What 
be that? 

Hazel. "I have besought him to return 
to me instantly. If he refuses, I call on 
you to add the force of your commands 
to my prayers." 

Dunstan. Aye, aye, it 's getting clearer, 
it 's getting clearer. Go on, child, what 
more does she say? 

Hazel. "I cannot describe my indigna- 
tion at the thought of my son's love 
for — " {She breaks down.) 

Dunstan. {Sternly.) Stop there, lass. 
That 's enough ! — Ye need read no more ! 
{To Arthur.) Mr. Carringford, I've 
only gotten one child in all the world, 
and God knows I love her better than 
my life. Well, sir, I 'd rather bury her 
wi' my own hands than have her faith- 
less to her word. Now, ye know she be 
the plighted wife o' Aaron Rodney. 
Well, then, are ye a serpent I 've cher- 
ished in my breast to bite me and mine? 
Have ye dared to think o' making love 
to Hazel Kirke? 

Arthur. Fate threw me helpless at her 
feet ; 't was her hands nursed me back to 
life. Well, sir, I confess what I could 
not wish to help — I learned to love 
her! 

Dunstan. Hazel, thee hears what he says, 
and thee knows the duty of an honest 
girl. Bid him begone at once. 

Hazel. No, father, I cannot. 

Dunstan. {Astounded.) What's that 
thee says? 

Hazel. If he must go, I — should go, for 
I, too, am guilty. 

Dunstan. What! My child avows dis- 
honor? 

Hazel. Father, hear me ! 

Dunstan. Hear thee ! No, no ; I 've 

heard too much already. {Advancing.) 

I could take thy shameless heart out. 

(Hazel, with a cry of fear, draws 

hack into Arthur's arms.) 

Arthur. {Shielding her.) Stand back, 
sir, stand back! 

{Enter Dolly and Mercy from the house. 



Millers appear behind the wall and in 
the gateway.) 

Dunstan. What! In that man's arms? 
Before my very eyes? Out on thee, 
thou foul disgrace! Hear thy father's 
curse ! 

Mercy. {In anguish.) No, no; she is thy 
child, thine only child! 

Dunstan. Begone! Thou misbegotten 
bairn, begone. I cast thee out adrift, 
adrift forever from thy feyther's love, 
and may my eyes no more behold thee. 

Hazel. {Extending her arms toward 
Mercy with a cry.) Mother! Mother! 

Dunstan. {Waving her back.) Stand 
back ; she 's lost to thee forever ! 

(Hazel recoils into Arthur's arms; 
he leans over her.) 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene. Interior of villa at Fairy Grove; 
a room bright with sunlight. On table 
at left are cigarettes and matches, also a 
bell; water and glass are on 'Stand at 
right. 

At rise of curtain, Clara, a servant, is dis- 
covered dusting the room. Outside a 
pipe is heard playing. 

Clara. {Looking off.) There's that 
worthless boy blowing his pipe again, 
instead of minding the garden. Why 
did Mr. Carringford ever bring the 
ninny here? 

{Enter Met. with pipe, dressed as a gar- 
dener, and carrying flowers.) 

Met. Hi ! I say. Mistress Clara, where 's 
the missus? 

Clara. What do you want of her? 

Met. Here 's some flowers I 've been pick- 
ing for her. Where is she, I say? 

Clara. She 's about here somewhere, cry- 
ing, I suppose. 

Met. Cryin'? What do you mean? 

Clara. For the last three days she seems 
to be awfully put out about something. 

Met. My heart! what be the matter wi' 
her? 

Clara. Oh ! She 's so lonely, I suppose. 
She goes nowhere, sees nobody, and for 
a week her husband has been away. I 
never knew him to stay so long from her 



512 



HAZEL KIRKE 



before. I 'm afraid there 's something 
wrong here, Met. What can it be? 

Met. How should I know? 

Clara. You knew the missus before she 
came here, didn't you? 

Met. What makes ye think that? 

Clara. Because she brought you here. 

Met. No, she did n't bring me here ; I fol- 
lowed her; and I'd follow her to the 
end of the earth if she 'd let me. 

Clara. {Sitting down.) Let me see. 
That was just one year ago. Where did 
she come from? 

Met. That 's her business, not yours. 

Clara. Who was she before Mr. Carring- 
ford married her? 

Met. a lady, every inch of her, and too 
good for him. 

Clara. Why too good for him? 

Met. Now, look ye here, lass, why is it 
that he brings no one here to see her? 
Why is it his mother and none of his 
folks don't never come near here at all? 

Clara. I don't know. 

Met. Why, of course not. Ye don't know 

, nothing, you don't. {Looking out of the 

window right.) There she be on the 

shore o' the park lake. I '11 take her the 

flowers. 

Clara. {Rises.) Hold on. Met., tell me 
first — 

Met. I '11 tell ye nothin', and that 's more 
than ye desarve. {Exit.) 

Clara. There 's a secret somewhere about 
this house; I can smell it in the air, and 
that boy knows what it is, but he 's as 
close as the grave, and as devoted to my 
mistress as a miser to his gold. {Stops 
suddenly at window and looks out.) 
Well, I declare, what sort of a man is 
this coming up the path? How he mut- 
ters and shakes his head as though he 
were crazy. What can he want here? 
I must call Barney to get rid of him. 

{She goes right.) 
{Enter Rodney, left.) 

Rodney. Young woman, one moment, 

please. 
Clara. {Turning.) Well, sir, what is it? 
Rodney. Is this place called Fairy Grove? 
Clara. Yes, sir; this is Fairy Grove. 
Rodney. {Looking round, dubiously.) 

So this is where he has hidden her! 
Clara. There he goes, muttering and 

shaking his head. 
Rodney. So she 's here, surrounded by 

luxury and never dreaming of her shame 

— never dreaming of her shame. {Grow- 



ing excited.) I have found you at last, 
Arthur Carringford, and you shall right 
the wrong you 've done her, or I shall 
have your life — your life! 

Clara. {Approaching him.) Good man, 
what do you want here? 

Rodney. {Turning to her.) Is your mis- 
tress in? 

Clara. You mean Mrs. Carringford? 

Rodney. {Intensely.) Is she called that 
here? 

Clara. Is who called what, sir? 

Rodney. Your mistress, is she in? 

Clara. Certainly. Do you want to see her? 

Rodney. {Startled.) No, no; it would 
only frighten her. But you know she is 
not — No, no, not for the world! It 
would sadden her to see me. What am 
I saying? What am I saying? 

Clara. {Aside.) I must get Barney here 
at once. 

{She runs to door at right.) 

Rodney. {Turns and sees her going.) 
Stop! Come back! {Clara returns.) 
Don't go till ye tell me — 

Clara. Tell you what, sir? 

Rodney. Does he treat her well? Is she 
happy here? 

Clara. {Astonished.) I don't know. — 
What do you mean, sir? 

Rodney. If he made her unhappy, I 'd 
tear his heart out. 

Clara. {Terrified, screams, and runs 
right, calling:) Barney! Barney! 
(Rodney follows and brings her back.) 

Rodney. Hush ! Be quiet ! or you '11 
bring her here. If you make a noise 
she '11 come. Don't fear. I mean no 
harm. I '11 go now. I only want to be 
sure I 've found the right place. What 's 
your name? "^ 

Clara. Clara, sir. 

Rodney. Clara! — a goodly name and you 
have a kind face. I '11 trust j-ou with a 
message. Tell Hazel for me — I mean 
your mistress — tell her not to grieve. 
Tell her heaven has her in its blessed 
keeping. Tell her that I 'm near at hand 
to guard her life, to enforce her rights; 
tell her this, please, from me. 

Clara. Who are you, sir? 

Rodney. I'm Mr. — {Checks himself.) 
A friend, that's all, a friend! She 
must not know my name; you won't tell 
her that, will you? 

Clara. I don't know it, sir. 

Rodney. True, that 's good ; take this. 
{Handing her money.) 

Clara. What is it? 



I 



STEELE MACKAYE 



513 



Rodney. Gold. Money. 

Clara. I — I — don't want it, sir — would n't 
take it for the world! 

Rodney. Yes, take it, to pay for the serv- 
ice I want of you. {Taking her hand.) 
Watch him, see how he treats her. {Go- 
ing.) Now to return to this man's 
mother; bring her here and learn her 
decision at once. {At door.) You are 
to tell me all when we meet again. 

{He goes out at left.) 

Clara. {Looking after him.) Meet 
again! Not if I see you first! The 
man 's as crazy as a loon ! 

{Looks at the money.) 

{Enter, right, Barney, singing.) 

Barney. Is that you, darlin' ? What 's 
that ye 're lookin' af? 

Clara. Gold, I think. I can hardly be- 
lieve it 's real though. 

Barney. {Snatching, examines the 
money.) Faith! that's pure gold, sure 
enough, the genuine article, like your- 
self, heaven bless you. Ah! Clara, this 
is the sovereign of the world, but you, 
you 're the sovereign of my heart. 

{Turns away.) 

Clara. Ah ! ha ! Barney, no nonsense, give 
me my money. 

Barney. {Comes hack.) And how do I 
know it 's yours ? 

Clara. Didn't you snatch it out of my 
hand just now? 

Barney. Sure, that don't prove it's 
yours. 

Clara. Come, come now, give me my 
money. 

Barney. Where did ye get it? 

Clara. From a crazy creature who was 
here just now. 

Barney. Crazy, was he? 

Clara. Yes. 

Barney. Of course he was crazy, or he 
would n't have given it to you. I '11 go 
and find that lunatic and restore his 
fortune. {Going.) 

Clara. {Following him.) Barney 

O'Flynn, will you give me that sover- 
eign? 

Barney. How can I give what is n't my 
own, dear? 

Clara. Do you mean to keep it yourself? 

Barney. Keep it! No, indeed, I mane 
to exchange it. 

Clara. For what, Barney? 

Barney. For the sweetest thing a man 
could drame of, wan pf your kisses, my 
darlin', 



{She screaxns, flings him off, and goes 
out right, as Arthur enters left 
with overcoat on arm, smoking a 
cigarette.) 

Arthur. Well, Barney! 

Barney. {Starting.) Mealy murther! 
Master, ye frightened me ; sure, sir, I 'm 
glad ye 're back again. 

Arthur. {Tossing his overcoat to Bar- 
ney. ) Where 's my wife ? 

Barney. Your wife, sir? 

Arthur. Certainly, my wife. 

Barney. {With a cough.) Oh! yes, cer- 
tainly, she 's in the garden, I belave. 

Arthur. {Sitting at the table.) Let her 
know that I 've arrived. 

Barney. All right, sir. {Going, he looks 
hack.) He's in one of his quare moods 
again. He 's getting tired of this al- 
ready. I knew it! I knew it! I knew 
it ! He '11 end it soon — they always do. 
Ah! there's nothing like a Scotch mar- 
riage on the wrong side of the line to 
save the trouble of a divorce and chate 
the lawyers. {Exit.) 

Arthur. {Taking out a letter, reads.) 
"My dear Travers, your mother is in a 
very dangerous condition. To-day she 
arose for the first time in six months, 
laboring under some great excitement 
that is giving her temporary strength; 
she asks the most searching questions 
concerning you. She grows more impa- 
tient every day for your marriage with 
Lady Maud." {Folding the letter.) 
Strange ; very strange ; I hoped for good 
news. Ah! will this never end? Shall 
I never be able to show the world the 
noble woman who is my wife? 

{He falls iti a reverie.) 

(Hazel runs in. Seeing him, she creeps 
up hehind and puts her hands over his 
eyes. He exclaims gladly:) 

Hazel ! Hazel ! 
Hazel. Ah! you are back at last, my 

darling. 
Arthur. {Emhracing her.) Apparently. 
Hazel. Oh ! I 'm so glad, so glad ; I 've 

been almost dead with loneliness. 
Arthur. Have you really missed me then 

so much? 
Hazel. More than you will ever know or 

care, I fear. 
Arthur. Oh! I love to have you miss 

me. 
Hazel. Of course you do; you wouldn't 

love me if you did n't. 



514 



HAZEL KIRKE 



Arthur. And you 're not tired yet of 
these iron bonds of matrimony? 

Hazel. I call them golden bonds. 

Arthur. And so they are, so they are, 
darling. May they always hold us heart 
to heart. 

Hazel. {Saddens.) Heigh ho! (Rises.) 

Arthur. Heigh ho? {Amazed.) AVell, 
well, what does this mean? 

Hazel. Oh ! Only a silly thought. I 'm 
superstitious ; too much happiness is dan- 
gerous, sometimes, you know, that 's all. 

Arthur. {Taking her hand.) Little 
woman, do you know I 'm not blind — 
there 's something troubles you. What is 
it? 

Hazel. {Imitating him.) Big man, do 
you know I 'm not blind, and there 's 
something troubles you? What it is? 

Arthur. Come, come, dear, I 'm in 
earnest. 

Hazel. {Sobered.) And so am I, dear. 
For the last few weeks, whenever you 've 
been at home, you 've been so silent and 
moody. Oh, Arthur, can't you trust me 
with your sorrow as well as with your 
joy? Come, dear, tell me what troubles 
you, darling? 

Arthur. Business, that 's all. But you, 
Hazel, you have no such excuse for sad- 
ness. 

Hazel. I, sad? {Laughing, she rises.) 
Why, I 'm the gayest creature in the 
world. 

Arthur. {Holds her hands.) You try to 
be before me, but when you 've supposed 
me absent, I 've seen you in tears. Have 
I not done all that I could to make you 
happy? 

{He puts his arms about her.) 

Hazel. {Ardently.) Oh, indeed you 
have ! 

Arthur. Then why have I failed? 

Hazel. Failed! You have not failed! 
You have made me too happy. My hap- 
piness startles me sometimes, I so little 
deserve it. I confess at moments I am 
haunted. 

Arthur. Haunted by what, dear? 

Hazel. {Going to the couch at right.) I 
hardly know — a vague, uncertain dread. 
This past year has been so strange, the 
way we met, our secret marriage in 
Scotland — 

Arthur. Yes, but you know why our 
marriage had to be so secret. 

Hazel. Yes, because your proud mother 
had set her heart upon another marriage 
for you. 



Arthur. My mother has been determined 
to make me the husband of Maud Weth- 
erby; she has been very ill for years. 
To have acknowledged my marriage with 
you would surely have been to kill her. 
So I was forced to have our marriage 
take place in the way that offered least 
risk of discovery by her. 

Hazel. Oh! my darling, I do hate this 
hiding ! It gives our marriage the color of 
a crime. How much longer must it last? 

Arthur. I have been hoping every day 
that my mother would grow strong 
enough to learn the news that you are 
my precious little wife, but I am disap- 
pointed; she is no better. — I even fear 
she is growing worse. 

Hazel. Your mother deceived! My 
father broken-hearted! Oh! it is hor- 
rible! {She moves away.) 

Arthur. {Angrily.) What a fool I've 
been! {He paces the floor.) 

Hazel. {In dismay.) What do you 
mean? 

Arthur. I 've been stupid enough to 
fancy that my love — my devotion — might 
suffice to make you forget — to make you 
happy ! 

Hazel. {Going to him.) And so they do, 
dear. I was wrong to confess these 
foolish fears to you. Say you forgive 
me? 

Arthur. {Embracing her.) Forgive you? 
No, little woman, it is for you to for- 
give ! 

Hazel. Forgive what, dear? 

Arthur. {Gravely.) Forgive me that I 
have not rendered you the open honor 
that was due you as my wife. 

{He turns his head away.) 

Hazel. How strangely you say that!^ 
What can you mean? 

Arthur. No matter now, dear. {Affect- 
ing gaiety, lie crosses to left of table.) 
Away with gloomy thoughts ; all 's well 
that ends well! Where are my ciga- 
rettes. Hazel? No objection to my 
smoking, dear? 

Hazel. Oh, no. On the contrary, I '11 
light one for you. 

Arthur. Thanks, that will be delightful. 
Equal to the task? 

Hazel. {Gaily taking a cigarette from 
tit e table.) Don't burn me! Take care! 
{He lights match, while she draws on the 
cigarette, lights it, and hands it to him 
with a cough.) There, take the horrid 
thing! {She goes away.) 

Arthur. {Smoking, he follows her and 



STEELE MACKAYE 



515 



puts liis arm around her.) Horrid 
thing ! Wiiy, I declare, it 's the most de- 
licious cigarette I ever smoked in my 
life. Thanks, little woman, may all our 
sorrows end like this, in smoke and a 
kiss. {He kisses Iter.) 

(Enter Green, at center, a sun umbrella 
over his head, and laden with sporting 
traps. He coughs.) 

I declare, — it 's our dear old Pitty. 

(Hazel and Arthur separate.) 

Green. 'T is true, 't is Pitty, and pity 
't is, 't is true ! You may not believe it, 
but these things are a bore, and this has 
two bores. 

{He holds up a double-barrelled gun.) 

Hazel. {Laughing, goes to Green.) 
Talk of matrimonial misery and band- 
boxes! What are they to the awful 
doom of a bachelor devoted to sport? 

Green. Oh! I say, don't make sport of a 
man in mortal agony. Come to the res- 
cue, take the umbrageous curio. {Hand- 
ing Hazel his umbrella.) The idea! bill- 
ing and cooing still, a year after mar- 
riage, too. It 's an outrage on society. 

Arthur. {Having unloaded him.) So it 
is, Green! Now, tell us to what do we 
owe your sudden advent here? 

Green. To the same old lady, Dame Ru- 
mor, the despot of my life. 

Hazel. (Laughing.) All! What mon- 
strous thing has she reported here? 

Green. Monstrous bliss! The fame of 
your fishes, the taste of your game, the 
sound of your kisses is wafted on the 
breath of rumor to the uttermost end 
of an envious world. So here am I, 
with all my senses, wild to see, hear, 
smell, taste, and touch. I '11 begin with 
touch. Give me your fists, ye pair of 
blissful curiosities! (Taking them by 
the hands, he points to her hand.) Will 
you permit me? (She laughs. He 
kisses her hand.) Won't you share your 
monstrosities Avith me? 

Hazel. (With laughter.) All we can. 

Green. All but the kisses, I suppose. 

Arthur. I don't see how we can reserve 
much else. 

Hazel. (Sitting down.) But what are 
you going to give us for letting you into 
our paradise? 

Green. For you I have some news, and 
for that mortal I have a sermon. 

Arthur. Well, let it be a galloping ser- 
mon, then. I '11 go and order the horses 
at once. (Strikes the bell on table.) 



Green. Capital ! 

Hazel. Sermon or ride? 

Green. Capital, my dear, referred to his 

going. 
Arthur. I 'm off. Beware, I have my 

eye upon you. 
Green. Keep your ear off, that 's all we 

ask. 



(Enter Barney, right.] 



Pick 



Arthur. (Pointing to the tackle. 
up those things and follow me. 

(Exit, left.) 

Barney. (Taking the things.) I will, 
sir; I will, sir; I will, sir. Bad luck to 
the game; they've got divil the chance 
now. (Exit.) 

Hazel. Now for your news! 

Green. I 'm just from Blackburn Mill. 

Hazel. And you have letters for me? 

Green. No, not yet. Your father de- 
clares that the first who writes you shall 
leave his house. 

Hazel. (Sadly.) Is he still so angry 
with me, then? 

Green. Angry with you ? That 's put- 
ting it mild. I call him the pig-head- 
edest old hard-heart I ever knew. He 
won't let them breathe your name. 

Hazel. How did you learn this? 

Green. Dolly told me. 

Hazel. (Puzzled.) Dolly, is that, what 
you call her? 

Green. Oh, yes, if a person's name is 
Dolly, no harm to call her so, is there? 
Oh! I forgot, you don't know.^ do you? 

Hazel. Know what? 

Green. Why, about Dolly. She 's done 
for! 

Hazel, Done for? 

Green. Yes, going to make a fool of her- 
self. 

Hazel. How ? 

Green. By becoming the better half of P. 
Green. Pity, is n't it ? 

Hazel. (Amazed.) Do you mean to say 
you 're going to marry my cousin ? 

Green. Oh. no! She's going to marry 
me. 

Hazel. Oh, I am so glad ! 

(Offers her hand in congratulation.) 

Green. You may not believe it, but so am 
I. Will you permit me? 

(He kisses her hand.) 

Hazel. (Sitting on the couch.) Now sit 
right down here by me, and tell me all 
about it. 

Green. (Sitting.) Oh! it was just like 
Dolly herself, short and sweet. After 



516 



HAZEL KIRKE 



you left Laucasliire, the doors of the old 
mill were sternly closed, especially against 
me. But it did n't matter, you see. I 
always have an object in life, so I sud- 
denly became interested in dams — mill- 
dams. There was one near the mill: 
there always is a dam attached to a mill. 
I used to visit that dam and sketch that 
dam — the sight of anything damned was 
a relief to me. Weeks passed, but the 
door of the old mill remained closed. 
Fever ensued; I got dam on the brain and 
went muttering damn, damn, all day. 
However, nothing could dampen the ardor 
of my disease. At last the crisis ap- 
peared, Dolly appeared, and took Pitty, 
Yes, she relieved my delirium, and to en- 
sure a curse, consented to become a 
ma -dam. 

Hazel. {Laughing.) You dear, silly old 
thing. So you're going to become my 
cousin. 

Green. Bless me, so I am. I did n't think 
of that! {Takes her hand.) Will you 
now permit me"? 

{He kisses her hand.) 

(Arthur enters at left.) 

Arthur. {Approaching them.) Hallo 
there ! I say ! I say ! 

Green. {Coolly.) So do I — I say. I not 
only say, but I do, don't I*? Will you 
permit me? {He kisses Hazel's hand 
again.) I say, cousinship is good. A 
duty I owe to society, cousinship, my 
boy, cousinship. 

{He kisses Hazel, then rises and walks 
away.) 

Arthur. {To Hazel.) What does the 
rascal mean *? 

Hazel. Something wonderful. He means — 

Green. Hush! Quietly; his nerves are 
weak. Have you ordered the horses'? 

Arthur. Yes, but — 

Green. Stop ! but me no buts, but say I 
make peace. Hazel, my dear, go and get 
ready to ride and leave this reprobate to 
the tender mercies of the family prime 
minister, your cousin Pit. 

Hazel. {Laughing as she goes.) Oh! 
very well. Don't forget the sermon. 

{Exit, right.) 

Arthur. Now, sir, please explain ! 

{He slaps Green on the hack.) 

Green. I explain? Why, sir, I've trav- 
elled three hundred miles to make you 
explain. 

Arthur, Explain what? 



Green. {Handing to Arthur a slip of 
newspaper.) That, sir. 

Arthur. {Reading.) "Another impor- 
tant engagement in high life announced — 
that of Lord Travers to Lady Maud 
Wetherby." 

Green. Yes, sir; that, sir, is a cutting 
from the Morning Post — a most respec- 
table paper, and very reliable authority. 

Arthur. {Laughing.) Evidently. 

Green. {Solemnly.) Well, what are you 
laughing at? I don't see anything to 
laugh at. 

Arthur. Don't you? Then suppose you 
look in the glass. 

Green. Come, come, sir, this is a most seri- 
ous matter. 

Arthur. Clearly, a most solemn affair; 
almost as awful as the paragTaph about 
you a few weeks since. 

Green. About me? 

Arthur. Something like this: "We un- 
derstand that, after long and serious 
consideration, the Hon. P. Green has de- 
cided to become — a bachelor !" What do 
you think of that? 

Green. I think it is a lie. 

Arthur. That's what I think of this. 

{He tears the newspaper cutting and 
throws it in the waste basket.) 

Green. There's no analogy in the cases, 
sir. How can I become a bachelor since 
I am one? 

Arthur. How can I marry since I am 
married ? 

Green. But confound it, sir, you're not 
married ! 

(Arthur turns on Green.) 

Arthur. If I 'm not married, then you 
must be an old maid. 

Green. Eh? What? I don't see thatt 
Do you dare to say that in consequence 
of your villainy my sex is to suffer? 
No, sir, it 's your manhood, not mine, 
that 's at stake ! 

Arthur. Are you mad? 

Green. Yes, sir, I am, blind mad. Who 
wouldn't be under the circumstances? 

Arthur. {Irritated.) Under what cir- 
cumstances? 

Green. Why, sir, you commit a crime, and 
when I am about to implore you not to 
commit another, you impeach my sex, 
sir. You actually impeach my sex. 

Arthur. By Jove! You are insane! 

Green. Insane! I wish I could say as 
much for you. Insanity is the only ex- 
cuse for such exasperating, outrageous, 
scoundrelly conduct as yours. 



STEELE MACKAYE 
1 



517 



Arthur. Good heavens, Green! Are you 
really serious'? 

Green. Serious? I should think so. I'm 
as serious as an avalanche, an earthquake 
and a volcano boiled down into one. 

Arthur. What a frightful row about 
nothing ! 

Green. Nothing'? Is it nothing to de- 
ceive an honest girl into believing she 's 
a married woman when she is n't *? Is it 
nothing to marry one woman and swear 
to love and honor her, when you love, if 
you don't honor, another *? Is it nothing 
to betray where you are trusted mosf? 
Is it nothing to be a smooth, cool, calcu- 
latmg villain, and sit there and look as 
innocent and serene as an angel? 

Arthur. My dear boy, of whom are you 
talking? 

Greex. {Staggered.) Oh! this is wicked, 
Travers. It's pure malignant cruelty. 
Have n't I always been a loyal friend ? 

Arthur. Of course you have. 

Green. {Sitting down.) Then why 
could n't you have trusted me ? 

Arthur. I 've never distrusted you. 

Green. Oh, yes, you have ; you dealt with 
me in a beastly mean manner! You've 
made me an unconscious accomplice in a 
piece of business I despise. 

Arthur. There you go again. I vow it 's 
enough to irritate a saint. Can't you tell 
me plainly what in the world you mean ? 

Green. What ! do you mean to say on your 
honor you don't understand ? 

Arthur. I mean to say that your gabble 
for the last half-hour has been Pata- 
gonian gibberish to me. 

{He moves about the room.) 

Green. Patty— Gibb— Gabby? Can it be 
possible ! 

Arthur. Can what be possible? 

Green. Can it be possible that you don't 
understand your own situation ? 

Arthur. What is my situation? 

Green. Travers, you 're either the most ac- 
complished hypocrite or the biggest fool 
m the world. Take your choice. 

Arthur. Enough of this — come to the 
point. What do you mean? 

Green. As I said before, that's precisely 
what I've travelled three hundred miles 
to make you tell me. What is it you 
mean? {Rises.) 

Arthur. {Disgusted.) Ah! if this is one 

of your peculiar jokes, it 's in very bad 

taste. {Going.) I'll leave you to find 

the fun of it yourself. 

Green. {Astonished.) A joke! The 



idea ! It 's no use, that flooi*s me ! 
{Running after Arthur, brings Mm 
hack.) Here, Travers, come back, there 
must be some mistake ! I give in ; you 've 
turned the tables on me. I '11 explain 
myself. 

Arthur. Well, begin. 

Green. {Hesitating.) Confound it — 

Arthur. What 's the matter now ? 

Green. I don't know how to begin — it 's 
such an awful business. You see I 've 
been sneaking about the old mill lately, 
and a rumor reached me there that just 
covered me with goose flesh. 

Arthur. Whoever suspected you of any 
other covering? 

Green. Yes, I see my name is — oh! hang 
my name — let 's get to the point. It 
seems Squire Rodney has been looking 
into your affairs, and, by Jove ! he swears 
you 've deceived Hazel Kirke ! 

Arthur. Deceived her? How? 

Green. He says that your marriage to her 
was a pretence, a farce, a lie. 

Arthur. And you, my friend, have be- 
lieved him? 

Green. How could I help it? The whole 
thing is so circumstantial! He declares 
that he has positive proof that you went 
towards Scotland with the pretence of 
marrying Hazel by Scottish law, but that 
you cunningly stopped on the border, and 
went through the flimsy Scotch ceremony 
upon English ground. 

Arthur. It's an infamous slander! 

Green. Can you prove that? 

Arthur. I '11 soon convince you. 

{He strikes the hell.) 

Green. How ? 

Arthur. By the testimony of a witness to 
my marriage — Barney. 

Green. Barney ! He 's the very one that 
Rodney named as your accomplice. 

{Enter Barney.) 

Arthur. Absurd ! Barney, I want — 

Green. Hold on! {Stopping Arthur, he 
speaks to him aside.) I'll question him. 
We Avant to get at the truth, you know, 
and these chaps easily slip into a lie. 

Arthur. I don't understand. 

Green. You will presently. Barney, your 
master called you because the time has 
come for us to settle a certain matter, 
and we wish to be sure everything is all 
right, you know. 

Barney. All right, sir. Faith, sir, I 'm at 
your service. 

Green. Well, then, my good Barney, tell 



518 



HAZEL KIRKE 



lis frankly, are you quite sure that the 
place where Lord Travers went through 
the ceremony of marriage with Miss 
Kirke was not in Scotland? 

Arthur. {Starting.) I protest — 

Green. As you 're an honest man, keep 
quiet. Answer my question, Barney. 

Barney. I will, sir, when my master bids 
me. 

(Green looks in astonishment at 
Arthur.) 

Arthur. {Aside, astonished.) What a 
strange thing for him to say ! 

Green. Shall he answer my question? 

Arthur. (Looks at him in suspicion.) 
Certainly; Barney, speak freely. 

Barney. {To Green.) Well, then, sir, 
your question be a mighty quare one. 

Green. Ah ! In what respect "? 

Barney. Do ye think I 'd betray my mas- 
ter? 

Green. Oh ! of course not. 

Barney. I was brought up in the service 
of the gentry, sir, all my life. Do you 
be after taking me for a fool? 

{He turns to Arthur.) 

Green. No, I never judge a man by his 
looks. 

Barney. Looks is it? Well, I know how 
to look after my master's interests, sir, 
and that^s look enough for me; so of 
course I took good care to have such a 
marriage as he wanted come off in the 
wrong place. 

(Arthur starts. He faces Barney, 
leaning against the table.) 

Green. {Looking at Arthur.) What 
place was that ? 

Barney. Faith! the wrong place for a 
Scotch marriage is the English side of the 
Scottish line. 

Arthur. {Going to him appalled.) Do 
you mean to say that the inn you took us 
to was on the border, but not in Scotland ? 

Barney. {Astonished.) Of course I do, 
sir. 

Arthur. {Frenzied.) You miserable, 
dastardly villain, I could brain you ! 

{He grasps him hy the throat.) 

Barney. Sure, sir, I only followed your 
own orders. 

Arthur. {Amazed.) Followed my or- 
ders? 

Barney. To the letther, sir. Did n't you 
come to me all of a suddint one night, at 
the old tavern in Blackburn, and did n't 
you say, "Barney, I want to get married 
to oust secretly, in Scotland"? 

Arthur. I did, you rascal. 



Barney. Did n't ye tell me to take ye to 
the borders? 

Arthur. Well ? 

Barney. Well, sir, and so I did. To the 
borders of matrimony, as I thought ye 
intended. 

Arthur. {Shaking him.) Idiot! Scoun- 
drel! Wretch! (Gree-r interferes, say- 
ing '^ Travers! Travers!" and frees Bar- 
ney. In agony, Arthur turns away.) 
Hazel dishonored — deceived, and by me — 
by me ! Oh ! It is horrible ! horrible ! 
{He rushes again at Barney.) 

Green. (Interposing.) There's some- 
thing better to be done now. 

Arthur. Yes, you are right. We will go 
find a curate — and I will marry her at 
once. {To Barney.) Imbecile! I'm 
about to take measures partially to amend 
the outrage that you have committed. 
Let us have no more mistakes — tell my 
wi — {Pauses; then with ardor.) Yes, 
before heaven and my own heart, she is 
my wife ! Tell my wife that I have been 
called away, but will return soon. And, 
understand, not a word of this to anyone. 

Barney. Not for the world. 

Arthur. {To Green.) Come, let us 
hurry; every instant now is torture till 
Hazel is my wife. 

{They both hasten out.) 

Barney. Faith, thin, I can't make this out 
for the life o' me ! He 's lost his head as 
well as his heart entirely, and to a pea- 
sant's child, too. Eh! Who's this old 
party coming up the w^alk? It's Squire 
Rodney. That bodes no good to this 
house ! 0, murther ! Who 's that be- 
hind him? If it is n't Lady Travers her- 
self! The powers purtect us — she's 
found us out! Oh, dear! oh, dear! may 
the powers purtect us ! what shall we do, 
at all at all ! Whist ! She 's here. 

{Enter Rodney, followed hy Lady Travers, 
old, very ill, leaning on the arm of a 
footman iil livery.) 

Rodney. This is the place, my lady, and 

this is the man. 
Lady Travers. Barney, is that you? 
Barney. Yes, your ladyship, I belave it is. 

{Aside.) I 'm not quite sure. 
L.DY T. I thought you were abroad with 

my son. 
Barney. Yes, ma'am, I 'm with your son, 

and sure I fale abroad too — leastways, I 

don't fale at home. 
Lady T. (Faintly.) A chair! (Rodney 

helps her to a chn,ir.) Water! (BARNEY 



STEELE MACKAYE 



519 



gives her a glass of water. She drinks it, 
handing back the glass.) Is my son 
here*? 

(Rodney withdraws a little.) 

Barney. No, my lady. 

Lady T. {Aside.) So much the better! 
{Aloud.) Is the lady of the house in'? 

Barney. Is it Lady Travers ye mane, my 
lady? 

Lady T. (Sternly.) It is not Lady Trav- 
ers that I mean. 

Barney. (Aside.) She knows all! 
{Aloud.) She is in, my Lady. 

Lady T. Inform her that a lady would 
speak with her on important business. 

Barney. (Going.) I will, my lady. 

Lady T. Stay — not a word of who it is. 

Barney. Oh ! not for the world, my lady. 

Lady T. And, Barney — 

Barney. Yes, my lady? 

Lady T. When I strike twice on this bell 
come here instantly. Do you under- 
stand? 

Barney. I do, very well, my lady. 

Lady T. You may go. 

Barney. Thank you, my lady. (Aside, 
going.) Faith! I wish I were anyrv^here 
out of this. (Exit.) 

Lady T. Thomas, return to the carriage 
and wait till I send for you. (Servant 
bows and goes out.)' Mr. Rodney, I deem 
it best I should see this girl alone. 

Rodney. Yes, madam, you are right. 'T is 
best I should go ! But, oh ! madam, have 
pity upon her; break all gently; let your 
woman's heart feel for a woman's 
wrongs ! 

Lady T. It does, for wrongs of which he 
little dreams. 

Rodney. I have been merciful to you, 
madam ; you must be merciful to her. 

Lady T. How have you been merciful to 
me? 

Rodney. How? Madam, when I first 
learned the truth, I started out to find 
your son, to take his life for wronging 
her. Yes — 

Lady T. Ah ! 

Rodney. Yes, but I thought of you, his 
mother, and I said, "I will spare him for 
her sake, for she will force him to do his 
duty." 

Lady T. And so she will ! 

Rodney. I knew it, my lady ! I knew it ! 

Lady T. (Aside.) A duty more impera- 
tive than to this low-born girl. 

Rodney. Believing this, I sought you out 
and told you all, for, believe me, madam, 
I never should have brought you here to 



put this chiM to shame, except it were to 
save her from that shame itself. 

Lady T. And so you 're sure her marriage 
to my son — 

Rodney. Alas ! my lady, it was none at all 
— none at all ! 

Lady T. (Aside.) Thank heaven for 
that! (Aloud.) You may go and wait 
for me at the inn. 

Rodney. I will, my lady. Oh, madam, I 
will pray heaven to bless you for this 
day's noble work! (Exit.) 

Lady T. His blessings are worse than any 
curse! Why is this girl so long in com- 
ing? This suspense is sapping all my 
strength. 

(Enter Hazel.) 

Ah ! She 's here. 

Hazel. (Coming forward in wonder.) 
You wished to see me, madam? 

Lady T. I did. Please be seated near me. 
(Hazel goes for a chair. Lady Travers 
speaks aside.) The old stoiy, the fatal 
power of a handsome face ! 

Hazel. (Aside, as she is getting the 
chair.) What a strange commanding- 
tone ! I wonder who she is? 

(Returning, she sits near Lady Trav- 
ers^ who speaks after a pause.) 

Lady T. I am Lady Travers. (Hazel 
starts.) You need not fear me; I have 
not come to curse, but to beg. 

Hazel. To beg of me? But why, madam, 
why? 

Lady T. Because in your hands lies the 
honor of an old and noble family. I see 
shining in your eyes the womanhood that 
has so bewitched my son. And see, to 
that womanhood, I kneel to beg, implore 
a fearful sacrifice from you. 

(She kneels.) 

Hazel. (Helping her back to the chair.) 
Oh, madam, you shall not kneel! You 
shall not kneel ! (Aside.) What can she 
mean? (Aloud.) Madam, ask any 
sacrifice I can make in honor, and I will 
gladly make it for your son. 

Lady T. Alas! You do not know what 
you promise. Listen ! My husband had 
a ward whose fortune he wrongfully used 
and lost. Upon his dying bed he con- 
fessed this to me, and made me promise to 
hide his shame, by marrying our only son 
to this ward. 

Hazel. Well, madam? 

Lady T. I promised, and I have lived since 
but to keep my word and save our honor. 

Hazel. Oh, madam! How terrible! 



620 



HAZEL KIRKE 



Lady T. My son never knew why I was so 
determined to make this match, but he, 
to humor me, promised to marry Lady 
Maud! Suddenly I heard he was living' 
here with you; with grief and shame I 
gathered strength enough to drag myself 
here, to implore you to save us all. 

Hazel. Oh, what can I do? What can I 
do? 

Lady T. Be heroic for his sake; fly from 
him, and save him from disgrace ! 

Hazel. From disgrace? 

Lady T. Yes, within a month Lady Maud 
will come of age, and demand a settle- 
ment of her estate. Nothing but her 
marriage to ray son can save him from 
ruin and shame. 

Hazel. Oh, how horrible! My punish- 
ment begins. I, who should prove his 
blessing, am his curse! Beggary, hu- 
miliation and shame stare him in the face, 
and all — all because of me! 

Lady T. Then leave him — fly from him at 
once. 

Hazel. And never see him in this world 
again? No, no, you ask more than I 
have strength to do — besides, what use is 
that? I am his wife, his wretched, 
wretched wife! 

Lady T. What if you were not his wife? 

Hazel. Ah ! Then perhaps heaven would 
give me the courage to fly for his sake. 

Lady T. (Bising.) It will, heroic girl, for 
he is free. — You are not his wife ! 

Hazel. {Turns, stunned.) Not his wife? 

Lady T. As he has deceived me by loving 
you, so he has betrayed you by a pre- 
tended marriage. 

Hazel. He! Arthur? Betrayed me? 
'T is false ! I '11 not believe it ! Give me 
the proofs! The proofs! 

Lady T. {Sways, gasps.) Ah! Have 
mercy or I shall die ! 

Hazel. {Throwing herself at her feet.) 
Oh, madam ! forgive me. I will be wise, 
calm, patient, only take back the cruel 
words that disgrace the man I love. Tell 
me that Arthur is not false, and I will 
leave him, bear disgTace or death, only 
so that he may be free from every stain. 

Lady T. Poor child! {Strikes the hell 
twice.) Would that I could spare you 
this blow ! But there is at stake a thing 
of greater value than your happiness or 
my life — the good name of an old and 
honorable race. 

{Enter Barney.) 

This man will tell you I speak the truth, 



when I say you are not the wife of 
Arthur Carringford. 

(Hazel rises, Barney starts.) 

Hazel. This man? Why, he was witness 
of my marriage. 

Lady T. A Scotch marriage upon English 
ground, and so, illegal, worthless, void. 

Hazel. ( To Barney. ) Can this be true ? 

Barney. Heaven forgive us, miss, but it is. 

Hazel. True? This, then, is what he 
meant when he said he had not done his 
duty to me as a wife. He, Arthur, my 
brave, gentle Arthur, has deceived me. 
betrayed me, and I trusted him as though 
he were a god. Oh, my heart is breaking. 

{She sobs.) 

Lady T. {Rising, goes and puts her arms 
about her.) Courage, child, courage. 

Hazel. {Breaking from her.) Courage 
for what? To face the agony of love de- 
ceived here in my own heart? To face 
the taunting finger of a cruel world point- 
ing at my shame? No, never! He shall 
right my wrong. He shall make me an 
honorable wife, or — I will — 

Lady T. {Staggering.) Stop! Child, 
stop ! Or you will add my murder to his 
other crimes ! 

{She clutches her chair for support.) 

Hazel. Murder? No, forgive me, I. have 
done wrong enough. I see it all! It is 
my father's curse, my father's curse! 
Oh, God! {Taking off her jewels, she 
puts them on the table.) Madam! you 
have asked me to fly for his sake, the sake 
of the man who has so degraded me. 
Here is my answer. I accepted these as 
tokens of love, given to an honored wife. 
I scorn them now. He shall have all — 
all! {About to take off her wedding- 
ring, she stops.) No, not this. My mar^ 
riage ring! {Kisses it.) This I have 
bought with a wife's love, a Avoman's per- 
dition ! This I will keep ! ( Going. ) 
The rest I leave forever. — I go to cover 
up his infamy with my shame — and may 
heaven forgive you all ! 

{Exit. Lady Travers staggers and 
falls back rigid in her chair.) 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene. Evening; kitchen at Blackburn 
Mill; door lit by glow of fire; clothes 
horse with toivels on it before the fire; at 
right, clock and cupboard, in which are 



STEELE MACKAYE 



521 



pipe, matches, tobacco, food, and dishes; 
a lighted candle on the table, centre. 
Mercy and Dolly are discovered at the 
table, which is between two chairs. They 
are ironing; the room is dim; the clock 
is striking. 

Mercy. Eight o^eloek ! It 's time for eve- 
ning prayers. Dolly, go to the mill, and 
call Joe and Dan. 

Dolly. All right, aunt. 

(Exit, right.) 

Mercy. Now to put awa' the linen. {She 
does so in drawers at right, and returns to 
the table. Outside a pipe is heard play- 
ing. Mercy starts.) What's that"? 
{She listens, the pipe stops.) Strange! 
Met used to play that tune, and it sounds 
like Met's pipe, too. What can it mean *? 
Has he left Hazel? Aye, perhaps he's 
coom to see me, with news of her. 
{Opens the door and calls.) Met, Met! 
Is that you? Met, Met ! Is it you? 

(Met. enters, pale, ragged, haggard.) 

Coom in, lad, coom in and tell us the 
news! What's the word? Speak, lad, 
speak. 

Met. I want her — where is she? 

Mercy. Who? 

Met. Hazel — I want her — I 've tramped 
four hundred miles to find her. 

Mercy. My heart, lad! What are ye 
sayin' ? 

Met. I must see Hazel — she 's here. 

Mercy. Hazel! Hazel! Here? No, she 's 
not here. (Met staggers to a chair.) 
Mercy on us, what's coom to thee, lad? 

Met. Not here? Where can she be, where 
can she be? 

Mercy. Wi' her hoosband, I suppose. 

Met. No, no, she left him a month ago. 

Mercy.* Left him! Why? 

Met. I don't know — I don't know ! 

Mercy. Where did she go? 

Met. {Who is seated.) Why, I thought 
she'd coom here, so I followed her on 
foot, but {rising) I '11 go back again ; I '11 
walk till I die, but I '11 find her. 

Mercy. Ah, what are you saying, Met? 

Met. {At the door, turns back to Mercy.) 
I 'm sayin' there's something wrong; that 
man's mother came to the house ; she was 
found dead there and Hazel gone. 

Mercy. Great heavens. Met ! You frighten 
me! 

Met. Hazel is somewhere, wandering now, 
as I have been for a month, ill;, cold, 



starving, perhaps, as I am ! But I '11 go 
to her; I must. I will find her. 

Mercy. Stop, an' I '11 go with you, lad. 

Met. {Takes her hands.) Oh, mistress, 
heaven will bless you for that word. 

Mercy. But you must wait till after pray- 
ers ; Dunstan would miss me if I went off 
now; he'd ask questions, and oh. Met, 
he must hot know — he's been very ill — 
this news would kill him. 

Met. Then, mistress, you go to the master, 
I '11 run down to Squire Rodney's house ; 
if I can find him, he '11 help me. 

{Goes to the door.) 

Mercy. {Following him.) Aye, so he will, 
lad. Go, then, go quickly; I will meet 
you at his house within an hour. 

Met. Never fear, missus, we'll find her 
now for sure. {Exit.) 

Mercy. So we will — so we will. Now to 
get ready to find her. 

(Mercy crosses to door at left.) 

(Dolly enters, followed by Joe and Dan.) 

Dolly. We 're all here now. Aunt Mercy. 
Mercy. Aye, aye, all but the one who 

ought to be here the most. 
Dolly. {Taking up a lighted candle.) 

What do you mean, aunt? 
Mercy. I cannot tell thee now; tomorrow, 
perhaps. Coom, coom, child, coom. 
{She hurries within, left. The others 
follow her, closing the door. The 
room is left in darkness. There is a 
pause, then a knock on the outer 
door. The knocking is repeated; the 
door opens; Green appears, looks 
around, then beckons outside.) 

(Arthur enters.) 

Arthur. Well? 

Green. Not a soul in sight; quiet as the 
grave. 

Arthur. Look yonder, she may be inside. 
(Green opens the door at left, draws 
back and removes his hat.) Well? 

Green. They are at prayers. 

Arthur. {Removing his own hat.) And 
Hazel? 

Green. She is not among them. 

Arthur. {Sits in chair at right of table.) 
Oh, shall I never find her? Never see 
her precious face again? 

{A psalm is sung outside, they listen 
reverently.) 

Green. Their prayers are over now; 
they '11 soon be here, and when they come, 
we '11 ask them if they have heard any- 
thing of your — of her. 



522 



HAZEL KIRKE 



Arthur. And if she has not been here, 
what are we to do"? 

Green. {Sits at left.) Well, you may not 
believe it, but I '11 be hanged if I know. 

Arthur. I have searched for her every- 
where without discovering a trace. My 
last hope has been to find her here. If we 
fail now, I shall believe the worst. 

Green. And what is that? 

Arthur. That she has taken her own life 
— murdered by me! (Rising.) Oh, the 
thought will drive me mad ! 

(Green, rising, follows him, pacifying, 
and pats him on the shoulder.) 

Green. (Starting.) They '11 soon be here ! 

Arthur. What of it 1 

Green. We forget — they '11 recognize you ! 

Arthur. What if they do"? 

Green. The old miller hates you ! If he 
knows where Hazel is, you are the one 
man in the world he '11 keep her hidden 
from. 

Arthur. What 's to be done ? 

Green. You must leave me till Dolly 
comes. Once I set her tongue at work, 
we '11 soon know all. Go, wait outside 
till I 've had a chance to make her talk. 

Arthur. (Going.) You '11 find me at the 
old seat near the lock. The moment you 
get news — 

Green. I'll fly like lightning to tell you. 

Arthur. (In the doorway.) If I do* not 
find her this time, I shall despair — de- 
spair — (Exit.) 

Green. (At door.) Poor fellow, he's 
broken-hearted, and I feel as if I 've no 
more backbone than a caterpillar ! 

Dolly. (Inside.) All right, aunt, I'm 
going. 

Green. Dolly's voice ! She 's coming, 

she '11 see me ! The shock might shake 

her. I '11 spare her feelings for a while. 

(Leaves glove on the table and hides 

behind the clothes horse.) 

(Enter Dolly with basket and candle, light- 
ing up the room. She is followed by 
Joe and Dan.) 

Joe and Dan. Good-night! 

Dolly. Don't forget to tell Squire Rod- 
ney that Uncle Kirke wants to see him 
here to-night. 

Dan. Very good, Miss Dolly, I '11 tell the 
Squire myself. 

(Exit right, followed by Joe.) 

Dolly. (Going to the table, sees glove.) 
Dear me! Wliat 's this"? — a glove! 
Whose glove"? A man's! (Smells; 
sternly.) Pittacus! (Turns glove.) 



As sure as I 'm a woman ! So he 's been 
here, he 's been here and gone away with- 
out a word! (Green looks out, unseen 
by Dolly.) Oh, that's just like the 
heartless brute. — Six weeks since he left 
me, promising to go and see Hazel and 
send me news of her; not a word since 
then. (Tearfully.) Oh, these men! 
these men ! Why are they ever made ? 
I can't see the use o' the faithless things. 
(Green comes up behind her. She con- 
tinues snappishly.) Oh, don't I wish I 
had him here now, how I 'd make his 
ears burn and his head ache! (Green 
dodges behind the clothes horse.) How 
I 'd warm the brass of his cheeks for 
him! (She slaps the glove across her 
hand, then puts it in her apron pocket. 
Beginning to take clothes from the horse, 
she slams them into the basket. While 
she does so, Green dodges behind clothes 
that remain, comically trying to conceal 
himself.) The base deceitful hypocrite! 
(Slams a towel in the basket) pretending 
he couldn't live a day without me! 
(Same.) And then leaving me here — 
(Same) for weeks and weeks (Same) 
w^ith a breaking heart ! (Green snatches 
off the last towel.) Mercy! Who's 
thaf? (Recoiling to chair at right of 
table, she tips it over and falls. There, 
as she stares up at Green, he peers over 
at her.) What! So you're there, Mr. 
Green? 

(Rising, she picks up the chair.) 

Green. No, Dolly, I 'm not there, I 'm 
here. I was there, Dolly, but I 've just 
moved. — Dolly, I 'm not Green now, I 'm 
blue, truly blue, to see you so severe. 
(Kneeling near Dolly.) Dolly, oh, 
Dolly, pity Blue! 

Dolly. (Sternly.) What are you doing 
here, sir? 

Green. Kneeling, I believe. You luay not 
believe me, 't is not an kneesy thing for 
me to do. (Rises, rubbing his knees.) 
Ha, ha! d'ye see? 

Dolly. Yes, I see a donkey. 

(She turns away.) 

Green. (Following and embracing her 
very lovingly, sings to the air of "Comin' 
thro' the rye":) 

If a donkey see a donkey 

Need a donkey sigh? 
And if jv donkey kiss a donkey 

Need a donkey cry? 

(Kisses her.) 
Dolly. Don't! don't touch me, sir! 



STEELE MACKAYE 



523 



{She crosses left, and moves basket to 
the floor.) 

Green. "Sir" to me? That's queer. 

Dolly. Queer"? I should thmk it was, 
queer. 

{She busies herself about the room, 
paying no attention to him, while 
she moves the clothes horse and 
basket.) 

Green. Dolly, Dolly, I say! 

Dolly. Who cares what you say*? 

Green. But, Dolly, I want — 

Dolly. Who cares what you wanf? 

Green. But really, my darling — 

Dolly. Don't dare to darling me after — 
after what 's happened. 

Green. What 's happened ? 

Dolly. Oh, you know well enough. 

{She sits in chair at left of table, and 
slaps the glove on the table.) 

Green. Don't jag my glove about in that 
manner! {Aside.) Oh, I see, Hazel's 
been here, and told Dolly everything, and 
she thinks I 've been an accomplice in 
this infernal business ! {Aloud.) Don't, 
Dolly, don't ! 

Dolly. Don't what, sir? 

Green. Suspect me ; I 'm not the man who 
did it. 

Dolly. {Excited, amazed.) You're not 
the man who did it ? 

Green. I am not that man. 

Dolly. {Aside.) Not the man, who de- 
serted me all these weeks'? He is not the 
man, and he says this to my face! 
{Rises, exploding.) Oh, you brazen 
rogue ! 

Green. It wasn't me who did it — it was 
Barney, Barney O'Flynn. 

Dolly. Barney O'Flynn, who's she? 

Green. He is n't a she, she 's a he. 

Dolly. What are you talking about? 

Green. Barney O'Flynn. 

Dolly. Wliatofher? 

Green. Hang it — ^he isn't a her — she's a 
him! 

Dolly. {Tartly.) What is she? 

Green. Look here, I say Barney 's a man 
— male, masculine, first person singular, 
of the Irish gender — do you understand? 

Dolly. {Arms akimbo.) Oh — so you pre- 
tend it 's a man that 's kept you away 
all this time, do you? 

{She sits at right of table.) 

Green. {Sitting at left.) Yes, and the 
most unmitigated ass of a man I ever 
saw. Dolly, if Hazel told you — that I 
was to blame — 

Dolly. {Leaning over the table.) Hazel 



tell me? How could she tell me any- 
thing? 
Green. {Puzzled.) Eh? 
Dolly. I have n't seen her blessed face for 

over a year — and never will see it again, 

I 'm afraid. 
Green. {Astonished.) Hasn't Hazel 

been here ? Has she be — 
Dolly. Here? 
Green. {Stammering.) Don't you know? 

— No, she don't! 
Dolly. Know what? 
Green. {Stuttering.) I — I mean that she 

must be — I that — n-nothing. 
Dolly. What do you mean by all this 

talk? 
Green. N-nothing, except — that is — I only 

mean — to — to — hang it — I don't know 

what I 'm talking about. 
Dolly. {Fiercely.) Pittacus — you're de- 
ceiving me! Something's happened; 

don't deny it. 
Green. I don't — ^yes — I don't — no — I do. 
Dolly. Where 's Hazel ? 
Green. Bless me — that's — that's what I 

wanted you to tell me. 
Dolly. Then you don't know where she is? 
Green. No, ding it — I wish I did. 
Dolly. Have n't you seen her, then ? 
Green. Oh, yes, that is, no — not since — I 

say I saw, I saw that I see, saw — oh, 

what am I see-sawing about? I say that 

I see, that I saw that I see — 
Dolly. Not since when? 
Green. Well, since the deluge, if you will 

have it — since she ran away. 
Dolly. Ran away — from whom? 
Green. From her — that is — {Looking at 

her, then dropping his eyes as he says) 

Lord Travers. 
Dolly. From her husband, you mean? 
Green. Y-yes, I suppose I do. 
Dolly. Suppose you do? Don't you 

know he 's her husband? 
Green. {Utterly broken, rises.) I don't 

— don't know anything. I only know 

that life 's a nuisance — and it 's a swindle 

that ever I was born. 
Dolly. {Kneeling to him, as he sits 

again.) Pittacus, Pittacus ! You 're hid- 
ing something — what 's come to Hazel ? 

Why has she run away — why do you talk 

to me so strangely? 
Green. Dolly, my darling, hang it ! Don't 

look so miserable — and I '11 try to tell you 

all — you see — 
DuNSTAN. {Inside, calling.) Dolly, Dolly, 

child! 
Dolly. {Starting.) That's her father— 



524 



HAZEL KIRKE 



he 's wanting' me — hurry — tell me quickly. 

Green. No, no, not now ! He '11 come and 
hear me, and he must never know. I 
must run, dear. — Meet me outside near 
the old tree, where we used to talk so 
much. The moon is shining! I'll tell 
you all. 

{Rising, he starts to go.) 

Dolly. All right, I '11 go to you the mo- 
ment I get away from my micle. 

DuxSTAN. {Inside.) Dolly, child, are you 
never eoomin"? 

Dolly. Yes, uncle, I 'm coming. 

Green. {Detaining her.) Why don't the 
old bear come here to you? 

Dolly. Why, poor dear heart ! He 's 
blind. 

Green. Blind ! 

Dolly. Yes, just after you went away, he 
got news of some kind that made him 
awfully ill. For days he was out of his 
mind, raving about Hazel; and when the 
fever went away, it left him blind. 

DuNSTAN. {Appearing in the doorway, 
very old and broken.) Why, Dolly, child, 
what keeps thee so long, when thee hears 
me call? 

(Dolly runs to him.) 

Dolly. Here I be. {Leading him to 
chair.) I had work to finish here, uncle. 

DuNSTAN. {Sitting.) Bring me my pipe, 
child. — I have much thinkin' to do to- 
night, an' nothin' helps me to think like 
my pipe. 

Dolly. All right, nncle dear, I '11 bring 
it to ye. {She goes to Green, sees him 
out of the door, where he points outside, 
seeming to ask her if she 'II meet him. 
She motions "Yes.'' He kisses her 
loudly and goes out.) 

DuNSTAN. What be that? 

Dolly. {Getting his pipe.) What 's what, 
uncle? 

Dun STAN. That noise. 

Dolly, ^^^lat noise, uncle? 

DuNSTAN. 'T were a noise that sounded 
like a kiss, girl. 

Dolly. {Filling his pipe.) Oh, it must 
have been the — the — sputtering of the 
fire. 

DuNSTAN. The only fire I ever heard 
spooter like that be the fire o' love, lass. — 
Who 's been here? 

Dolly. When, uncle? 

DuNSTAN. Just now. 

Dolly. Here 's your pipe, uncle ; — will I 
light it for you? 

{Striking a match.) 

DuNSTAN. Aye, lass, do. {As she lights 



his pipe.) I wish thee could only light 
my eyes as easy as thee lights the pipe. 
Dolly. Oh, uncle, don't talk like that. I 
can't abide it. 

(Dolly puts her arm round Dunstan's 

neck, and places her cheek against 

his head. ) 

DuNSTAN. There, there, child, I 'm a weak 

old fool to bother thee with my burdens. 

Go, find thy Aunt Mercy; she be above 

stairs; tell her I must see her, and then 

get to bed. 

Dolly. All right, uncle. {Going.) I'll 

not go to bed this night till I 've got news 

of Hazel. {Exit.) 

(Hazel appears outside, looking 

through the window. Opening the 

casement, pale and ragged, she sees 

DuNSTAN, and pauses.) 
DuNSTAN. {Laying down his pipe, with a 
sigh.) There's no use, even the pipe 
can't comfort me to-night. I moost tell 
my poor wife a' now.. It 's hard, bitter 
hard, to leave the auld mill — a pauper, 
too — but it moost be done. Better star- 
vation, death, anything, than more debt 
to Squire Rodney. Oh, that child o' 
mine, my only bairn, why should she have 
been her feyther's curse? Oh, my old 
heart is heavy to-night! would that I 
were dead, would that I were dead! {He 
sohs. Hazel moans and drops her head 
on the sill. Dunstan starts up.) Hark, 
what's that? Who's there? Some one 
at the window. Who is it ? Is there any 
one there? That 's strange. 

{He feels his way toward the windoiv.) 

{Enter Mercy.) 

Mercy. What art doin' there, Dunstan?- 

Dunstan. I could ha' sworn, wife, that I 
heard some one at the window. 

Mercy. {Starting.) Some one at the win- 
dow? 

Dunstan. Aye, I heard a noise like a 
moan, and then, when I cried out, it 
seemed as though the window were closed 
quick and sharp like. 

Mercy. {Aside.) My darling child, I 
know it is! I know it is! I can feel it 
here. What if it were Hazel? Yes, it 
is my child, she may be there, longin' to 
return! {She takes Dunstan to his 
chair.) Come, Dunstan, sit down, and 
let me speak to thee. Perhaps I can 
make thee understand the noise at the 
window. 

(Hazel appears as before.) 



STEELE MACKAYE 



525 



DuNSTAN. (Sitting.) What dost think it 
were, wife? 

Mercy. Dost know what day this be, 
sweetheart ? 

DuNSTAN. Thursday, I believe. 

Mercy. Yes, Thursday, the 10th day of 
October. 

DuNSTAN. Ah ! Ah-a-a-h ! 

Mercy. This day, two and twenty year 
ago, our Hazel were born. 

DuNSTAN. Hist, wife, hist! Don't 'mind 
me o' that now. 

Mercy. Oh, feyther, dear, why not? why 
not? That w^ere a sweet day to us, then. 

DuNSTAN. Aye, but it be a bitter day to 
us now. 

Mercy. Feyther, what if thy child were at 
thy door now, longin' to coom back to 
the old house? 

DuNSTAN. I 'd bid her begone. 

Mercy. Oh, Dunstan! 

DuNSTAN". I 'd point at these sightless eyes 
an' say, "This be thy work." I 'd point 
at thee, and say, "Look at thy mother 
(The wind sounds outside.) a beggar wi' 
thy feyther in the street ; thy work, too." 

Mercy. What dost mean, Dunstan? 

Dunstan. I mean, Mercy, wife, that the 
end be coom. I owe everything we gotten 
in the world to Squire Rodney — an' debt 
to him I can bear no longer now. I 've 
sent for him to coom this very night and 
take possession o' the mill — and to-mor- 
row thee and I an' Dolly moost wander 
out beggars, but beggars no longer to the 
man our flesh and blood has wronged. 

Mercy. Oh, Dunstan, can thee never for- 
give? 

Dunstan. Never! {The wind sounds.) 
Strangers she chose; to strangers let her 
look, for she be dead to us forever! 
(Hazel, with moan of despair, disap- 
pears, leaving the window open. Dun- 
stan starts.) Hark — that moan again! 

Mercy. {Going to the window.) Aye and 
see — the window 's open ! Oh, Dunstan, 
what if it be our child, our Hazel ! 

Dunstan. Hoot, woman, it were the wind ! 
{It sounds again.) There's a storm 
coomin' up. Maister Rodney 'ull not be 
here to-night. Better lock up the mill. 
Close the window, wife, and bolt the door, 
then get thee to bed. (Mercy goes to 
the window and looks out. Dunstan 
feels his way to the door.) Mercy, I'll 
go once more over the old mill I 've loved 
so long and these hands have tended 
so well. Good-night, wife! Good-night, 
wife ! Good-night ! 



Mercy. Good-night, Dunstan, and may the 
angels be wi' you, this last night i' the 
old mill. — An' my child may be out in 
the night — homeless and hungry! — No, 
no ; I '11 go for Maister Rodney. He will 
save Hazel, an' he's able to break the 
iron o' her feyther's will. 

{Exit, weeping.) 

(Hazel appears at the window; slowly 
opening the door, she steals wearily in, 
and shivers over the fire.) 

Hazel. Oh, how cold I am! But no fire 
will ever warm me again. {Looking 
about her.) And this is home, the home 
that I have lost, the home I have cursed ! 
My father's chair! How often have I 
sat here upon his lap, my arms about his 
neck, and heard him sing his dear old 
songs! How often have I knelt here at 
my mother's feet and prayed as I can 
never pray again! {She sinks on her 
knees by the chair.) As I never can pray 
again ! Oh, father, father ! Heaven has 
heard your curse. 

{With a sob, she buries her face in 
chair. Dunstan appears, right. 
He gropes across the room, places his 
hand on the back of the chair at 
which she kneels; Hazel draws back 
with a groan. He starts.) 
Dunstan. What be that? {The wind 
sounds. ) Nothing but the sobbing of the 
storm. Ah, it does me good to hear it. 
It sounds like the voice of my own heart. 
Dear old mill, my eyes will never, never 
more behold thee, and my hands have felt 
thy timbers for the last, last time. 
(Hazel follows him across the room, re- 
moves a chair from his path, kisses the 
lapel of his coat.) But God's will be 
done ! God's will be done. 

{He gropes his way to the door left, 
lifts his hands in prayer, and passes 
out. Hazel goes back and bows her 
head on the arm of the chair.) 

(Rodney enters. His coat is closely but- 
toned up.) 

Rodney. A fearful night! Dunstan has 
sent for me. What for, I cannot imagine. 
Perhaps he has word of Hazel. I won- 
der — Is that you, Dolly — asleep? 
(Hazel starts and looks up. Rodney, 
recognising her, draws back, then kneels 
at her feet.) Here? Back again? Oh, 
Hazel, my angel, my poor sufferin' saint 
— bless ye for coming back! You've 



52G 



HAZEL KIRKE 



brought life, salvation, joy once more to 
the old mill ! 

Hazel. {Rises and starts to go, right.) 
Oh, Mr. Rodney, don't kneel to me, don't 
speak to me ! Let me go, let me go, and 
carry the misery and shame I bring, away 
from here, forever! 

RODXEY. {Stopping her.) Let you go 
nowf Never! You bring misery and 
shame here? No, no, girl, that 's not true, 
that 's not true ! 

Hazel. Oh, but you do not know! 

RODXEY. Yes, child, I know all. I know 
that a villain wronged ye, but the friend's 
heart, the mother's arms, the father's 
home all are open to ye now. 

Hazel. Mr. Rodney, you don't know what 
you say. My father but now, a moment 
ago, declared he would never own me in 
this world again. To-morrow he leaves 
this dear old mill, driven by my broken 
promise, by my shame. 

RoDXEY. What, quit the mill, girl*? No, 
that shall never be. 

Hazel. Ah, sir, who can prevent it now"? 

RoDXEY. You, girl, you. 

Hazel. I *? Impossible ! He would never 
accept a service from me, now. 

RoDXEY. Yes, girl, one service, one that 
would pay his debt to me a thousand- 
fold. 

Hazel. What service is that? 

RoDXEY. Keep the old promise; become 
mj'' wife. 

Hazel. {Amazed.) Oh, Mr. Rodney, and 
would you marry me, now? 

RODXEY. Yes, and be the proudest man on 
earth to call you wife. 

Hazel. {Turns from him.) Oh, sir! — 
I— 

RoDXEY. {Takes her hand.) I know all 
ye 'd say, child : your heart has been 
another's — ^you could never give me a 
wife's love. Why, Hazel, dear, I do not 
ask it. If you will but marry me, it 's 
only as a beloved daughter I will hold ye, 
a daughter I shall have the right to 
cherish and to guard. 

Hazel. {Leaving him.) Oh, what shall I 
do, what shall I do ? 

Rodxey. Be brave, girl; marry me, save 
your father — bless your mother — bring 
happiness to us all once more; speak — 
promise you '11 do this. 

Hazel. Yes, on one condition. 

Rodxey. And what is that, child? 

Hazel. {Utterli/ heart-broken.) Call my 
father — he is blind — he cannot see me. 
If he consents to let me pay his debt to 



you, you shall have my hand, and I will 

be your wife. 
R.ODXEY. {Kissing her hand.) Noble girl! 

Heaven will reward ye for this resolution. 

I '11 call your father instantly. Wait 

here. — You '11 see — all wdll yet be well. 
{Exit, left. The wind sounds.) 
Hazel. Another promise I have made this 

noble man. This time I '11 keep my word 

in spite of my own miserable heart. 

{Enter Rodxey and Dunstax together.) 

DuxsTAX. Why, Maister Rodney, is that 
you, sir? How did ye get in? The door 
was bolted. 

(Hazel places a chair for Dunstax.) 

Rodxey. Some good angel must have 
drawn the bolt, then ; but enough of that. 
You sent for me. I was delayed. I am 
here at last. Tell me, what 's the good 
word to-night, Dunstan? 

DuxSTAX^. {Sitting.) Maister Rodney, 
you 've been a good friend to us. For 
eight long years I 've been in debt to ye — 
a debt I thought my child would pay, but 
— well, when she broke her faith and left 
us, I strove hard to make the old mill 
earn enough to pay the money that I 
owed ye. Fever laid hold on me and left 
me blind ; all hope of work for me is over 
now. And I have but one way to pay my 
debt, and that is to gi' ye up the mill. 

Rodxey. {Leaning over Duxstax's chair.) 
And do ye think I '11 take it? 

DuxSTAX. Yes, for I shall leave it. I owe 
ye too much a'ready; I an' mine have 
wronged ye every way. I '11 do penance 
for my child as a beggar in the street. 

Rodxey. No, no, Dunstan. Let Hazel do- 
penance for herself; let all be as it was; 
let her pay your debt by marrying me. 

Dux^STAX. She, many you? 

Rodx^ey. Aye, why not? you know she's 
free. 

(Hazel gradually sinks down in front 

of DuXSTAX.) 

DuxsTAX. Free of what? Of stains o' 
shame? 

Rodxey. Come, come, sir, no more o' that. 

DuxsTAX. No, no, sir, she can never pay 
debt o' mine. 

Rodxey. Dunstan, will you hear me — 

DuxsTAX. No, no, not one word ! (Hazel 
kneels before him.) If she were now 
before my very face, kneeling at my feet, 
prayin' for my consent to marry ye, I 'd 
tell her nay, never ! I 'd tell her she had 
wronged ye bad enough wi'out seeking to 



STEELE MACKAYE 



527 



make ye the hoosband of a dishonored 
creetur like herself. 

{The wind moans. Hazel falls to the 
ground.) 

Rodney. (Baising her.) Silence, hard- 
hearted man ! Silence, for fear the curse 
of heaven may fall upon your iron will, 
and break its strength forever. 

{He places Hazel in chair.) 

DuNSTAN. Mr. Rodney, I only do my- duty, 
sir, to you and my own pride. 

Rodney. So you '11 not consent to have her 
marry me'? 

DuNSTAN. Never ! 

Rodney. Very well, then, I'll do all I can 
to induce her to marry me without your 
consent. 

DuNSTAN. A'reet, sir, a'reet! Good- 
night, Maister Rodney; if you have no 
objection, I'll see ye out now and bolt 
the door. 

{He rises and starts for the door.) 

Rodney. {Intercepts and leads him left.) 
Not yet; go call Mercy and bid her come 
here. 

DuNSTAN. Mercy *? What do ye want o' 
her? 

Rodney. Good advice, that you can neither 
give nor take. 

DuNSTAN. A'reet, sir. I'll tell Mercy 
that you want to speak to her, but mind 
this — Mercy has given her word not to set 
eyes upon her child wi'out my consent. I 
warn ye she '11 not lie ; no, not even to 
please you, Maister Rodney, and so good- 
night. Good-night, Maister Rodney, 
good-night. {Exit.) 

Rodney. {Going to Hazel, who sits dazed 
in chair.) Oh, heart of iron! Hazel, 
don't mind that now. All the world 
knows that a mother's love — Hazel, Hazel, 
dear! {He touches her. She starts as 
if in dream.) Hazel! Hazel, child, in 
heaven's name speak to me! 

Hazel. {Rising.) Mr. Rodney, do you 
love me still •? 

Rodney. More than life — or all the world 
— but as a father. Hazel, dear, a father, 
and no other way. 

Hazel. If you love me, leave me — let me 
alone tonight ; tomorrow will settle all for 
the best, I hope. 

Rodney, Must I leave you, then? 

Hazel. If you care for my happiness. 

Rodney. But we '11 meet again? 

Hazel. I hope so — {He kisses her hand. 
She murmurs aside) in heaven. 

Rodney. Then, good-night, my darling; 
your mother's coming; you can rest on 



her heart and be at peace. Good-night, 
Hazel! May pitying angels guard and 
bless you. {Exit, right.) 

Hazel. All is over; I know the worst now, 
and I know what I must do. I '11 go, 
and there in the water that has brought 
so much misery to this home, I '11 drown 
my sorrows and my sins. {Going.) 
Good-bye, old home — farewell, sweet 
memories, fond hopes — farewell, mother, 
father, life — life — life ! 

{She goes out. The wind moans 
louder. After a pause, Dunstan 
speaks outside.) 

Dunstan. Mercy, Mercy, where be ye? 

{Entering.) 

Why don't ye answer me? Mercy has 
gone, Maister Rodney ; where can she be ? 
Oh, why don't ye answ^er? No one here, 
the house deserted! What can it mean? 
— Maister Rodney, Maister Rodney! 

Met. {Outside.) Help! help! She's 
drowning! Drowning! Hazel's drown- 
ing ! I saw her jump in — it 's Hazel, 
Hazel! {Rushing across at hack.) 
Hurry, help, help ! 

Dunstan. {In horror.) Hazel, drown- 
ing! Dying! Here, before my face? 
No, no, I'll save her! Ah, heaven! I 
cannot! I am blind! {Falling on his 
knees.) Oh, God! this is thy punish- 
ment ! I was blind when I drove her out 
— and now, when I could save her — I 
cannot see — I cannot see — I cannot see ! 
{He falls to the ground.) 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene. Same as Act Third; morning; the 
fire is out, the table cleared, a jug of 
water and a mug on the table. Dolly 
discovered asleep in a chair, near the 
table, head in arms. 

{Enter Green, smoking a cigarette, and 
singing a line of ^' Molly Bawn.^') 

Green. {Calls gently.) Doll! Dolly! 
Dolly don't answer ; Dolly 's in heaven 
now. Sleep is a delightful don't-care-a- 
ducat sort of state, and yet who would 
sleep always? Not I — nor shall she. 
How lovely she looks — yes, a veritable 
sleeping beauty ; but her time has come — 
the prince is here, and will wake her with 



528 



HAZEL KIRKE 



a kiss. Will you permit me? Of course 
she will. [He kisses her. Dolly makes 
motion as though brushing away a fly.) 
She takes me for a fly — I '11 fly it 
again. {He kisses her.) She's the kind 
of a fish that won't rise at a fly. Fire in 
the shape of a kiss is a failure — we '11 
try what smoke will do. 

{He puffs smoke in her face.) 

DOLLT. {Awakes with a sneeze.) Pah! — 
smoke! Where's the fire? 

Greex. {Leans against the table.) Here 
— here — in my breast — consuming my 
heart for you. 

Dolly. {Going to him.) Oh, Pittacus, 
I 'm so glad you 've come ! I have so 
much to tell you! Such queer things 
have happened. 

Greex. Strange ! Let 's hear it. I adore 
queer things — that 's Avhy I adore you, 

{Embraces her.) 

Dolly. No nonsense now; listen, and ex- 
plain if you can. 

Greex. I can explain everything — except 
the power a woman has to make a don- 
key of a man. 

Dolly. No nonsense now. Last night, 
after I returned from my meeting with 
you — when you told me all about my poor 
dear Hazel — {She wipes her eyes.) 

Greex. Well? 

Dolly. I found Uncle Dunstan lying here 
— unconscious — on the floor. I was ter- 
ribly frightened — called for help — there 
was no one in the house — even Aunt 
Mercy had disappeared — gone off to 
Squire Rodney's house, to meet that crazy 
creature, Met. 

Greex. What did you do? 

Dolly. You won't believe me when I tell 
you. 

Greex. I dare say I won't, but tell me to 
fill in the time. 

Dolly. AVell, sir, I dragged that big man 
into the other room and laid him on the 
lounge myself! There! 

Greex. The tale is a tough one, but — 
{Takes her hand and arm; she throws up 
her arm; he feels her muscle.) you may 
not now believe it — but I believe it 
now. 

Dolly. Aunt Mercy came in soon after; 
we worked for hours until w^e brought him 
to. We 've been up with him all night 
long, for ever since he came to con- 
sciousness, he's been out of his head. 

Greex. Out of his head! What an un- 
pleasant position for the rest of his body ! 
Oh, I see, you mean out of his mind; 



that 's nothing, when you 're used to it as 
I am. 

Dolly. You are? 

Greex. Yes, and it 's all your fault. 

Dolly. What do ye mean? 

Greex. It 's very queer, but I have always 
noticed that, if you ever remarked it, it 
is a peculiar physiological fact, while a 
man may lose his mind without its affect- 
ing his heart — he can rarely have an af- 
fection of the heart, without running the 
risk of losing his mind. {Embracing 
her.) Now, I say, darling, did you ever 
feel as if you were losing your mind? 

Dolly. Never ! 

Greex. That 's because you 've no mind 
to lose. 

Dolly. {Pushing him off.) Not on your 
account, sir. 

(Mercy appears left.) 
Hush — my aunt — 

(Greex draw^ away, right.) 

Mercy. {Looking back as she comes.) At 
last he seems to be asleep. {Turns and 
sees Greex.) What, you here, Mr. 
Green? 

Greex. {Embarrassed.) Well, madam — 
you may not believe it — but I rather 
think I am. 

Mercy. And Hazel — my child — have you 
any news of her? 

Greex. {Confused.) Well, you see — that 
is — {Aside to Dolly.) Does she know 
the truth? 

Dolly. Nothing from me. 

Mercy. Well, sir — can't you answer me? 

Greex. Yes, of course — that is, I could if 
you — I — we — only knew what you meant. 

Mercy. Ah, sir! Something terrible has 
happened. — I feel it in my heart — but. 
I 'm so dazed with grief, I can't quite 
make it out. Last night Met appeared; 
told me Hazel had left her husband and 
could not be found. I promised to join 
Met at Aaron Rodney's house. I went 
there late last night; neither Met nor 
Maister Rodney was there. I hurried 
home and found my husband dangerously 
ill. What happened while I Avas gone I 
cannot say, but I think Hazel must have 
come and — 

Greex and Dolly. {Together, eagerly.) 
Well— well? 

Mercy. I fear he heard her — had a fit of 
rage — drove her out again, and was 
struck down by the power of his passion. 

Greex. Impossible! If Hazel had been 
here she would not have gone without a 
word to you. 



STEELE MACKAYE 



529 



When I awoke this morning, he 



Mercy. It's hard to think it, and yet I 
cannot tell — I cannot tell. 

{Enter Rodney.) 

Ah, thank heaven! Maister Rodney, 
have you seen Hazel ? 

Rodney. Certainly — here. 

All. Here? 

Rodney. Last night. We were to meet 
again this morning. 

Mercy. Where ? 

Rodney. Here. 

Mercy. Then she is coming-! 

Rodney. Coming'? Has she gone? 

Mercy. We do not know. 

Green. (Starting.) Good heavens! I 
have an idea. 

Dolly. What is it ? 

Green. I see it all.- — Shes' gone with her 
husband. 

IVIercy. Her husband! 

Green. He came down here to look for 
her ; when I returned to our lodgings last 
night he was not there. I did n't mind 
it, for ever since she left him he 's had a 
fashion of w^andering out at night till 
very late. 

Rodney. Well — well — go on. 

Green 

was not in his room. 

DuNSTAN. {Inside; calling.) Water, 

water ! 

Mercy. Hark — 't is Dunstan. 

Dun STAN. {Appearing in doorway, fol- 
lowed hy Joe.) Water, water, water! 

Rodney. What does this mean? 

Mercy. He 's raving again. 

Dunstan. Water — quick, quick — I 'm 

burning up ! I 'm burning up ! (Dolly 
gives him water.) This is the lake that 
burneth forever — remorse, remorse, re- 
morse! (Dolly holds the glass for Dun- 
stan; about to drink, he pauses; then 
puts the glass from him.) Water — no, 
no — take it away — 't was water killed her. 

Rodney. What's that he says? 

Dunstan. Hark, I hear that cry again! 
Oh, God — save her — save her — she 's 
drowning, drowning ! 

All. Drowning ? 

Dunstan. Hush — not so loud — see how 
sweetly she is sleejDing. 

Mercy. {With a cry.) Ah! my child is 
drowned, drowned. 

{She falls on Rodney's breast.) 

Rodney. No, no — it cannot be. 

{He supports Mercy to a chair near 
the fireplace.) 

Dunstan. Hush, not so loud, you '11 wake 



her ! Yes^ she was drowned ! I did it — I 
held her till she died — I could n't help it. 
Something forced me on. What was it? 
What was it? This hard, hard, hard 
heart of mine ! 

Rodney. Horrible ! Horrible ! 

(Dolly sobs.) 

Dunstan. See, see ! there she goes to the 
mill — she beckons me ! Quite right, lass ; 
quite right, lass. Yes, yes — I 'm cooming, 
cooming, cooming! {He starts toward 
the right; Joe leads him.) Yes, take me 
to the mill, take me to the mill! The 
noise there will drown the awful voices 
here, here, here ! 

{Striking his forehead, he goes out 
with Joe.) 

Rodney. (Aside.) And this is the bitter 
end of all ! No, no ; there 's something 
still to do. (To Green.) There is a 
duty here for you and for me. — Let us 
go. 

Mercy. (Starting up.) Where are ye go- 
ing? 

Rodney. To search for Hazel — there! 

(He points off. Outside Met's pipe 
plays merrily. All start and listen.) 

Mercy. Hark! 'T is Met, 'tis Met! and 
he has news of her. 

{She hastens to the door.) 

(Met. rushes in.) 

All. Hazel — where 's Hazel? 

Met. She 's saved ! 

All. Saved? 

Met. Ves, by her husband. 

All. Her husband? 

Mercy. Where is she, lad ? Where is she ? 

Met. Coming here with him. God bless 
him! God bless him! 

Green. How did he save her? 

Met. Last night, when she fell in the river 
■ — I called for help and jumped in. The 
river was runnin' strong, and when I 
caught her in my arms, she was uncon- 
scious. I was growin' faint and begin- 
nin' to despair — when I saw a man stand- 
in' on the bank. I shouted ; he heard, and 
plunged in — 

All. Go on, brave boy — go on ! 

Met. It was Hazel's husband — and, ah — 
it 's a stout heart, and a strong arm he 
has. He landed us both near Farmer 
Woodford's house. There he took Hazel, 
and there he nursed her back to life — as 
she had nursed him a year before. 

Mercy. Thank heaven — thank heaven ! 

{She weeps for joy. ) 



530 



HAZEL KIRKE 



(Hazel appears at right, followed by 
Arthur.) 

Hazel. {Holding out her arms.'; Mother! 
Mother ! 

All. Hazel ! 

Mercy. {Embracing her.) My ohild — 
precious child! 

{All gather round them with delight, 
Met. dancing ecstatically.) 

Green. Ah — will you permit me? 

(He kisses Hazel's hand.) 

Rodney. {To Arthur.) You've won her 
now, sir, and I can't help believing you 
mean to right her wrongs. 

Arthur. Ah, sir, how can I right such 
wrongs as hers'? 

Rodney. By making her indeed your wife. 

Arthur. {Handing him a letter.) My 
answer to that is this. (Rodney takes 
the letter and goes to the window.) Oh, 
Green, this is a happy day, but I thank 
heaven my mother never lived to see 
it. 

Green. Why do you say that ? 

Arthur. I told you of the shame that was 
overhanging our house *? 

Green. You did. 

Arthur. Well, I ordered my solicitor to 
settle my estate, and satisfy every claim 
of Lady Maud's against my father, if it 
took the last penny I had in the world. 
He observed my orders, and there remains 
to me now — nothing. 

Green. Nothing'? 

Arthur. Nothing but my own hands; my 
own brains, and the endless weaUh of my 
love for her. {He points at Hazel.) 

Green. {Grasping his hand.) Travers, I 
congratulate you. You 're above a lord 
now — you 're every inch a man. 

Rodney. {Coming forward.) Ah, my 
friends! Can this be possible? Here is 
indeed cause for rejoicing. From this 
letter I gather that the inn at which the 
ceremony was performed was not on the 
English, but on the Scottish side of the 
border; therefore your marriage with 
Hazel was a legal one after all, and it 
seems that Barney, the scoundrel, was the 
only one to blame. 

{He embraces Hazel.) 

Green. Oh, no, don't blame Barney, but 
blame the world that educated him. We 
ought to be satisfied that he did not put 
it on the Irish side of the border. 

DuNSTAN. {Inside.) Save her! Do ye 
hear me"? Save her! 

Hazel. Hark ! What 's that ? 



DuNSTAN. {Inside.) Where is she"? 
Where is she? 

Mercy. Oh, Hazel, it is your father. 

Hazel. He will not drive me out again? 

Mercy. No, no ; he shall not ; he cannot do 
it now. 

DuNSTAN. {Appearing at the door, fol- 
lowed by Joe and Dan.) Let me get at 
her, let me get at her! Fools, stand 
back — give her air — air ! 

Hazel. Heaven help me ! he 's mad, mad ! 
What shall we do, what shall we do? 

Rodney. Sing the song you used to sing 
to him so long ago — it may calm his 
wretched soul and soothe his brain. 

(Hazel sings.) 

DuNSTAN. {Stands listening.) Her voice 
— from heaven — singing to me the old 
song ! No, it 's gone ; I hear her shriek 
for help — it 's Hazel ! She 's drowning — 
let me out of this! Where's the door? 
Bring me a light — a light ! 

(Hazel takes his hand.) 

Mercy. {Comes to them.) Have patience, 
poor heart, have patience. 

DuNSTAN. {Mistaking Hazel for Mercy.) 
Who be that, Mercy,— thee? 

Mercy. Aye, Dunstan, I be here at thy 
side. 

Dunstan. I 'm glad thee 's coom — but why 
did n't thee bring a light ? I 'm so weary 
o' this darkness. 

(Arthur brings a chair.) 

Mercy. Patience, dear heart, the light will 
coom — the light will coom. 

Dunstan. Aye, Mercy, wife, thee always 
brings the light to my heart, my faithful, 
loving wife. 

(Arthur and Hazel place Dunstan in 
the chair. Hazel returns to Mercy.) 

Mercy. No, no, Dunstan, don't say that, 
for I have a sin to confess to thee. 

Dunstan. {Sitting.) Thee — a sin to con- 
fess to me? I'll not believe it. 

Mercy. It's true, Dunstan; I've broken 
my promise to thee. 

Dunstan. Broken thy promise? 

Mercy. I've seen our child — wi'out thy 
consent. 

Dunstan. {Starting up.) Seen Hazel! 
Yes, yes, I know — I know — thee 's seen 
her poor dead face — thee 's not seen her. 
No, she 's there — above — praying to 
God to forgive me — forgive me — forgive 
me. 

Mercy. No, Dunstan, no, it 's not her body 
alone I 've seen, but her soul too, shining 
in her eyes, wi' living love for thee — her 
feyther. 



STEELE MACKAYE 



531 



DuNSTAN. (Bising.) Then she's alive — 

saved ! 
Mercy. {Goes to Dunstan; Hazel kneels 

before him. Arthur stands hehind 

him.) Aye, Dunstan, by her hoosband. 

The man who took her from thee has 

brought her back to thy old arms. 
Dunstan. Where is she'? Where is she"? 
Mercy. Stretch forth thy hands and feel 

her face. 
Dunstan. {Feeling her face.) Who's 

this •? 
Hazel. Thy child — thine only child. 
Dunstan. {With a cry falls hack in the 

chair, dragging her upon his breast.) 

Hazel, Hazel, coom to my heart ! My 

child, my child! 
Rodney. At last, Dunstan, the iron of thy 

will has melted in the fire of a father's 

love. 
Dolly. {Embraces Green.) Oh, Pittacus, 

my happiness is perfect now! 
Green. You mav not believe it, but so is 

mine — No, stop — not quite. 

{He steps forward, speaking to the 
audience.) 

Will you permit me"? — Thank you. — 

'T was our way, 
From earliest time, of winding up a 

play ; 
A kindly custom, — actors know its worth. 
Peace after pain, and after sadness, 

mirth. 



You 've seen tonight a conscientious man 
Offend his soul as only conscience can; 
You 've seen the sufferings that he caused 

and felt 
Ere yet his iron will was forced to melt; 
You guess the lesson we would fain in- 
still. 
That human heart is more than human 

will. 
You've dropped your tears, perhaps, — 

pray let me now beguile 
Your friendly faces of one parting smile. 
You 've seen me drifting through this 

troubled scene 
And turning everything — well — turning 

one thing, {taking Dolly's hand) 

Green. 
'T is nature's general and her favorite 

tint. 
And therefore — well — I merely drop the 

hint — 
Green though I am, I 've brought these 

lovers through. 
And what I 've done for them I '11 do for 

you. 
Don't brood on care — the trouble that you 

make 
Is always hard to bear, and harder still to 

shake ; 
Smile on the world — the trouble that is 

sent 
In patience take it as your punishment. 
He wins who laughs — ^he doesn't care a 

rap, he. 
And so, like Pittacus, he 's always happy. 



SHENANDOAH 

BY 

Bronson Howard 



Copyright, 1897, by Bronson Howard 

All Rights, Includixg that of Performance, Reserved 

Reprinted from the privately printed edition, by permission 
of the Society of American Dramatists and Composers, from a 
copy furnished by Samuel French. 



SHENANDOAH 

Shenandoah represents the Civil War play. It also represents the work of 
the playwright who illustrates in his career the development of modern Ameri- 
can drama. Bronson Crocker Howard was born in Detroit, Islichigan, October 
7, 1842, the son of Charles Howard, a merchant of Detroit, who was at one time 
Mayor of the city. After being educated at the local schools in Detroit, he pre- 
pared for Yale College, but did not enter, owing to eye trouble. He began news- 
paper work in Detroit, and wrote plays. The first of these to be performed was 
a dramatization of an episode in Les Miserahles under the title of Fantine, which 
was played in Detroit in 1864. In 1865 Mr. Howard came to New York and 
after he had had the usual struggles to obtain a hearing, Augustin Daly put on 
Saratoga at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, December 21, 1870. The play was a great 
success, running one hundred and one nights. It is a comedy, bordering on farce, 
reflecting the manners of 1870 and concerned with the adventures of Bob Sackett, 
who is engaged to be married to four girls at once. It was adapted for the Eng- 
lish stage by Frank Marshall and produced by Sir Charles (then Mr.) Wynd- 
ham under the title of Brighton at the Court Theatre, London, May 25, 1874. 
Later Mr. Wyndham played it in Germany in a German translation. 

Diamonds, a comedy, produced in New York September 26, 1872, and Moor- 
croft or The Double Wedding, a comedy, played in New York, October 17, 1874, 
and partly suggested by a short story by John Hay, were not so significant as The 
Banker's Daughter, produced first at Hooley's Theatre, Chicago, September 4, 
1873, as Lillian's Last Love, and under its final title at the Union Square Theatre, 
New York, September 30, 1878. This play, based on the theme of a woman's 
self-sacrifice for her father's sake, through which she marries a man she does 
not love, still holds the stage. An interesting account of the building of this 
play is given in Mr. Howard's The Autobiography of a Play. 

Next came in rapid succession, Old Love Letters, a charming one-act play, 
based on the return of a package of letters between two former lovers, which 
was played at the Park Theatre, New York, August 31, 1878; Hurricanes, a 
comedy produced first in Chicago at Hooley's Theatre, May 27, 1878, and later 
in England under the title Truth; Wives, a comedy adapted from Moliere's Ecole 
des Femmes and Ecole des Maris, played at Daly's Theatre, New York, October 18, 
1879, and Fun in a Green Boom, a comedy played at Booth's Theatre, New York, 
April 10, 1882. His next most significant play was Young Mrs. Winthrop, a 
study of the estrangement of a husband and wife through circumstances and 
their reconciliation through their child. It was first played at the Madison Square 

535 



536 INTRODUCTION 



Theatre, New York, October 9, 1882. A very successful comedy, One of Our 
Girls, the scene of which is laid in France, was first played at the Lyceum 
Theatre, New York, November 10, 1885. Met hy Chance, a romantic play, per- 
formed at the Lyceum Theatre, New York, January 11, 1887, was not a success, 
but on September 26 of the same year The Henrietta began its career at the 
Union Square Theatre. This is a dramatization of the motives that move Wall 
Street and in it Mr. William H. Crane and Mr. Stuart Robson achieved one of 
the great successes of their joint careers. It has been revived by Mr. Crane 
who is still playing in a revision of it. Baron Rudolf, written originally in 1881, 
was played in New York, October 25, 1887. Shenandoah came in 1888 and 
Aristocracy, a comedy in which social types, both national and international, are 
contrasted was put on first at Palmer's Theatre, New York, November 14, 1892. 
Peter Stuyvesant, an historical comedy, written in collaboration with Mr. Brander 
Matthews, and played at Wallack's Theatre, New York, October 2, 1899, was 
the last play of Mr. Howard's to be performed. Knave and Queen and Kate, 
the latter a clever international play, have not been performed. Mr. Howard 
died at Avon, New Jersey, August 4, 1908. 

Shenandoah, which he wrote at the height of his career, was first put on at 
the Boston Museum on November 19, 1888. It was based upon an earlier work 
which Mr. Howard had produced in Louisville, Kentucky, about twenty years 
before and at its first tryout in Boston it was not a success. After revision, how- 
ever, it was brought out at the Star Theatre, New York, September 9, 1889, and 
ran in New York, during the entire season. It has proved to be the most popular 
of Mr. Howard 's plays. 

Saratoga (1870), and Yowig Mrs. Winthrop (1882), have been published 
by Samuel French. Kate was published in 1906 by Harper and Brothers. 
The Henrietta has been published in England by French, but in this country has 
been only privately printed. The same is true of Old Love Letters, The Banker's 
Daughter, Shenandoah and Aristocracy. The present text of Shenandoah is 
based on the privately printed edition prepared by Mr. Howard. It was 
furnished the editor by Samuel French through the courtesy of the Society of 
American Dramatists and Composers. 

For biography of Mr. Howard, see the volume In Memoriam — Bronson How- 
ard, published by the American Dramatists Club, New York, 1910. This contains 
a biography by H. P. Mawson, an appreciation by Brander Matthews, The Autobi- 
ography of a Play by Bronson Howard and a list of the plays with the original 
casts. The Autobiography of a Play has been reprinted with an introduction 
by Augustus Thomas in the Publications of the Dramatic Museum of Columbia 
University, New York, 1915. See also Plays of the Present, ed. by J. B. Clapp 
and E. F. Edgett, Pub. of the Dunlap Society, New York, 1902, and The American 
Dramatist, Montrose J. Moses, New York, 1911. 



INTRODUCTION 537 



Of especial interest is the article on Bronson Howard in William Archer's 
English Dramatists of Today (1882), in which Mr. Archer, while pointing out 
Mr. Howard 's merits, accuses him of vulgarity for certain expressions in Saratoga, 
which are not included in the play, and which were therefore, most probably in- 
serted by the English adaptor. 



[FROM PREFACE TO SHENANDOAH] 

In ACT I, just before the opening of the war, Haverhill is a Colonel in the 
Regular Army. Kerchival West and Robert Ellingham are Lieutenants in 
his regiment, having been classmates at West Point. 



ACT I 

Charleston Harbor in 1861. After the Ball 

The citizens of Charleston knew almost the exact hour at which the attack 
on Fort Sumter would begin, and they gathered in the gray twilight of the 
morning to view the bombardment as a spectacle. — Nicolay, Campaigns of the 
Civil War, Vol. I, 

''I shall open fire in one hour." — Beauregard's last message to Major An- 
derson. Sent at 3 :20 A. M., April 12, 1861. 

ACTS II AND III 

The Union Army, under General Sheridan, and the Confederate Army, 
under General Early, were encamped facing each other about twenty miles south 
of Winchester, on Cedar Creek. * * ^ Gen. Sheridan was called to Washington. 
Soon after he left, a startling despatch was taken by our own Signal Officers 
from the Confederate Signal Station on Three Top Mountain. — Fond, Camp. 
Civ. War, Vol. XI. 

On the morning of Oct. 19th, the Union Army was taken completely by 
surprise. Thoburn's position was swept in an instant. Gordon burst suddenly 
upon the left flank. The men who escaped capture streamed through the camps 
along the road to Winchester. — Pond, supra. 

Far away in the rear was heard cheer after cheer. — Three years in the Sixth 
Corps. 

ACT TV 

Washington, 1865. Residence of General Buckthorn 

I feel that we are on the eve of a new era, when there is to be great harmony 
between the Federal and Confederate, — Gen Grant's Memoirs, 



CASTS OF SHENANDOAH 





Original Cast 


First New York 




Boston Museum, 


Production 




Nov. 19, 1888 


Star Theatre, N.Y., 
September 9, 1889 


Officers 


Thomas L. Coleman 


Wilton Lackaye 


of Sher- 


John B. jMason 


Henry Miller 


idan's 


Henry M. Pitt 


jMorton Selton 


Cavalry 


Edgar L. Davenport 


G. W. Bailey 



General Haverhill 

Colonel Kerchival West. 

Captain Heartsease 

Lieutenant Frank Bedloe 
Major-General Francis Buck- 
thorn, Commander of the 19th 

Army Corps C. Leslie Allen 

Sergeant B.sjiket George W. AVilson 

Colonel Robert Ellingham, 10th 

Virginia ; Charles J. Bell 

Captain Thornton, Secret Service, 

C. S. A Willis Granger 

Mrs. Constance Haverhill Annie M. Clarke 

Gertrude Ellingham Viola Allen 

IMadeline West Helen Dayne 

Jenny Buckthorn Miriam 'Leary 

Mrs. Edith Haverhill Grace Atwell 

Hardwick, Surgeon George Blake 

Captain Lockwood, U. S. Signal 

Corps Herbert Potter 

Lieutenant of Signal Corps 

Lieutenant of Infantry 

Corporal Dunn James Nolan 

Benson Charles S. Abbe 

Old Margery Kate Ryan 

Janette ^liss Harding 

WiLKiNS Henry MacDonna 



Harry Harwood 
James 0. Barrows 



Lucius Henderson 

John E. Kellerd 
Dorothy Dorr 
Viola Allen 
Nanette Comstock 
Effie Shannon 
Alice B. Haines 
W. L. Dennison 

C. C. Brandt 
Harry Thorn 
George IMaxwell 
W. J. Cummings 
William Barnes 
Mrs. Haslam 
Esther Drew 



SHENANDOAH 



ACT FIRST. 

Charleston Harbor in 1861. 
Ball." 



''After the 



Scene. The Interior of a Southern Resi- 
dence on the shore of Charleston Harbor. 
Large double doors at the rear of the 
stage are open. A large, wide window, 
ivith low sill, extends down the right side 
of the stage. A veranda is seen through 
the doors and the window. There is a 
wide opening on the left with a corridor 
beyond. The furniture and appoint- 
ments are quaint and old-fashioned, but 
the general tone of the walls and uphol- 
stery is that of i'lie old Colonial period in 
its more ornamental and decorative phase, 
as shown in the early days of Charleston. 
Old candlesticks and candelabra, with 
lighted candles nearly burned down, light 
the room, and in addition the moon-light 
streams in. Beyond the central doors and 
the window there is a lawn, with South- 
ern foliage, extending down to the shores 
of the harbor; a part of the bay lies in 
the distance, with low-lying land beyond. 
The lights of Charleston are seen over the 
water along the shore. The gray twi- 
light of early morning gradually steals 
over the scene as the Act progresses. 
As the curtain rises, Kerchival West is 
sitting in a chair, his feet extended and 
his head thrown back, a handkerchief over 
his face. Robert Ellingham strolls in 
on the veranda, beyond the window, 
smoking. He looks to the right, starts 
and moves to the window; leans agaif.st 
the upper side of the window and looks 
across. 

Ellingham. Kerchival ! 

Kerchival. {Under the handkerchief.) 

Eh? H'm! 
Elling. Can you sleep at a time like this *? 

My own nerves are on fire. 
Ker. Fire? Oh — yes — I remember. Any 

more fire-works, Bob? 
Elling. A signal rocket from one of the 

batterieS; now and then, {He goes up be- 



yond the window. Kerchival arouses 
himself, taking the handkerchief from his 
eyes.) 
Ker. What a preposterous hour to be up. 
The ball was over an hour ago, all the 
guests are gone, and it 's nearly four 
o'clock. {Looking at his watch.) Ex- 
actly ten minutes of four. {He takes out 
a cigar.) Our Southern friends assure 
us that General Beauregard is to open fire 
on Fort Sumter this morning. I don't 
believe it. {Lighting the cigar and ris- 
ing, he looks out through the window.) 
There lies the old fort — solemn and grim 
as ever, and the flag-staff stands above it, 
like a warning finger. If they do fire 
upon it {shutting his teeth for a moment 
and looking down at the cigar in his 
hand) the echo of that first shot will be 
heard above their graves, and Heaven 
knows how many of our own, also; but 
the flag will still float! — over the graves 
of both sides. 

(Ellingham enters from the central door 
and approaches him.) 

Are you Southerners all mad, Robert ? 
Elling. Are you Northerners all blind? 
(Kerchival sits down.) We Virginians 
would prevent a war if we could. But 
your people in the North do not believe 
that one is coming. You do not under- 
stand the determined frenzy of my fellow 
Southerners. Look! {Pointing toward 
the rear of the stage.) Do you see the 
lights of the city, over the water? The 
inhabitants of Charleston are gathering, 
even now, in the gray, morning twilight, 
to witness the long-promised bombard- 
ment of Fort Sumter. It is to be a gala 
day for them. They have talked and 
dreamed of nothing else for weeks. The 
preparations have become a part of their 
social life — of their amusement — their 
gayeties. This very night at the ball — 
here — in the house of my own relatives — 
what was their talk? What were the 
jests they laughed at? Sumter! War! 
Ladies were betting bonbons that the 
United States would not dare to flre a 



539 



540 



SHENANDOAH 



shot in return, and pinning- ribbons on 
the breasts of their "heroes." There was 
a signal rocket from one of the forts, and 
the young men who were dancing here 
left their partners standing on the floor to 
return to the batteries — as if it were the 
night before another Waterloo. The 
ladies themselves hurried away to watch 
the ''spectacle" from their own verandas. 
You won't see the truth ! I tell you, Ker- 
chival, a war between the North and 
South is inevitable ! 

Ker. And if it does come, you Virginians 
will join the rest. 

Ellixg. Our State will be the battle 
ground, I fear. But eveiy loyal son of 
Virginia will follow her flag. It is our 
religion ! 

Ker. My State is New York. If New 
York should go against the old flag, New 
York might go to the devil. That is my 
religion. 

Elling. So differently have we been 
taught what the word "patriotism" 
means ! 

Ker. You and I are officers of the same 
regiment of the United States Regular 
Army, Robert; we w^ere classmates at 
West Point, and we have fought side by 
side on the plains. You saved my scalp 
once ; I 'd have to wear a wig, now, if 
you had n't. I say, old boy, are we to be 
enemies ? 

Elling. {Laying Ms hand over his shoul- 
der.) My dear old comrade, whatever 
else comes, our friendship shall be un- 
broken ! 

Ker. Bob! {Looking up at him.) I only 
hope that we shall never meet in battle ! 

Elling. In battle? The idea is horrible! 

Ker. {Bising and crossing to him.) My 
dear old comrade, one of us will be wrong 
in this great fight, but we shall both be 
honest in it. {He gives his hand; El- 
LixGHAM grasps it warmly, then turns 
away.) 

Ellixg. Colonel Haverill is watching the 
forts, also ; he has been as sad to-night as 
we have. Next to leaving you, my great- 
est regret is that I must resign from his 
regiment. 

Ker. You are his favorite officer. 

Elling. Naturally, perhaps; he was my 
guardian. 

{Enter Haverill from the rear. He walks 
down, stopping in the center of the 
stage.) 

Haverill, Kerchival! I secured the nec- 



essaiy passports to the North yesterday 
afternoon; this one is yours; 1 brought 
it down for you early in the evening. 
(Kerch, takes the paper and goes to the 
luindow.) I am ordered direct to Wash- 
ington at once, and shall start with Mrs. 
Haverill this forenoon. You will report 
to Captain Lyon, of the 2d Regiment, in 
St. Louis. Robert! I have hoped for 
peace to the last, but it is hoping against 
hope. I feel certain, now, that the fatal 
blow will be struck this morning. Our 
old regiment is already broken up, and 
you, also, will now resign, I suppose, like 
nearly all your fellow Southerners in the 
Service. 

Elling. You know how sorry I am to 
leave your command. Colonel ! 

Haver. I serv^ed mider your father in 
Mexico ; he left me, at his death, the guar- 
dian of you and your sister, Gertrude. 
Even since you became of age, I have felt 
that I stood in his place. But you must 
be your sister's only guardian now. Your 
father fell in battle, fighting for our com- 
mon country, but you — 

Elling. He would have done as I shall do, 
had he lived. He was a Virginian ! 

Haver. I am glad, Robert, that he was 
never called upon to decide between two 
flags. He never knew but one, and we 
fought under it together. {Exit.) 

Elling. Kerchival ! Something occurred 
in this house to-night w^hich — which I 
should n't mention under ordinary cir- 
cumstances, but I — I feel that it may 
require my further attention, and you, 
perhaps, can be of service to me. 
Mrs. Haverill, the wife of the Colo- 
nel — 

Ker. Fainted away in her room. 

Elling. You know? 

Ker. I was one of the actors in the little 
drama. 

Elling. Indeed ! 

Ker. About half-past nine this evening, 
while the ladies Avere dressing for the ball, 
I was going upstairs; I heard a quick, 
sharp cry, sprang forward, found myself 
at an open door. Mrs. Haverill lay on 
the floor inside, as if she had just reached 
the door to cry for help, when she fell. 
After doing all the unnecessary and use- 
less things I could think of, I rushed out 
of the room to tell your sister, Gertrude, 
and my own sister, Madeline, to go and 
take care of the lady. Within less than 
twenty minutes afterwards, I saw Mrs. 
Haverill sail into the drawing-room, a 



BRONSON HOWARD 



541 



thing- of beauty, and with the glow of 
perfect health on her cheek. It was an 
immense relief to me when I saw her. 
Up to that time I had a vague idea that I 
had committed a murder. 

Ellixg. Murder ! 

Ker. M — m. A guilty conscience. Every 
man, of course, does exactly the wrong- 
thing when a woman faints. When I 
rushed out of Mrs. Haverill's room, I 
left my handkerchief soaked with water 
upon her face. I must ask her for it, it 's 
a silk one. Luckily, the girls got there 
in time to take it off ; she would n't have 
come to if they hadn't. It never oc- 
curred to me that she 'd need to breathe in 
my absence. That 's all I know about 
the matter. What troubles you^ I sup- 
pose eveiy woman has a right to faint 

. whenever she chooses. The scream that 
I heard was so sharp, quick and intense 
that— 

Ellixg. That the cause must have been a 
serious one. 

Ker. Yes!, So I thought. It must have 
been a mouse. 

Ellixg. Mr. Edward Thornton has occu- 
pied the next room to that of Mrs. 
Haverill to-night. 

Ker. {Quickly.) What do you mean? 

Ellixg. During the past month or more 
he has been pressing, not to say insolent, 
in his attentions to Mrs. Haverill. 

Ker. I 've noticed that myself. 

Ellixg. And he is an utterly unscrupu- 
lous man; it is no fault of mine that he 
was asked to be a guest at this house to- 
night. He came to Charleston, some 
years ago, from the North, but if there 
are any vices and passions peculiarly 
strong in the South, he has carried them 
all to the extreme. In one of the many 
scandals connected with Edward Thorn- 
ton's name, it was more than whispered 
that he entered a lady's room unex- 
pectedly at night. But, as he killed the 
lady's husband in a duel a few days after- 
wards, the scandal dropped. 

Ker. Of course; the gentleman received 
ample satisfaction as an outraged hus- 
band, and Mr. Thornton apologized, I 
suppose, to his widow. 

Ellixg. He has repeated the adventure. 

Ker. Do — you — think — thaf? 

Ellixg. I was smoking on the lawn, and 
glanced up at the window; my eyes may 
have deceived me, and I must move cau- 
tiously in the matter ; but it could n't have 
been imagination ; the shadow of Edward 



Thornton's face and head appeared upon 

the curtain.' 
Ker. WTiew ! The devil ! 
Ellixg. Just at that moment I, too, heard 

the stifled scream. 

{Enter Edward Thornton.) 

Thorxtox. Gentlemen ! 

Ellixg. Your name was just on my 
tongue, Mr. Thornton. 

Thorxtox. I thought I heard it, but you 
are welcome to it. Miss Gertrude has 
asked me to ride over to Mrs. Pinckney's 
with her, to learn if there is any further 
news from the batteries. I am very glad 
the time to attack Fort Sumter has come 
at last ! 

Ellixg. I do not share your pleasure. 

Thorxtox. You are a Southern gentle- 
man. 

Ellixg. And you are a Northern "gentle- 
man." 

Thorxtox. A Southerner by choice; I 
shall join the cause. 

Ellixg. We native Southerners will de- 
fend our own rights, sir; you may leave 
them in our keeping. It is my wish, Mr. 
Thornton, that you do not accompany my 
sister. 

Thorxtox. Indeed ! 

Ellixg. Her groom, alone, will be suffi- 
cient 

Thorxtox. As you please, sir. ' Kindly 
oifer my excuses to Miss Gertrude. You 
and I can chat over the subject later in 
the day, when we are alone. {Moving up 
the stage.) 

Ellixg. By all means, and another sub- 
ject, also, perhaps. 

Thorxtox. I shall be entirely at your 
service. {Exit to the veranda.) 

Ellix^g. Kerchival, I shall learn the whole 
truth, if possible, to-day. If it is what 
I suspect — what I almost know — I will 
settle with him myself. He has insulted 
our Colonel's wife and outraged the hos- 
pitality of my friends. {Walking to the 
right.) 

Ker. {Walking to the left.) I think it 
ought to be my quarrel. I 'm sure I 'm 
mixed up in it enough. 

Madelixe. {Without, calling.) Kerchi- 
val! 

Ellixg. Madeline. {Aside, starting, Ker- 
chival looks across at him sharply.) 

Ker. {Aside.) 1 distinctly saw Bob give 
a start when he heard Madeline. Now, 
what can there be about my sister's voice 
to make a man jump like that? 



542 



SHENANDOAH 



Gert. {WitJiout.) Brother Robert! 

Ker. Gertrude! {Aside, starting, El- 
LiNGHAM looks at him sharply.) How 
the tones of a woman's voice thrill 
through a man's soul ! 

{Enter Madeline.) 

Madeline. Oh, Kerchival — here you are. 

{Enter Gertrude, from the apartment, in a 
riding habit, with a whip.) 

Gert. Robert, dear! {Coming down t*o 
Robert; they converse in dumb show.) 

Madeline. Where are your held glasses'? 
I 've been rummaging all through your 
clothes, and swords, and sashes, and 
things. I 've turned everything in your 
room upside down. 

Ker. Have you? 

Madeline. I can't find your glasses any- 
where. I want to look at the forts. 
Another rocket went up just now. {Buns 
up the stage and stands on the piazza 
looking off.) 

Ker. a sister has all the privileges of a 
wdfe to upset a man's things, without her 
legal obligation to put them straight 
again. {Glances at Gertrude.) I wish 
Bob's sister had the same privileges in my 
room that my own has. 

Gert. Mr. Thornton is n't going with me, 
you say? 

Elling. He requested me to offer you his 
apologies. 

Ker. May I accompany you? (Elling- 
HAM turns to the window on the right.) 

orERT. My groom, old Pete, will be with 
me, of course ; there 's no particular need 
of anyone else. But you may go along, 
if you like. I 've got my hands full of 
sugar plums for Jack. Dear old Jack — 
he always has his share when we have 
company. I 'm going over to Mrs. Pinck- 
ney's to see if she 's had any more news 
from General Beauregard; her son is on 
the General's staff. 

Madeline. {Looking of to the right.) 
There 's another rocket from Fort John- 
son; and it is answered from Fort Moul- 
trie. Ah! (Angrily.) General Beaure- 
gard is a bad, wicked man! {Coming 
down.) 

Gert. Oh ! Madeline ! You are a bad, 
wicked Northern girl to say such a thing. 

Mad. I am a Northern girl. 

Gert. And I am a Southern girl. {They 
face each other.) 

Ker. {Dropping into a chair.) The war 
has begun. 



(Ellingham has turned from the win- 
dow; he strolls across the stage, 
watching the girls.) 

Gert. General Beauregard is a patriot. 

Mad. He is a Rebel. 

Gert. So am I. 

Mad. Gertrude ! — You — you — 

Gert. Madeline ! — You — 

Mad. I— I— 

Gert. I — 

Both. — 0-h ! {Bursting into tears and 
rushing into each other's arms, sobbing, 
then suddenly kissing each other vigor- 
ously. ) 

Ker. I say. Bob, if the North and South 
do fight, that will be the end of it. 

Gert. I 've got something to say to you, 
Madeline, dear. {Confidentially and 
turning with her arms about her 
waist. The girls sit down talking ear- 
nestly. ) 

Elling. Kerchival, old boy! There's — 
there 's something I 'd like to say to you 
before we part to-day. 

Ker. I 'd like a word with you, also ! 

Mad. You don't really mean that, Ger- 
trude — with me? 

Elling. I 'm in love with your sister, 
Madeline. 

Ker. The devil you are ! 

Elling. I never suspected such a thing 
until last nigbt. 

Gert. Robert was in love with you six 
weeks ago. (Madeline kisses her.) 

Ker. I 've made a discovery, too. Bob. 

Mad. I 've got something to say to you, 
Gertrude. 

Ker. I 'm in love with your sister. 

Elling. {Astonished.) You are? 

Mad. Kerchival has been in love with you 
for the last three months. (Gertrude 
ofers her lips — they kiss.) 

Ker. I fell in love with her the day before 
yesterday. {The two genHemen grasp 
each other's hands warmly.) 

Elling. We understand each other, Ker- 
chival. {He turns up the stage and stops 
at the door.) Miss Madeline, you said 
just now that you w^ished to watch the 
forts. Would you like to walk down to 
the shore ? 

Mad. Yes ! {Bising and going up to him. 
He takes one of her hands in his own and 
looks at her earnestly.) 

Elling. This will be the last day that we 
shall be together, for the present. But 
we shall meet again — sometime — if we 
both live. 

]\Iad. If we both live ! You mean — if you 



BRONSON HOWARD 



543 



live. You must go into this dreadful war, 
if it conies. 

Blling. Yes, Madeline, I must. Come let 
us watch for our fate. 

{Exeunt to the veranda.) 

Ker. {Aside.) I must leave Charles- 
ton to-day. {He sighs.) Does she love 
me? 

Ger. I am ready to start, Mr. West, when 
you are. 

Ker. Oh! Of course, I forgot. {Ris- 
ing.) I shall be delighted to ride at your 
side. 

Gert. At my side! {Rising.) There 
is n't a horse in America that can keep 
by the side of my Jack, when I give him 
his head, and I 'm sure to do it. You may 
follow us. But you can hardly ride in 
that costume; while you are changing it, 
I '11 give Jack his bonbons. {Turning to 
the window.) There he is, bless him! 
Pawing the ground, and impatient for me 
to be on his back. Let him come, Pete. 
{Holding up honhons at window.) I 
love you. 

Ker. Eh*? {Turning suddenly.) 

Gert. {Looking at him.) What"? 

Ker. You were saying — 

Gert. Jack ! {Looking out. The head of 
a large black horse appears through the 
window.) You dear old fellow. {She 
feeds him with honhons.) Jack has been 
my boy ever since he was a little colt. I 
brought you up, didn't I, Jack*? He's 
the truest, and kindest, and best of 
friends; I wouldn't be parted from him 
for the world, and I 'm the only woman 
he '11 allow to be near him. 

Ker. {Earnestly.) You are the only 
woman. Miss Gertrude, that I — 

Gert. Dear Jack! 

Ker. {Aside.) Jack embarrasses me. 
He 's a third party. 

Gert. There! That will do for the pres- 
ent. Jack. Now go along with Pete ! If 
you are a very good boy, and don't let 
Lieutenant Kerchival West come within a 
quarter of a mile of me, after the first 
three minutes, you shall have some more 
sugar plums when we get to Mrs. Pinck- 
ney's. {An old negro leads the horse 
away. Gertrude looks around at Ker- 
chival. ) You have n't gone to dress, 
yet ; we. shall be late. Mrs. Pinckney 
asked a party of friends to witness the 
bombardment this morning, and break- 
fast together on the piazza while they are 
looking at it. We can remain and join 
them, if you lika 



Ker. I hope they won't wait for break- 
fast until the bombardment begins. 

Gert. I '11 bet you an embroidered cigar- 
case, Lieutenant, against a box of gloves 
that it will begin in less than an hour. 

Ker. Done! You will lose the bet. But 
you shall have the gloves ; and one of the 
hands that go inside them shall be — 
{Taking one of her hands; she withdraws 
it.) 

Gert. My own — until some one wins it. 
You don't believe that General Beaure- 
gard will open fire on Fort Sumter this 
morning ? 

Kjer. No ; I don't. 

Gert. Everything is ready. 

Ker. It 's so much easier to get everything 
ready to do a thing than it is to do it. I 
have been ready a dozen times, this very 
night, to say to you. Miss Gertrude, that 
I — that I — {Pauses.) 

Gert. {Looking down and tapping her 
skirt with her whip.) Well"? 

Ker. But I did n't. 

Gert. {Glancing up at" him suddenly.) I 
dare say, General Beauregard has more 
nerve than you have. 

Ker. It is easy enough to set the batteries 
around Charleston Harbor, but the man 
who fires the first shot at a woman — 

Gert. Woman ! 

Ker. At the American flag — must have 
nerves of steel. 

Gert. You Northern men are so slow, to — 

Ker. I have been slow; but I assure you, 
Miss Gertrude, that my heart — 

Gert. What subject are we on now? 

Ker. You were complaining because I was 
too slow. 

Gert. I was doing nothing of the kind, 
sir ! — let me finish, please. You Northern 
men are so slow, to believe that our 
Southern heroes — Northern men and 
Southern heroes — ^you recognize the dis- 
tinction I make — you won't believe that 
they will keep their promises. They have 
sworn to attack Fort Sumter this morn- 
ing, and — they — will do it. This "Ameri- 
can Flag" you talk of is no longer our 
fiag : it is foreign to us ! — It is the flag of 
an enemy ! 

Ker. {Tenderly and earnestly.) Am I 
your enemy? 

Gert. You have told me that you will re- 
turn to the North, and take the field. 

Ker. Yes, I will. {Decisively.) 

Gert. You will be fighting against my 
friends, against my own brother, against 
me. We shall be enemies. 



544 



SHENANDOAH 



Ker. {Firmly.) Even that, Gertrude — 
{She looks around at him, he looks 
squarely into her eyes as he proceeds) — 
if you will have it so. If my country 
needs my services, I shall not refuse them, 
though it makes us enemies! {She 
wavers a moment, under strong emotion, 
and turns away; sinks upon the seat, her 
elboiv on the hack of it, and her tightly- 
clenched fist against her cheek, looking 
away from him.) 

Gert. 1 will have it so ! I am a Southern 
woman ! 

Ker. We have more at stake between us, 
this morning, than a cigar-case and a box 
of gloves. (Turning up the stage.) 

{Enter Mrs. Haverill from apartment.) 

Mrs. H. Mr. West ! I 've been looking for 
you. I have a favor to ask. 

Ker. Of me*? — with pleasure. 

Mrs. H. But I am sorry to have inter- 
rupted you and Gertrude. {As she 
passes down Kerchival moves up the 
stage. Gertrude mes. ) {Apart.) There 
are tears in your eyes, Gertrude, dear! 

Gert. {Apart.) They have no right 
there. 

Mrs. H. {Apart.) I'm afraid I know 
what has happened. A quarrel ! and you 
are to part with each other so soon. Do 
not let a girl's coquetry trifle with her 
heart until it is too late. You remember 
the confession you made to me last night? 

Gert. {Apart.) Constance! {Starting.) 
That is my secret; more a secret now than 
ever. 

Mrs. H. (Apart.) Yes, dear; but you do 
love him. (Gertrude moves up the 
stage.) 

Gert. You need not ride over with me, 
Mr. West. 

Ker, I can be ready in one moment. 

Gert. I choose to go alone ! Old Pete will 
be with me; and Jack, himself, is a charm- 
ing companion. 

Ker. If you prefer Jack's company to 
mine — 

Gert. I do. (Exit' on the veranda.) 

Ker. Damn Jack! But you will let me 
assist you to mount. (Exit after her.) 

Mrs. H. We leave for the North before 
noon, but every hour seems a month. If 
my husband should learn what happened 
in my room to-night, he would kill that 
man. What encouragement could I have 
given him'? Innocence is never on its 
guard — but, (drawing up) the last I re- 
member before I fell unconscious, he was 



crouching before me like a whipped cur! 

(She starts as she looks out of the win- 
dow.) There is Mr. Thornton, now — Ah ! 
(Angrily.) No — I must control my own 
indignation. I must keep him and 
Colonel Haverill from meeting before we 
leave Charleston. Edward Thornton 
w^ould shoot my husband down without re- 
morse. But poor Frank! I must not 
forget him, in my own trouble. I have 
but little time left to care for his welfare. 

(Re-enter Kerchival.) 

Ker. You said I could do you a favor, 
Mrs. Haverill'? 

Mrs. H. Yes, I wanted to speak with you 
about General Haverill's son, Frank. I 
should like you to carry a message to 
Charleston for me as soon as it is light. 
It is a sad errand. You know too well 
the great misfortune that has fallen upon 
my husband in New York. 

Ker. His only son has brought disgrace 
upon his family name, and tarnished the 
reputation of a proud soldier. Colonel 
Haverill's fellow officers sympathize with 
him most deeply. 

Mrs. H. And poor young Frank ! I could 
hardly have loved the boy more if he had 
been my own son. If he had not himself 
confessed the crime against the bank, I 
could not have believed him guilty. He 
has escaped from arrest. He is in the 
City of Charleston. I am the only one in 
all the world he could turn to. He was 
only a lad of fourteen when his father 
and I were married, six years ago; and 
the boy has loved me from the first. His 
father is stern and bitter now in his 
humiliation. This note from Frank was 
handed to me while the companj^ were 
here last evening. I want you to find 
him and arrange for me to meet him, if 
you can do it with safety. I shall give 
you a letter for him. 

Ker. I '11 get ready at once ; and I will 
do all I can for the boy. 

Mrs. H. And — Mr. West! Gertrude and 
Madeline have told me that — that — I was 
under obligations to you last evening. 

Ker. Don't mention it. I merely ran for 
them, and I — I 'm very glad you did n't 
choke — before they reached you. I trust 
you are quite well now? 

Mrs. H. I am entirely recovered, thank 
you. And I will ask another favor of 
you, for we are old friends. I desire 
very much that General Haverill should 
not know that — that any accident oc- 



BRONSON HOWARD 



545 



eurred to me to-night — or that my health 
has not been perfect. 

Ker. Certainly, madam ! 

Mrs. H. It would render him anxious with- 
out cause. 

Ker. (Aside.) It looks as if Robert was 
right; she doesn't want the two men to 
meet. 

(Enter Haverill, a white silk handkerchief 
in his hand.) 

Havetl. Constance, my dear, I 've been all 
over the place looking for you. I 
thought you were in your room. But — 
by the way, Kerchival, this is your hand- 
kerchief ; your initials are on it. 

(Kerchival turns and stares at him 
a second. Mrs. Haverill starts 
slightly and turns front. Haverill 
glances quickly from one to the 
other, then extends his hands toward 
Kerchival, with the handkerchief. 
Kerchival moves to him and takes 
it. Mrs. Haverill drops into the 
chair. ) 

Ker. Thank you. (He walks up and exits 
ivith a quick glance hack. Haverill 
looks at Mrs. Haverill, who sits nerv- 
ously, looking away. He then glances up 
after Kerchival. A cloud comes over 
his face and he stands a second in 
thought. Then, with a movement as if 
brushing away a passing suspicion, he 
smiles pleasantly and approaches Mrs. 
H. ; leaning over her.) 

Haver. My fair Desdemona! (Smiling.) 
I found Cassio's handkerchief in your 
room. Have you a kiss for me"? (She 
looks up, he raises her chin with a finger 
and kisses her.) That 's the way I shall 
smother you. 

Mrs. H. (Rising and dropping her head 
upon his breast.) Husband! 

Haver. But what is this they have been 
telling me*? 

Mrs. H. What have they said to you"? 

Haver. There was something wrong with 
you in the early part of the evening ; you 
are trembling and excited, my girl ! 

Mrs. H. It was nothing, John ; I — I — was 
ill, for a few moments, but I am well now. 

Haver. You said nothing about it to me. 

Mrs. H. Do not give it another thought. 

Haver. Was there anything besides your 
health involved in the affair *? There was, 
(Aside.) How came this handkerchief 
in her room"? 

Mrs. H. My husband! I do not want to 
say anything more — at — at r>resent — 



about what happened to-night. There 
has never been a shadow between us — will 
you not trust me*? 

Haver. Shadow! You stand in a bright 
light of your own, my wife; it shines 
upon my whole life — there can be no 
shadow there. Tell me as much or as 
little as you like, and in your own time. 
I am sure you will conceal nothing from 
me that I ought to know. I trust my 
honor and my happiness to you, abso- 
lutely. 

Mrs. H. They will both be safe, John, in 
my keeping. But there is something else 
that I wish to speak with you about; 
something very near to your heart — your 
son! 

Haver. My son ! 

Mrs. H. He is in Charleston. 

Haver. And not — in prison*? To'^me he is 
nowhere. I am childless. 

Mrs. H. I hope to see him to-day ; may I 
not take him some kind word from you? 

Haver. My lawyers in New York had in- 
structions to provide him with whatever 
he needed. 

Mrs. H. They have done so, and he wants 
for nothing; he asks for nothing, except 
that I will seek out the poor young wife — 
only a girl herself — whom he is obliged to 
desert, in New York. 

Haver. His marriage was a piece of .reck- 
less folly, but I forgave him that. 

Mrs. H. I am sure that it was only after 
another was dependent on him that the 
debts of a mere spendthrift were changed 
to fraud — and crime. 

Haver. You may tell him that I will pro- 
vide for her. 

Mrs. H. And may I take him no warmer 
message from his father? 

Haver. I am an officer of the United 
States Army. The name which my son 
bears came to me from men who had 
borne it with honor, and I transmitted it 
to him without a blot. He has disgraced 
it, by his own confession. 

Mrs. H. / cannot forget the poor mother 
who died when he was born; her whose 
place I have tried to fill, to both Frank 
and to you. I never saw her, and she is 
sleeping in the old graveyard at home. 
But I am doing what she would do to- 
day, if she were living. No pride — no 
disgrace — could have turned her face 
from him. The care and the love of her 
son has been to me the most sacred duty 
which one woman can assume for an- 
other. 



546 



SHENANDOAH 



Haver. You have fulfilled that duty, Con- 
stance. Go to my son ! 1 would go with 
you, but he is a man now; he could not 
look into my eyes, and I could not trust 
myself. But I will send him something? 
which a man will understand. Frank 
loves you as if you were his own mother ; 
and I — I would like him to — to think 
tenderly of me, also. He will do it when 
he looks at this picture. {Taking a 
miniature from his pocket.) 

Mrs. H. Of me ! 

Haver. I have never been without it one 
hour, before, since we were married. He 
will recognize it as the one that I have 
carried through every campaign, in every 
scene of danger on the Plains; the one 
that has always been with me. He is a 
fugitive from justice. At times, when 
despair might overcome him, this may 
give him nerve to meet his future life 
manfully. It has often nerved me, ivhen 
I might have failed without it. Give it to 
him, and tell him that I send it. ( Giving 
her the miniature.) I could not send a 
kinder message, and he will understand it. 
{Turning, he stands a moment in thought. 
Thorntox appears at the window look- 
ing at them quietly^ over his shoulder, a 
cigar in his hand. Mrs. Haverill sees 
him, and starts with a suppressed breath, 
then looks at Haverill, who moves away. 
He speaks aside.) My son! My son! 
We shall never meet again! {Exit.) 

(Mrs. H. looks after him earnestly, 
then turns and looks at Thornton, 
drawing up to her full height. 
Thornton moves up the stage, be- 
yond the window.) 

Mrs. H. Will he dare to speak to me 
again ? 

{Enter Thornton ; he comes down the stage 
quietly. He has thrown away the cigar.) 

Thorn. Mrs. Haverill! I wish to offer 
you an apology. 

Mrs. H. I have not asked for one, sir ! 

Thorn. Do you mean by that, that you 
will not accept one"? 

Mrs. H. {Aside.) What can I say? 
{Aloud.) Oh, Mr. Thornton! — for my 
husband's sake, I — 

Thorn. Ah! You are afraid that your 
husband may become involved in an un- 
pleasant affair. Your solicitude for his 
safety, madame, makes me feel that my 
offense to-night was indeed unpardon- 
able. No gentleman can excuse himself ' 



for making such a mistake as I have 
made. I had supposed that it was Lieu- 
tenant Kerchival West, who — 

Mrs. H. What do you mean, sir"? 

Thorn. But if it is your husband that 
stands between us — 

Mrs. H. Let me say this, sir: whatever I 
may fear for my husband, he fears noth- 
ing for himself. 

Thorn. He knows? {Looking at her, 
keenly.) 

{Enter Kerchival West, now in riding 
suit.) 

{He stops, looking at them.) 
You are silent. Your husband does know 
what occurred to-night; that relieves my 
conscience. {Lightly.) Colonel Haverill 
and I can now settle it between us. 

Mrs. H. No, Mr. Thornton ! My husband 
knows nothing, and, I beg of you, do not 
let this horrible affair go further. {Sees 
Kerchival.) 

Ker. Pardon me. {Stepping forward.) 
I hope I am not interrupting you. 
{Aside.) It was Thornton. {Aloud.) 
You said you would have a letter for me 
to carry, Mrs. Haverill. 

]\iRS. H. Yes, I — I will go up and write it 
at once. {As she leaves she stops and 
looks back. Aside.) I wonder how 
much he overheard. 

Ker. {Quietly.) I suppose eight o'clock 
will be time enough for me to go? 

Mrs. H. Oh, yes! {glancing at him a mo- 
ment) — quite. {Exit.) 

Ker. {Quietly.) Mr. Thornton! you are 
a scoundrel ! Do I make myself plain ? 

Thorn. You make the fact that you de- 
sire to pick a quarrel with me quite plain, 
sir; but I choose my own quarrels an^d 
my own enemies. 

Ker. Colonel Haverill is my commander, 
and he is beloved by every officer in the 
regiment. 

Thorn. On what authority, may I ask, do 
you— 

Ker. The honor of Colonel Haverill's wife 
is mider our protection. 

Thorn. Under your protection? You 
have a better claim than that, perhaps, 
to act as her champion. Lieutenant Ker- 
chival West is Mrs. Haverill's favorite 
officer in the regiment. 

Ker. {Approaching him.) You dare to 
suggest that I — 

Thorn. If I accept your challenge, I shall 
do so not because you are her protector, 
but my rival. 



» 



BRONSON HOWARD 



547 



Ker. Bah! {Striking him sharply on the 
cheek with his glove. The two men stand 
facing each other a moment.) Is it my 
quarrel now? 

Thorn. I think you are entitled to my at- 
tention, sir. 

Ker. My time here is limited. 

Thorn. We need not delay. The Bayou 
La Forge is convenient to this place. 

Ker. I '11 meet you there, with a friend, at 
once. 

Thorn. It will be light enough to see the 
sights of our weapons in about one hour. 
{They boio to each other, and Thorn- 
ton goes out.) 

Ker. I 've got ahead of Bob. 

Gert. {Without.) Whoa! Jack! Old 
boy ! Steady, now — that 's a good fel- 
low. 

Ker. She has returned. I must know 
whether Gertrude Ellingham loves me — 
before Thornton and I meet. He is a 
good shot. 

Gert. {Without, calling.) — h! Pete! 
You may take Jack to the stable. Ha — 
ha — ha! {She appears at window; to 
Kerchival.) Old Pete, on the bay 
horse, has been doing his best to keep up 
with us; but Jack and I have led him 
such a race! Ha — ^lia — ha — ha! {Dis- 
appearing beyond the window.) 

Ker. Does she love me *? 

Gert. {Entering at the rear and coming 
down.) I have the very latest news from 
the headquarters of the Confederate 
Army in South Carolina. At twenty 
minutes after three this morning General 
Beauregard sent this message to Major 
Anderson in Fort Sumter : "I shall open 
fire in one hour !" The time is up ! — and 
he will keep his word! {Turning and 
looking out of the window. Kerchival 
moves across to her.) 

Ker. Gertrude ! I must speak to you ; we 
may never meet again; but I must know 
the truth. I love you. {Seizing her 
hand.) Do you love me? {She looks 
around at him as if about to speak; hesi- 
tates.) Answer me! {She looks down 
with a coquettish smile, tapping her skirt 
with her riding whip.) Well? {A dis- 
tant report of a cannon, and low rum- 
bling reverberations over the harbor. 
Gertrude turns suddenly, looking out. 
Kerchival draws up, also looking off.) 

Gert. A low — bright — line of fire — in the 
sky! It is a shell. {A second's pause; 
she starts slightly). It has burst upon 
the fort. {Looks over her shoulder at 



Kerchival, drawing up to her full 
height.) 'iN'ow! — do you believe that we 
Southerners are in deadly earnest? 

Ker. We Northerners are in deadly earn- 
est, too. I have received my answer. 
{He crosses quickly and then turns ^) 
We are — enemies! {They look at each 
other for a moment.) 

{Exit Kerchival.) 

Gert. Kerchival! {Moving quickly half 
across stage, looking after him eagerly, 
then stops.) Enemies! {She drops into 
the chair sobbing bitterly. Another dis- 
tani" report, and low, long reverberations 
as the curtain descends.) 



ACT SECOND. 

The scene is the exterior of the Ellingham 
Homestead in the Shenandoah Valley. 
Three Top Mountain is seen in the dis- 
tance. A corner of the house, with the 
projecting end of the veranda is seen on 
the left. A low wall extends from the 
veranda across the stage to the center, 
then with a turn to the right it is con- 
tinued off the stage. There is a wide 
opening in the wall at the center, with a 
low. heavy stone post, with fiat top, on 
each side. Beyond the wall and the 
opening, a road runs across the stage. 
At the back of this road there is an eleva- 
tion of rock and turf. This slopes up to 
the rear, is level on the top about twelve 
feet, then slopes down to the road, and 
also out behind the wood, which is seen at 
the right. The level part in the centre 
rises to about four feet above t-he stage. 
Beyond this elevation in the distance is a 
broad valley, with Three Top Mountain 
rising on the right. The foliage is ap- 
propriate to Northern Virginia. Rustic 
seats and table are on the right. There is 
a low rock near the stone post. When 
curtain rises it is sunset. As the act pro- 
ceeds this fades into twilight and then 
brightens into moonlight. At the rise of 
the curtain a trumpet signal is heard, very 
distant. Gertrude and Madeline are 
standing on the elevation. Gertrude is 
shading her eyes with her hand and look- 
ing off to the left. Madeline stands a 
little below her, on the incline, resting her 
arm about Gertrude's waist, also looking 
off. 

Gert. It is a regiment of Union Cavalry. 
The Federal troops now have their lines 



548 



SHENANDOAH 



three miles beyond us, and only a month 
ago the Confederate Army was north of 
Winchester. One army or the other has 
been marching up and down the Shenan- 
doah Valley for three years. I wonder 
what the next change will be. We in 
Virginia have had more than our share of 
the war. [Looking off.) 

Mad. You have, indeed, Gertrude. 
{Walking down to a seat,) And we at 
home in Washington have pitied you so 
much. But everybody says that there 
will be peace in the valley after this. 
{Dropping into the seat.) 

Gert. Peace! {Coming down.) That word 
means something very different to us 
poor Southerners from what it means to 
you. 

Mad. I know, dear; and we in the North 
know how you have suffered, too. We 
were very glad when General Buckthorn 
was appointed to the command of the 
Nineteenth Army Corps, so that Jenny 
could get permission for herself and me 
to come and visit you. 

Gert. The old General will do anything 
for Jenny, I suppose. 

Mad. Yes. {Laughing.) W^e say in 
Washington that Jenny is in command of 
the Nineteenth Army Corps herself. 

Gert. I was never more astonished or de- 
lighted in my life than when you and 
Jenny Buckthorn rode up, this morning, 
with a guard from Winchester; and 
Madeline, dear, I — I only wish that my 
brother Robert could be here, too. Do 
you remember in Charleston, darling — 
that morning — when I told you that — 
that Robert loved you? 

Mad. He — [looking down) — ^he told me 
so himself only a little while afterwards, 
and while we were standing there, on the 
shore of the bay — the — the shot was fired 
which compelled him to enter this awful 
war — and me to return to my home in 
the North. 

Gert. I was watching for that shot, too. 
{Turning.) 

Mad. Yes — {rising) — you and brother 
Kerchival — 

Gert. We won't talk about that, my dear. 
We were speaking of Robert. As T told 
you this morning, I have not heard from 
him since the battle of Winchester, a 
month ago. Oh, Madeline! the many, 
many long weeks, like these, Ave have suf- 
fered, after some terrible battle in which 
he has been engaged. I do not know, 
now% whether he is living or dead. 



Mad. The whole war has been one long sus- 
pense to me. {Dropping her face into 
her hands.) 

Gert. My dear sister! {Placing her arm 
about her waist and moving to the left.) 
You are a Northern girl, and I am a 
Rebel — but we are sisters. {They mount 
the veranda and pass out. An old coun- 
tryman comes in. He stops and glances 
back, raises a broken portion of the 
capstone of the post, and places a letter 
under it. Gertrude 7ms stepped back 
on the veranda and is watching him. 
He raises his head sharply, looking at her 
and bringing his finger to his lips. He 
drops his head again, as with age, and 
goes out. Gertrude moves down to the 
stage and up to the road, looks to the 
right and left, raises the broken stone, 
glancing back as she does so, then takes 
the letter and moves down.) Robert is 
alive! It is his handwriting! {She 
tears open the wrapper.) Only a line 
from him! and this — a dispatch — and 
also a letter to me ! Why, it is from Mrs. 
Haverill — from Washington — with a 
United States postmark. {She reads 
from a scrap of paper.) "The enclosed 
dispatch must be in the hands of Captain 
Edward Thornton before eight o'clock to- 
night. We have signaled to him from 
Three Top Mountain, and he is waiting 
for it at the bend in Oak Run. Our 
trusty scout at the Old Forge will carry 
it if you will put it in his hands." The 
scout is not there, now; I will carry 
it to Captain Thornton myself. I — I 
have n't my own dear horse to depend on 
now; Jack knew every foot of the way 
through the woods about here; he could 
have carried a dispatch himself. I can't- 
bear to think of Jack; it's two years 
since he was captured by the enemy — and 
if he is still living — I — I suppose he is 
carrying one of their officers No ! Jack 
would n't fight on that side. He was a 
Rebel — as I am. He was one of the 
Black Horse Cavalry — ^liis eyes always 
flashed towards the North. Poor Jack! 
my pet. {Brushing her eyes.) But this 
is no time for tears. I must do the best 
I can with the gray horse. Captain 
Thornton shall have the dispatch. 
{She reads from note.) "I also inclose a 
letter for you. I found it in a United 
States mail-bag which we captured from 
the enemy." Oh — that 's the way Mrs. 
Haverill's letter came — Ha — ha — ha — by 
way of the Rebel army! {Opens it; 



BRONSON HOWARD 



549 



reads.) ''My Darling Gertrude: When 
Colonel Kerehival West was in Washing- 
ton last week, on his way from Chat- 
tanooga, to serve under Sheridan in the 
Shenandoah Valley, he called upon me. 
It was the first time I had seen him since 
the opening of the war. I am certain 
that he still loves you, dear." {She 
kisses the letter eagerly^ then draws up.) 
It is quite immaterial to me whether Ker- 
ehival West still loves me or -not. 
(Reads.) "I have kept your secret, my 
darling." — Ah! My secret! — "but I was 
sorelj^ tempted to betray the confidence 
you reposed in me at Charleston. If 
Kerehival West had heard you say, as I 
did, when your face was hidden in my 
bosom, that night, that you loved him 
with your whole heart — " — Oh! I could 
bite my tongue out now for making that 
confession — [She looks down ai letter 
tcith a smile.) "I am certain that he still 
loves you." {A Trumpet Signal. She 
kisses the letter repeatedly. The Signal 
is repeated louder than at first. She 
starts, listening.) 



(Jenny Buckthorn runs in, 
veranda.) 



the 



Jen. Do you hear, Gertrude, they are 
going to pass this very house. {A Mili- 
tary band is playing "John Brown" in the 
distance. A chorus of soldiers is heard.) 
I 've been watching them through my 
glass ; it is Colonel Kerehival West's regi- 
ment. 

Gert. {Eagerly, then coldly.) Colonel 
West's ! It is perfectly indifferent to me 
whose regiment it is. 

Jen. Oh! Of course. {Coming down.) 
It is equally indifferent to me; Captain 
Heartsease is in command of the first 
troop. {Trumpet Signal sounds.) Col- 
umn right! {She runs up to the road. 
Looking ojf to the left.) They are com- 
ing up the hill. 

Gert. At my very door! And Kerehival 
West in command ! I will not stand here 
and see them pass. The dispatch for 
Captain Thornton! I will carry it to 
him as soon as they are gone. {Exit up 
the veranda, the hand and chorus increas- 
ing in volume.) 

Jen. Cavalry! That's the branch of the 
service I was bom in ; I was in a fort at 
the time — on the Plains. Sergeant Bar- 
ket always said that my first baby squall 
was a command to the garrison; if any 
officer or soldier, from my father down. 



failed to obey my orders, I court-mar- 
tialed him on the spot. I '11 make 'em 
pass in review. {Jumping up on the 
rustic seat.) Yes! {Looking of to the 
left.) There's Captain Heartsease him- 
self, at the head of the first troop. 
Draw sabre! {With parasol.) Present! 
{Imitating the action. The hand and 
chorus are now full and loud; she swings 
the parasol in time. A trumpet Signal. 
Band and chorus suddenly cease.) Halt! 
Why, they are stopping here. {Trumpet 
Signal sounds.) Dismount! I — I won- 
der if they are going to— I do believe — 
{Looking eagerly. Trumpet Signal.) 
Assembly of Guard Details! As sure as 
fate, they are going into camp here. We 
girls will have a jolly time. {Jumping 
down.) Ha — ha — ha — ha! Let me see. 
How shall I receive Captain Heartsease? 
He deserves a court-martial, for he stole 
my lace handkerchief — at Mrs. Gray- 
son's reception — in Washington. He was 
called away by orders to the West that 
very night, and we have n't met since. 
{Sighs.) He's been in lots of battles 
since then; I suppose he's forgotten all 
about the handkerchief. We girls, at 
home, don't forget such things. We 
are n't in battles. All we do is to — to 
scrape lint and flirt with other officers. 

{Enter Captain Heartsease, followed hy 
Colonel Robert Ellingham, then stops 
at the gate.) 

Heart. This way, Colonel Ellingham. 
{They enter. As they come down 
Heartsease stops suddenly, looking at 
Jenny, and puts up his glasses.) Miss 
Buckthorn ! 

Jen. Captain Heartsease! 

Heart. {Very quietly and with perfect 
composure.) I am thunderstruck. The 
unexpected sight of you has thrown me 
into a fever of excitement. 

Jen. Has if? {Aside.) If he gets so ex- 
cited as that in battle it must be awful. 
{Aloud.) Colonel Ellingham! 

Elling. Miss Buckthorn! You are visit- 
ing my sister *? I am what may be called 
a visitor — by force — myself. 

Jen. Oh ! You 're a prisoner ! 

Elling. I ventured too far within the 
Union lines to-night, and they have picked 
me up. But Major Wilson has kindly ac- 
cepted my parole, and I shall make the 
best of it. 

Jen. Is Major Wilson in command of the 
regiment *? 



550 



SHENANDOAH 



Heart. Yes. Colonel West is to join us 
at this point, during the evening. 

Elling. I am very glad you are here, Miss 
Buckthorn, with Gertrude. 

Jen. Somebody here will be delighted to 
see you, Colonel. 

Elling. My sister can hardly be pleased 
to see me as a prisoner. 

Jen. Not your sister. {Passing him and 
crossing to the veranda. She turns and 
beckons to him. She motions with her 
thumb, over her shoulder. He goes up 
the steps of the veranda and turns.) 

Elling. What do you mean ? 

Jen. I mean this — {Reaching up her face, 
he leans down, placing his ear near her 
lips) — somebody else's sister! When 
she first sees you, be near enough to catch 
her. 

Elling. I understand you! Madeline! 
{Exit on veranda. Jenny runs up steps 
after him, then stops and looks back at 
Heartsease over the railing. Hearts- 
ease takes a lace handkerchief from his 
pocket.) 

Jen. I do believe that 's my handkerchief. 
{A guard of Sentries marches in and 
across the stage in the road. The 
Corporal in command orders halt and 
a sentry to post, then marches the 
guard out. The sentry stands with 
his back to the audience, afterwards 
moving out and in, appearing and 
disappearing during the Act.) 

Heart. Miss Buckthorn! I owe you an 
apology. After I left your side, the last 
time we met, I found your handkerchief 
in my possession. I assure you, it was 
an accident. 

Jen. {Aside, pouting.) I thought he in- 
tended to steal it. {Aloud.) That was 
more than a year ago. {Then brightly.) 
Do you always carry it with you? 

Heart. Always; there. {Indicating his 
left breast pocket.) 

Jen. Next to his heart ! 

Heart. Shall I return it to you? 

Jen. Oh, if a lace handkerchief can be of 
any use to you, Captain, during the hard- 
ships of a campaigTi — you — you may keep 
that one. You soldiers have so few com- 
forts — and it 's real lace. 

Heart. Thank you. {Betiirning the hand- 
kerchief to his pocket.) Miss Buck- 
thorn, your father is in command of the 
Nineteenth Army Corps. He doesn't 
like me. 

Jen. I know it. 

Heart. But you are in command of him. 



Jen. Yes ; I always have been. 

Heart. If ever you decide to assume com- 
mand of any other man, I — I tinist you 
w411 give me your orders. 

Jen. {Aside, starting back.) If that was 
intended for a proposal, it 's the queer- 
est-shaped one I ever heard of. {Aloud.) 
Do you mean. Captain, that — that you — 
I must command myself now. {Shoul- 
dering her parasol.) 'Bout — face! 
March! {Turning squarely around, 
marching up and out, on the veranda.) 

Heart. I have been placed on waiting 
orders. {Stepping up the stage and 
looking after her; then very quietly and 
without emotion.) 1 am in an agony of 
suspense. The sight of that girl always 
arouses the strongest emotions of my na- 
ture. 

{Enter Colonel Kerchival West, lookini^ 
at the paper in his hand. The sentinel, 
in the road, comes to a salute.) 

Colonel West ! 

Ker. Captain ! 

Heart. You have rejoined the regiment 
sooner than we expected. 

Ker. {Looking at the paper.) Yes; Gen- 
eral Haverill is to meet me here at seven 
o'clock. Major Wilson tells me that some 
of your company captured Colonel 
Robert Ellingham, of the Tenth Virginia. 

Heart. He is here under parole. 

Ker. And this is the old Ellingham home- 
stead. {Aside.) Gertrude herself is 
here, I suppose ; almost a prisoner to me, 
like her brother ; and my troops surround 
their home. She must, indeed, feel that 
I am her enemy now. Ah, well, war is 
w^ar. {Aloud.) By the bye, Heartsease, 
a young Lieutenant, Frank Bedloe, has 
joined our troop ? 

Heart. Yes; an excellent young officer. 

Ker. I sent for him as I came through the 
camp. Lieutenant Frank '"Bedloe" is 
the son of General Haverill. 

Heart. Indeed! Under an assumed 
name ! 

Ker. He was supposed to have been killed 
in New Orleans more than a year ago; 
but he was taken prisoner instead. 

Heart. He is here. 

Ker. I should never have known him; 
with his full beard and bronzed face. 
His face was as smooth as a boy's when I 
last met him in Charleston. 

{Enter Lieutenant Frank Bedloe; he 
stops J saluting.) 



BRONSON HOWARD 



551 



Frank. You wished me to report to you, 
Colonel? 

Ker. You have been assigned to the regi- 
ment during my absence. 

Frank. Yes, sir. 

(Kerchival moves to liim and grasps 
his hand; looks into his eyes a mo- 
ment before speaking.) 

Ker. Frank Haverill. 

Frank. You — you know me, sir*? 

Ker. I saw Mrs. Haverill while I" was 
passing through Washington on Satur- 
day. She told me that you had escaped 
from prison in Richmond, and had re- 
entered the service. She did not know 
then that you had been assigned to my 
regiment. I received a letter from her, 
in Winchester, this morning, informing 
me of the fact, and asking for my good 
ofhces in your behalf. But here is the 
letter. {Taking a letter from wallet and 
giving it to him.) It is for you rather 
than for me. I shall do everything I can 
for you, my dear fellow. 

Frank. Thank you, sir. {He opens the 
letter, dropping the envelope upon the 
table.) Kind, thoughtful and gentle to 
my faults, as ever — {Looking at the let- 
ter) — and ahvaj^s thinking of my v\'el- 
fare. My poor little wife, too, is under 
her protection. Gentlemen, I beg of you 
not to reveal my secret to my father. 

Ker. General Haverill shall know nothing 
from us, my boy, you have my word for 
that. 

Heart. Nothing. 

Ker. And he cannot possibly recognize 
you. What with your full beard, and 
thinking as he does, that you are — 

Frank. That I am dead. I am dead to 
him. It would have been better if I had 
died. Nothing but my death — not even 
that — can wipe out the disgrace which I 
brought upon his name. 

Heart. General Haverill has arrived. 

{Enter General Ha\terill, with a Staf 
Officer.) 

Frank. {Bloving down.) My father! 

Haver. {After exchanging salutes with the 
three officers, he turns to the Staff Officer, 
giving him a paper and brief instructions 
in dumb shotv. The Officer goes out over 
the incline. Another Staff Officer en- 
ters, salutes and hands him a paper, 
then stands up.) Ah! The men are 
ready. {Looking at the paper, then to 
Kerchival.) Colonel! I have a very 
important matter to arrange with you; 



there is not a moment to be lost. I will 
ask Captain Heartsease to remain. 
(Frank salutes and starts up the stage; 
Haverill looks at him, si-arting slightly; 
raises his hand to detain him.) One mo- 
ment ; your name ! 

Heart. Lieutenant Bedloe, General, of my 
own troop, and one of our best officers. 
(Haverill steps to Frank, looking 
into liis face a moment.) 

Haver. Pardon me! {He steps down the 
stage. Frank moves away from him, 
then stops and looks back at him. 
Haverill stands up a moment- in 
thought, covers his face ivith one hand, 
then draws up.) Colonel W^est! We 
have a most dangerous piece of work for 
a young officer — (Frank starts joyfully) 
— to lead a party of men, whom I have 
already selected. I cannot order an offi- 
cer to undertake anything so nearly hope- 
less; he must be a volunteer. 

Frank. Oh, sir, General ! Let me be their 
leader. 

Haver. I thought you had passed on. 

Frank. Do not refuse me, sir. (Haver- 
ill looks at him a moment. Heartsease 
and Kerchival exchange glances.) 

Haver. You are the man we need, my 
young friend. You shall go. Listen! 
We wish to secure a key to the cipher dis- 
patches, which the enemy are now sending 
from their signal station on Three Top 
Mountain. There is another Confederate 
Signal Station in the valley, just beyond 
Buckton's Ford. {Pointing to the left.) 
Your duty will be this : First, to get in- 
side the enemy's line; then to follow a 
path through the woods, with one of our 
scouts as your guide; attack the Station 
suddenly, and secure their code, if pos- 
sible. I have this moment received word 
that the scout and the men are at the fort, 
now, awaiting their leader. Major Mc- 
Candless, of my staff, will take you to the 
place. {Indicating the Staf Officer. 
Frank exchanges salutes with him.) My 
young friend ! I do not conceal from you 
the dangerous nature of the work on 
which I am sending you. If — if you do 
not return, I — I will write, myself, to 
your friends. {Taking out a note book.) 
Have you a father living? 

Frank. My — father — is — is — he is — 

Haver. I understand you. A mother? 
Or— 

Ker. I have the address of Lieutenant 
Bedloe's friends, General. 

Haver. I will ask you to give it to me, if 



55^ 



SHENANDOAH 



necessary. {He extends his hand.) 
Good-bye, my lad. (Frank moves to 
him. Haverill grasps his hand, 
warmly.) Keep a brave heart and come 
back to us. 

(Frank moves up the stage. Exit 
Staff Officer.) 

Frank. He is my father still. (Exit.) 

Haver. My dead boy's face! {Dropping 
his face into both hands.) 

Heart. {Apart to Kerchival.) He shall 
not go alone. {Aloud.) General! Will 
you kindly give me leave of absence from 
the command? 

Haver. Leave of absence! To an officer 
in active service — and in the presence of 
the enemy"? 

Ker. {Taking his hand. Apart.) God 
bless you, old fellow! Look after the 
boy. 

Hav. a — ^h — {With a sudden thought, 
turns.) I think I understand you, Cap- 
tain Heartsease. Yes; you may have 
leave of absence. 

Heart. Thank you. {He salutes. Haver- 
ill and Kerchival salute. Exit Hearts- 
ease.) 

Ker. Have you any further orders for me, 
General ? 

Haver. I wish you to understand the great 
importance of the duty to which I have 
just assigned this young othcer. General 
Sheridan started for Washington this 
noon, by way of Front Royal. Since his 
departure, we have had reason to believe 
that the enemy are about to move, and 
we must be able to read their signal dis- 
patches, if possible. {Sitting down.) I 
have ordered Captain Lockwood, of our 
own Signal Corps to report to you here, 
with officers and men. {He takes up the 
empty envelope on table, unconsciously, 
as he speaks, tapping it on the table.) 
If Lieutenant Bedloe succeeds in getting 
the key to the enemy's cipher, we can sig- 
nal from this point — {pointing to the ele- 
vation) — to our station at Front Ro^^al. 
Men and horses are waiting there now, 
to carry forward a message, if necessary, 
to General Sheridan himself. ( He starts 
suddenly, looking at the envelope in his 
hand; reads address. Aside.) "Colonel 
Kerchival West" — in my wife's handwrit- 



ing 



Ker. I '11 attend to your orders. 

Haver. Postmarked at Washington, yes- 
terday. {Reads.) "Private and confi- 
dential." {Aloud.) Colonel West! I 
found a paragraph, to-day, in a paper 



published in Richmond, taken from a 
prisoner. I will read it to you. {He 
takes a newspaper slip from his wallet 
and reads.) "From the Cltarleston Mer- 
cury. Captain Edward Thornton, of the 
Confederate Secret Service, has been as- 
signed to duty in the Shenandoah Val- 
ley. Our gallant Captain still bears 
upon his face the mark of his meeting, 
in 1861, with Lieutenant, now Colonel 
Kerchival West, who is also to serve 
in the valley, with Sheridan's Army. 
Another meeting between these two men 
would be one of the strange coincidences 
of the Avar, as they were at one time, if 
not indeed at present, interested in the 
same beautiful woman." {Rises.) I 
will ask you to read the last few lines, 
yourself. {Crossing, he hands Kerchi- 
val the slip.) 

Ker. {Reading.) "The scandal connected 
with the lovely wife of a Northern officer, 
at the opening of the war, was over- 
shadowed, of course, by the attack on 
Fort Sumter; but many Charlestonians 
will remember it. The lady in defense 
of whose good name Captain Thornton 
fought the duel" — he defended her good 
name ! — "is the wife of General Haverill, 
who will be Colonel West's immediate 
commander." {He pauses a moment, 
then hands back the slijj.) General! I 
struck Mr. Thornton, after a personal 
quarrel. 

Haver. And the ealise of the blow ? There 
is much more in this than I have ever 
known of. I need hardly say that I do 
not accept the statement of this scandal- 
ous paragraph as correct. I will ask you 
to tell me the whole story, frankly, as man 
to man. 

Ker. {After a moment's thought.) I will 
tell you — all — frankly. General. 

{Enters Sergeant Barket.) 

Barket. Colonel Wist? Adjutant Rollins 
wishes to report — a prisoner — just cap- 
tured. 

Haver. We Avill meet again later, to-night 
when the camp is at rest. We are both 
soldiers, and have duties before us, at 
once. For the present. Colonel, be on the 
alert; we must watch the enem}'-. {He 
moves up the stage. Barket salutes. 
Haverill stops and looks at envelope in 
his hands, reading.) "Private and confi- 
dential." _ {Exit.) 

Ker. Sergeant Barket ! Lieutenant Bed- 
loe has crossed the enemy's line, at Buck- 



J 



BRONSON HOWARD 



553 



ton's Ford, with a party of men. I wish 
you to ride to the ford yourself, and re- 
main there, with your horse in readiness 
and fresh. As soon as any survivor of 
the party returns, ride back with the first 
news at full speed. 

Barket. Yes, sir. (Starting.) 

Ker. You say a prisoner has been cap- 
tured ? Is it a spy 1 

Barket. Worse — a petticoat. 

Ker. a female prisoner ! {Dropping into 
the seat.) 

Barket. I towld the byes your honor 
would n't thank us fer the catchin' of her. 
The worst of it is she's a lady; and 
what 's worse still, it 's a purty one. 

Ker. Tell Major Wilson, for me, to let her 
take the oath, and everything else she 
wants. The Government of the United 
States will send her an apology and a new 
bonnet. 

Barket. The young lady is to take the 
oath, is it ? She says she '11 see us 
damned first. 

Ker. a lady, Barket? 

Barket. Well! she didn't use thim exact 
words. That 's the way I understand her 
emphasis. Ivery time she looks at me, 
I feel like getting under a boom-proof. 
She was dashing through the woods on a 
gray horse, sur; and we had the divil's 
own chase. But we came up wid her, at 
last, down by the bend in Oak Run. Just 
at that moment we saw the figure of a 
Confederate officer, disappearing among 
the trays on the ither side. 

Ker. a— h! 

Barket. Two of us rayturned wid the 
girl; and the rist wint after the officer. 
Nothing has been heard of thim yet. 

Ker. Have you found any dispatches on 
the prisoner*? 

Barket. Well ! — yer honor, I 'm a bache- 
lor, meself ; and I 'm not familiar with the 
taypography of the sex. We byes are in 
mortal terror for fear somebody might 
order us to go on an exploring expedition. 

Ker. Tell them to send the prisoner here, 
Barket, and hurry to Buckton's Ford 
yourself, at once. 

Barket. As fast as me horse can carry me, 
sir, and it 's a good one. [Exit.) 

Ker. I 'd rather deal with half the Con- 
federate army than with one woman, but 
I must question her. They captured her 
down by the Bend in Oak Run. (Taking 
out the map, and looking at it.) I see. 
She had just met, or was about to meet, 
a Confederate officer at that point. It is 



evident that she was either taking him a 
dispatch or was there to receive one. 
Oak Run. (Corporal Dunn and two 
soldiers enter, with Gertrude as a 
prisoner. They stop, Kerchival sits, 
studying the map. Gertrude glances at 
him and marches down wiMi her head 
erect; she stops, with her hack to him.) 

Corp. Dunn. The prisoner, Colonel West ! 

Ker. Ah ! Very well. Corporal ; you can 
go. (Rising; he motions the guard to re- 
tire. Corp. Dunn gives the necessary 
orders and exit with guard.) Be seated, 
madam. (Gertrude draws up, folding 
her arms and planting her foot, spitefully. 
Kerchival shrugs his shoulders. Aside.) 
I wish they 'd capture a tigTess for me, 
or some other female animal that I know 
how to manage better than I do a woman. 
(Aloud.) I am very sorry, madam; but, 
of course, my duty as a military officer is 
paramount to all other considerations. 
You have been captured within the lines 
of this army, and under circumstances 
which lead me to think that you have im- 
portant dispatches upon your person. I 
trust that you will give me whatever you 
have^ at once. I shall be exceedingly 
sorry if you compel me to adopt the ex- 
treme — and the very disagreeable course 
— for both of us — of having — you — I — I 
hesitate even to use the word, madame — 
but, military law is absolute — having 
you— 

Gert. Searched! If you dare, Colonel 
West! (Turning to him suddenly and 
drawing up to her full height.) 

Ker. Gertrude Ellingham! (Springs 
across to her, with his arms extended.) 
My dear Gertrude ! 

Gert. (Turning her hack upon him.) 
Not "dear Gertrude" to you, sir! 

Ker. Not ?— Oh ! I forgot. 

Gert. (Coldly.) I am your prisoner. 

Ker. Yes. (Drawing up firmly, with a 
change of manner.) We will return to 
the painful realities of war. I am very 
sorry that you have placed yourself in a 
position like this, and, believe me, Ger- 
trude — (With growing tenderness.) — I 
am still more sorry to be in such a posi- 
tion myself. (Resting one hand on her 
arm, and his other arm about her waist.) 

Gert. (After looking down at his hands.) 
You don't like the position'? (He starts 
hack, draining up with dignity.) Is that 
the paramount duty of a military offi- 
cer? 

Ker. You will please hand me wiiatever 



554 



SHENANDOAH 



dispatches or other papers may be in your 
possession. 
Gert. [Looking away.) You will force 
me, I suppose. I am a woman ; you have 
the power. Order in the guard ! A Cor- 
poral and two men — you 'd better make it 
a dozen — I am dangerous! Call the 
whole regiment to arms! Beat the long 
roll! I won't give up, if all the armies 
of the United States surround me. 

[Enter General Buckthorn.) 

Ker. General Buckthorn ! [Saluting.) 

Buck. Colonel West. 

Gert. [Aside.) Jenny's father! (Buck- 
thorn glances at Gertrude, who still 
stands looking away. He moves down to 
Kerchival. ) 

Buck. [Apart, gruffly.) I was passing 
with my staff, and I was informed that 
you had captured a woman bearing dis- 
patches to the enemy. Is this the one"? 

Ker. Yes, General. 

Buck. Ah ! [Turning, he looks at Jier.) 

Gert. I wonder if he will recognize me. 
He has n't seen me since I w^as a little 
girl. [She turns toward him.) 

Buck. [Turning to Kerchival and punch- 
ing him in the rihs.) Fine young 
woman ! — [He turns and hows to her very 
gallantly, removing his hat. She hows 
deeply in return) A-h-e-m! [Suddenly 
pulling himself up to a stern, military 
air; then gruffly to Kerchival, extending 
his hand.) Let me see the dispatches. 

Ker. She declines positively to give them 
up. 

Buck. Oh! Does she"? [Walks up the 
stage thoughtfully, and turns.) My dear 
young lady ! I trust you will give us no 
further trouble. Kindly let us have those 
dispatches. 

Gert. [Looking away.) I have no dis- 
patches, and I would not give them to you 
if I had. 

Buck. What! You defy my authority "? 
Colonel West, I command you! Search 
the prisoner! 

(Gertrude turns suddenly towards 
Kerchival, facing him defiantly. 
He looks across at her, aghast. A 
moment's pause.) 

Ker. General Buckthorn — I decline to 
obey that order. 

Buck. You — you decline to obey my 
order! [Moves down to him fiercely.) 

Ker. [Apart.) General! It is the woman 
I love. 

Buck. [Apart.) Is it? Damn you, sir! 



I would n't have an officer in my army 
corps who would obey me, under such cir- 
cumstances. I '11 have to look for those 
dispatches myself. 

Ker. [Facing him, angrily.) If you dare, 
General Buckthorn ! 

Buck. [Apart.) Blast your eyes! I'd 
kick you out of the army if you 'd let me 
search her; but it's my military duty to 
swear at you. [To Gertrude.) Colonel 
West has sacrificed his life to protect you. 

Gert. His life ! 

Buck. I shall have him shot for insubor- 
dination to his commander, immediately. 
[Gives Kerchival a huge wink, and 
turns up stage.) 

Gert. Oh, sir ! General ! I have told you 
the truth. I have no dispatches. Be- 
lieve me, sir, I have n't so much as a piece 
of paper about me, except — 

Buck. Except? [Turning sharply.) 

Gert. Only a letter. Here it is. [Taking 
letter from the hosom of her dress.) 
Upon my soul, it is all I have. Truly, it 
is. 

Buck. [Taking tlie letter.) Colonel West, 
you're reprieved. [Winks at Kerchi- 
val, who turns away, laughing. Buck- 
thorn reads letter.) "Washington" — 
Ho — ho! From within our own lines — 
"Colonel Kerchival West" — 

Ker. Eh? 

Gert. Please, General! — Don't read it 
aloud. 

Buck. Very well ! I won't. 

Ker. [Aside.) I wonder what it has to 
do with me. 

Buck. [Beading. Aside.) "If Kerchival 
West had heard you say, as I did — m — m 
— that you loved him with your whole 
heart — " [He glances up at Gertrude, 
who drops her head, coyly.) This is a 
very important military document. 
[Turns to the last page.) "Signed, Con- 
stance Haverill." [Turns to- front page.) 
"My dear Gertrude!" Is this Miss Ger- 
trude EUingham? 

Gert. Yes, General. 

Buck. I sent my daughter, Jenny, to your 
house, with an escort, this morning. 

Gert. She is here. 

Buck. [Tapping her under the chin.) 
You 're an arrant little Rebel, my dear ; 
but I like you immensely. [Draws up w 
suddenly, ivith an Ahem!, then turns to ■ 
Kerchival.) Colonel West, I leave this 
dangerous young woman in your charge. 
(Kerchival approaches.) If she dis- 
obeys you in any way, or attempts to 



BRONSON HOWARD 



555 



escape — read that letter! {Giving Mm 

the letter.) 
Gert. Oh! General! 
Buck. But not till then. 
Ker. {Tenderly, taking her hand.) My — 

prisoner ! 
Gert. {Aside.) I could scratch my own 

eyes out — or his, either — rather than have 

him read that letter. 

{Enter Corporal Dunn, with a guard of 
four soldiers and Captain Edward 
Thornton as a prisoner.) 

Ker. Edward Thornton ! 

Gert. They have taken him, also ! He has 
the dispatch! 

Dunn. The Confederate Officer, Colonel, 
who was pursued by our troops at Oak 
Run, after they captured the young lady. 

Buck. The little witch has been communi- 
cating with the enemy ! 

Ker. {To Gertrude.) You will give me 
your parole of honor until we next meet 1 

Gert. Yes. {Aside.) That letter! lam 
his prisoner. {She walks up the steps, 
looking back at Captain Thornton, and 
then leaves the stage.) 

Ker. We will probably find the dispatches 
we have been looking for now, General. 

Buck. Prisoner! You will hand us what 
papers you may have. 

Thorn. I will hand you nothing. 

Buck. Colonel ! 

(Kerchival motions to Thornton, who 
looks at him sullenly.) 

Ker. Corporal Dunn! — search the pris- 
oner. (Dunn steps to Thornton, taking 
him hy the shoulder and turning him 
rather roughly so that Thornton's hack 
is to the audience. Dunn throws open 
his coat, takes the paper from his breast, 
hands it to Kerchival, who gives it to 
Buckthorn.) Proceed with the search. 
(Dunn continues the search. Buck- 
thorn drops upon the seat, lights a 
match and looks at the paper.) 

Buck. {Heading.) "General Rosser will 
rejoin General Early with all the cavalry 
in his command, at — " This is impor- 
tant. 

{Continues to read with matches. The 
Corporal hands a packet to Kerchi- 
val. He removes the covering.) 

Ker. {Starting.) A portrait of Mrs. 
Haverill! {Re touches Corporal Dunn 
on the shoulder quickly and motions him 
to retire. Dunn falls back to the guard. 
Kerchival speaks apart to Thornton. 



who has turned front.) How did this 
portrait come into your possession'? 
Thorn. That is my affair, not yours ! 
Buck. Anything else. Colonel *? 
Ker. {Placing the miniature in his 

pocket.) Nothing! 
Thorn. {Apart, over Kerchival's shoul- 
der. ) A time will come, perhaps, when I 
can avenge the insult of this search, and 
also this scar. {Pointing to a scar on his 
face. ) Your aim was better than mine in 
Charleston, but we shall meet again; give 
me back that picture. 
Ker. Corporal ! Take your prisoner ! 
Thorn. Ah ! 

{He springs viciously at Kerchival; 
Corporal Dunn springs forward, 
seizes Thornton and throws him 
hack to the Guard. Kerchival 
walks to the right, Dunn stands with 
his carbine levelled at Thornton, 
looks at Kerchival, who quietly mo- 
tions him out. Corporal Dunn 
gives the orders to the men and 
marches out, with Thornton.) 
Buck. Ah! {Still reading with matches.) 
Colonel! {Rising.) The enemy has a 
new movement on foot, and General 
Sheridan has left the army! Listen! 
{Reads from dispatches with matches.) 
"Watch for a signal from Three Top 
Mountain to-night." 
Ker. We hope to be able to read that sig- 
nal ourselves. 
Buck. Yes, I know. Be on your guard. 
I will speak with General Haverill, and 
then ride over to General Wright's head- 
quarters. Keep us informed. 
Ker. I will, General. 

{Saluting. Buckthorn salutes and 
exit.) 
Ker. "Watch for a signal from Three Top 
Mountain to-night." {Looking up at 
Mountain.) We shall be helpless to read 
it unless Lieutenant Bedloe is successful. 
I only hope the poor boy is not lying 
dead, already, in those dark woods be- 
yond the ford. {Re turns down, taking 
the miniature from his pocket.) How 
came Edward Thornton to have this por- 
trait of Mrs. Haverill in his possession? 
(Gertrude runs in on the veranda.) 
Gert. Oh, Colonel West ! He 's here ! 
{Looks hack.) They are coming this way 
with him. 
Ker. Him! Who? 
Gert. Jack. 
Ker. Jack ! 
Gert. My own horse ! 



556 



SHENANDOAH 



Ker. Ah, I remember! He and I were ac- 
quainted in Charleston. 

Gert. Two troopers are passing" through 
the camp with him. 

Ker. He is not in your possession? 

Gert. He was captured at the battle of 
Fair Oaks, but I recognized him the mo- 
ment I saw him; and I am sure he knew 
me, too, when I went up to him. He 
whinnied and looked so happy. You are 
in command here — {Running down.) 
— you will compel them to give him up to 
me? 

Ker. If he is in my command, your pet 
shall be returned to you. I '11 give one 
of my own horses to the Government as a 
substitute, if necessary. 

Gert. Oh, thank you, my dear Kerchival ! 
{Going to him; he takes her hand, looking 
into her eyes.) I — I could almost — 

Ker. Can you almost confess, at last, Ger- 
trude, that you — love me? {Tenderly; 
she draws hack, hanging her head, hut 
leaving her hand in his.) Have I been 
wrong? I felt that that confession was 
hovering on your tongue when we were 
separated in Charleston. Have I seen 
that confession in your eyes since we met 
again to-day — even among the angry 
flashes which they have shot out at me? 
During all this terrible war — in the camp 
and the trench — in the battle — I have 
dreamed of a meeting like this. You are 
still silent ? 

{Her hand is still in his. She is look- 
ing down. A smile steals over her 
face, and she raises her eyes to his, 
taking his hand in hoth her own.) 

Gert. Kerchival! I — {Enter Bexson. 
She looks around over her shoulder. 
Kerchival looks up. A trooper leading 
a large hlack horse, now caparisoned in 
military saddle, hridle, follows Bexsox 
across; another trooper follows.) Jack! 
{She runs up the stage, meeting the 
horse. Kerchival turns.) 

Ker. Confound Jack! That infernal 
horse was always in my way ! 

Gert. {With her arm ahout her horse's 
neck.) My darling old fellow! Is he 
not beautiful, Kerchival? They have 
taken good care of him. How soft his 
coat is! 

Ker. Benson, explain this! 

Bexsox. I was instructed to show this 
liorse and his leader through the lines, 
sir. 

Ker. What are your orders, my man? 
{Moving up, the trooper hands him a 



paper. He moves down a few steps, 
reading it.) 

Gert. You are to be mine again. Jack, 
mine! {Resting her cheek against the 
horse's head and patting it.) The Col- 
onel has promised it to me. 

Ker. Ah! {With a start, as he reads the 
paper. Gertrude raises her head and 
looks at him.) This is General Sheri- 
dan's horse, on his way to AYinchester, for 
the use of the General when he returns 
from Washington. 

Gert. General Sheridan's horse? He is 
mine ! 

Ker. I have no authority to detain him. 
He must go on. 

Gert. I have hold of Jack's bridle, and 
you may order your men to take out their 
sabres and cut my hand off. 

Ker. {He approaches her and gently takes 
her hand as it holds the hridle.) I would 
rather have my own hand cut off, Ger- 
trude, than bring tears to your eyes, but 
there is no alternative! (Gertrude re- 
leases the hridle and turns front, h rushing 
her eyes, her hand still held in his, his 
hack to the audience. He returns the 
order and motions troopers out; they 
move out, with the horse. Kerchival 
turns to move. Gertrude starts after the 
horse; he turns quickly to check her.) 
You forget — that — you are my prisoner. 

Gert. I will go ! 

Ker. General Buckthorn left me special 
instructions — {taking out the wallet and 
letter) — in ease you declined to obey my 
orders — 

Gert. Oh, Colonel! Please don't read 
that letter. {She stands near him, drop- 
ping her head. He glances up at her 
from the letter. She glances up at hint 
and drops her eyes again.) I will obey 
you. 

Ker. {Aside.) What the deuce can there 
bein that letter? 

Gert. Colonel West ! Your men made me 
a prisoner this afternoon ; to-night you 
have robbed me, by your own orders, of 
— of — Jack is only a pet, but I love him ; 
and my brother is also a cflptive in your 
hands. When we separated in Charles- 
ton you said that we were enemies. 
What is there lacking to make those 
words true to-day? You are my enemy! 
A few moments ago you asked me to 
make a confession to you. You can 
judge for yourself whether it is likely to 
be a confession of — love — or of hatred! 

Ker. Hatred ! 



BRONSON HOWARD 



557 



Gert. {Facing him.) Listen to my con- 
fession, sir! From the bottom of my 
heart — 

Ker. Stop ! 

Gert. I will not stop ! 

Ker. I command you. 

Gert. Indeed! {He throivs open the wal- 
let in his hand and raises the letter.) 
Ah! {She turns away; turns again, as 
if to speak. He half opens the letter. 
She stamps her foot and walks up steps 
of the veranda. Here she turns again.) 
I tell you, I — {He opens the letter. 
She turns, and exits with a spiteful step.) 

Ker. I wonder if that document orders me 
to cut her head off! {Returning it to 
wallet and pocket.) Was ever lover in 
such a position •? I am obliged to cross 
the woman I love at every step. 

{Enter Corporal Dunn, very hurriedly.) 

DuxN. A message from Adjutant Rollins, 
sir! The prisoner, Capt. Thornton, 
dashed away from the special guard 
which was placed over him, and he has 
escaped. He had a knife concealed, and 
two of the Guard are badly wounded. 
Adjutant Rollins thinks the prisoner is 
still within the lines of the camp — in one 
of the houses or the stables. 

Ker. Tell Major Wilson to place the re- 
mainder of the Guard under arrest, and 
to take every possible means to recapture 
the prisoner. (Corp. Duxn salutes, and 
exit.) So! Thornton has jumped his 
guard, and he is armed. I wonder if he 
is trying to get away, or to find me. 
From what I know of the man, he does n't 
much care which he succeeds in doing. 
That scar which I gave him in Charleston 
is deeper in his heart than it is in his face. 
{A signal light suddenly appears on 
Three Top Mountain. The "Call") Ah! 
— the enemy's signal! 

{Enter Captain Lockwood, followed hy 
the Lieutenant of Signal Corps.) 

Captain Lockwood ! You are here ! Are 
your signalmen with you *? 
Lock. Yes, Colonel; and one of my Lieu- 
tenants. 

{The Lieutenant is looking up at the 
signal with his glass. Captain 
Lockwood does the same.) 

(Haverill enters, followed hy two staf 
officers.) 

Haver. {As he enters.) Can you make 
anything of it, Captain? 



Lockwood. Nothing, General! Our serv- 
ices are quite useless unless Lieutenant 
Bedloe returns with the key to their sig- 
nals. 

Haver. A — h ! We shall fail. It is time 
he had returned, if successful. 

Sentinel. {Without.) Halt! Who goes 
there? (Kerchival runs up the stage 
and half way up the incline, looking off.) 
Halt! {A shot is heard without.) 

Barket. {Without.) Och! — Ye mur- 

therin spalpeen ! 

Ker. Sentmel! Let him pass; it is Ser- 
geant Barket. 

Sentinel. {Wilrhout.) Pass on. 

Ker. He didn't give the countersign. 
News from Lieutenant Bedloe, General ! 

Barket. {Hurrying in, up the slope.) 
Colonel Wist, our brave byes wiped out 
the enemy, and here 's the papers. 

Ker. Ah! {Taking the papers. — Then to 
Lockwood.) Is that the key? 

Lock. Yes. Lieutenant ! 

(Lieutenant hurries up to the eleva- 
tion, looking through his glass. 
Lockwood opens the hook.) 

Haver. What of Lieutenant Bedloe, Ser- 
geant? 

Barket. Sayreously wounded, and in the 
hands of the inimy ! 

Haver. {Sighing.) A — h. 

Barket. {Coming down the stone Steps.) 
It is reported that Captain Heartsease 
was shot dead at his side. 

Ker. Heartsease dead! 

Lieut, of Signal Corps. {Reading Sig- 
nals. ) Twelve — Twenty-two — Eleven. 

Barket. Begorra! I forgot the Sintinil 
entirely, but he did n't forget me. {Hold- 
ing his left arm.) 

Haver. Colonel West! We must make 
every possible sacrifice for the immediate 
exchange of Lieutenant Bedloe, if he is 
still living. It is due to him. Colonel 
Robert Ellingham is a prisoner in this 
camp; offer him his own exchange for 
young Bedloe. 

Ker. He will accept, of course. I will 
ride to the front with him myself. Gen- 
eral, and show him through the lines. 

Ha\t]r. At once! (Kerchival crosses 
front and exit on the veranda.) Can you 
follow the dispatch. Captain? 

Lock. Perfectly; everything is here. 

Haver. Well! 

Lieut, of Signal Corps. Eleven — Twenty- 
two — One — Twelve. 

Lock. {From the hook.) '^General Long- 
street is coming with — " 



558 



SHENANDOAH 



Haver. Longstreet ! 

Lieut, of Signal Corps. One — Twenty- 
one. 

Lock. "With eighteen thousand men." 

Haver. Longstreet and his corps! 

Lieut, of Signal Corps. Two — Eleven — 
Twenty-two. 

Lock. "Sheridan is away!" 

Haver. They have discovered his absence ! 

Lieut, of Signal Corps. Two — Twenty- 
two — Eleven — One — Twelve — One. 

Lock. "We will crush the Union Army be- 
fore he can return." 

Haver. Signal that dispatch from here to 
our Station at Front Royal. Tell them 
to send it after General Sheridan — and 
ride for their lives. (Lockv^OOD hurries 
out.) Major Burton! We will ride to 
General Wright's headquarters at once — 
our horses ! 

[The noise of a struggle is heard with- 
out.) 

Barket. What the devil is the row out 
there? 

{Exit, also one of the Staff Officers.) 

Ha\t:r. {Looking off to the left.) What 
is this ! Colonel West wounded ! 

{Enter Kerchival West, his coat throivn 
open, with Ellingham, Barket assist- 
ing. ) 

Elling. Steady, Kerchival, old boy ! You 

should have let us carry you. 
Ker. Nonsense, old fellow! It's a mere 
touch with the point of the knife. I — 
I 'm faint — with the loss of a little blood 
—that 's all. Bob !— I— 

{He reels suddenly and is caught by 
Ellingham as he sinks to the 
ground, insensible.) 
Elling. Kerchival. {Kneeling at his 

side. ) 
Haver. Go for the Surgeon! {To the 
Staff Officer, who goes out quickly on 
veranda.) How did this happen? 

{Enter Corporal Dunn and Guard, with 
Thornton. He is in his shirt sleeves and 
disheveled, his arms folded. They march 
down.) 

Captain Thornton! 

Ellixg. We were leaving the house to- 
gether; a hunted animal sprang suddenly 
across our path, like a panther. {Look- 
ing over his shoulder.) There it stands. 
Kerchival ! — my brother ! 

Corp. Dunn. We had just brought this 
prisoner to bay, but I 'm afraid we were 
too late. 



Haver. This is assassination, sir, not war. 

If you have killed him — 
Thorn. Do what you like with me; we 
need w^aste no words. I had an old ac- 
count to settle, and I have paid my debt. 
Elling. General Haverill! I took these 
from his breast when he first fell. 

{Handing up wallet and miniature to 

Haverill. Haverill starts as he 

looks at the miniature. Thornton 

watches him.) 

Haver. {Aside.) My wife 's portrait ! 

Thorn. If I have killed him — your honor 

will be buried in the same grave. 
Haver. Her picture on his breast! She 
gave it to him — not to my son ! 

{Dropping into the seat. Capt. Lock- 
v^OOD enters with a Signalman, who 
has a burning torch on a long pole; 
he hurries up the elevation. Capt. 
Lock WOOD stands below, facing him. 
Almost simultaneously with the en- 
trance of the Signalman, Gertrude 
runs in on veranda.) 
Gert. They are calling for a surgeon! 
Who is it? Brother! — you are safe. 
Ah ! ( Uttering a scream, as she sees 
Kerchival, and falling on her knees at 
his side.) Kerchival! Forget those last 
bitter w^ords I said to you. Can't you 
hear my confession? I do love you. 
Can't you hear me? I love you! 

{The Signalman is swinging the torch 
as the curtain descends, Lockwood 
looking out to the right.) 



ACT THIRD. 

The scene is the same as in the Second Act. 
It is now bright daylight, with sunshine 
flecking the foreground and bathing the 
distant valley and mountains. As the 
curtain rises Jenny Buckthorn is sitting 
on the low stone post, in the center of the 
stage, looking toivard the left. She imi- 
tates a Trumpet Signal on her closed fists. 

Jenny. What a magnificent line ! Guides- 
posts! Every man and every horse is 
eager for the next command. There 
comes the flag! {As the scene progresses 
trumpet signals are heard ivithout and 
she follows their various meanings in her 
speech.) To the standard! The regi- 
ment is going to tlie front. Oh! I do 
wish I could go with it. I always do, the 
moment I hear the trumpets. Boots and 
Saddles! Mount! I wish I was in com- 



BRONSON HOWARD 



559 



mand of the regiment. It was born in 
me. Fours right ! There they go ! Look 
at those horses' ears! Forward. {A 
miliiary hand is heard without, playing 
"The Battle Cry of Freedom." Jenn^ 
takes the attitude cf holding a bridle and 
trotting,) Rappity — plap — plap — plap, 
etc. {She imitates the motions of a soh 
dier on horseback, stepping down to the 
rock at side of post; thence to the ground 
and about the stage, with the various 
curvettings of a spirited horse. A chorus 
of soldiers is heard without, with the 
band. The music becomes more and more 
distant. Jenny gradually stops as the 
music is dying away, and stands, listen- 
ing. As it dies entirely away, she sud- 
denly starts to an enthusiastic attitude.) 
Ah ! If I were only a man ! The 
enemy! On Third Battalion, left, front, 
into line, march ! Draw sabres ! Charge ! 
{Imitates a trumpet signal. As she 
finishes, she rises to her full height, with 
both arms raised, and trembling with en- 
thusiasm.) Ah! {She suddenly drops 
her arms and changes to an attitude and 
expression of disappointment — pouting.) 
And the first time Old Margery took me 
to Father, in her arras, she had to tell him 
I was a girl. Father was as much dis- 
gusted as I was. But he 'd never admit 
it ; he says I 'm as good a soldier as any 
of 'em — just as I am. 

{Enter Barket, on the veranda, his arm in 
a sling.) 

Barket. Miss Jenny! 

Jenny. Barket! The regiment has 
marched away to the front, and we girls 
are left here, with just you and a cor- 
poral's guard to look after us. 

Barket. I 've been watching the byes me- 
silf. {Coming down.) If a little mili- 
tary sugar-plum like you. Miss Jenny, 
objects to not goin' wid 'em, what do you 
think of an ould piece of hard tack like 
me? I can't join the regiment till I've 
taken you and Miss Madeline back to 
Winchester, by your father's orders. But 
it isn't the first time I've escorted you. 
Miss Jenny. Many a time, when you was 
a baby, on the Plains, I commanded a 
special guard to accompany ye's from 
one fort to anither, and we gave the com- 
mand in a whisper, so as not to wake ye's 
up. 

Jenny. I told you to tell Father that I 'd 
let him know when Madeline and I were 
ready to go. 



Barket. I tojild him that I 'd as soon move 
a train of army mules. 

Jenny. I suppose we must start for home 
again to-day"? 

Barket. Yes, Miss Jenny, in charge of an 
ould Sargeant wid his arm in a sling and 
a couple of convalescent throopers. This 
department of the United States Army 
will move to the rear in half an hour. 

Jenny. Madeline and I only came yester- 
day morning. 

Barket. Whin your father got ye's a pass 
to the front, we all thought the fightin' 
in the Shenandoey Valley was over. It 
looks now as if it was just beginning. 
This is no place for women, now. Miss 
Gertrude Ellingham ought to go wid us, 
but she won't. 

Jenny. Barket! Captain Heartsease left 
the regiment yesterday, and he has n't re- 
joined it ; he is n't with them, now, at the 
head of his company. Where is he? 

Barket. I can't say where he is. Miss 
Jenny. {Aside.) Lyin' unburied in the 
woods, where he was shot, I 'm afraid. 

Jenny. When Captain Heartsease does re- 
join the regiment, Barket, please say to 
him for me, that — that I — I may have 
some orders for him, when we next meet. 
{Exit, on veranda.) 

Barket. Whin they nixt mate. They tell 
us there is no such thing as marriage in 
Hiven. If Miss Jenny and Captain 
Heartsease mate there, they '11 invint 
somethin' that 's mighty like it. While I 
was lyin' wounded in General Buck- 
thorn's house at Washington, last sum- 
mer, and ould Margery was taking care 
of me, Margery tould me, confidentially, 
that they was in love wid aitch ither ; and 
I think she was about right. I 've often 
seen Captain Heartsease take a sly look 
at a little lace handkerchief, just before 
we wint into battle. {Looking off the 
stage.) Here's General Buckthorn him- 
self. He and I must make it as aisy as 
we can for Miss Jenny's poor heart. 

{Enter General Buckthorn.) 

Buck. Sergeant Barket! You haven't 

started with those girls yet? 
Barket. They're to go in half an hour, 

sir. 
Buck. Be sure they do go. Is General 

Haverill here? 
Barket. Yes, sur; in the house with some 

of his staff, and the Surgeon. 
Buck, Ah! The Surgeon. How is Col- 



560 



SHENANDOAH 



onel West, this morning, after the' wound 
he received last night *? 

Barket. He says, himself, that he's as 
well as iver he was; but the Colonel and 
Surgeon don't agray on that subject. 
The dochter says he must n't lave his room 
for a month. The knife wint dape; and 
there 's somethin' wrong inside of him. 
But the Colonel, bein' on the outside him- 
silf, can't see it. He 's as cross as a bear, 
baycause they would n't let him go to the 
front this morning, at tlie head of his 
regiment. I happened to raymark that 
the Chaplain was prayin' for his ray- 
covery. The Colonel said he 'd court- 
martial him if he did n't stop that — 
quick; there's more important things for 
the Chaplain to pray for in his official 
capacity. Just at that moment the trum- 
pets sounded, "Boots and Saddles." I 
had to dodge one of his boots, and the 
Surgeon had a narrow escape from the 
ither one. It was lucky for us both his 
saddle was n't in the room. 

iJUCK. That looks encouraging. I think 
Kerchival will get on. 

>>ARKET. Might I say a word to you, sur, 
about Miss Jenny *? 

Buck. Certainly, Barket. You and old 
Margery and myself have been a sort of 
triangular mother, so to speak, to the 
little girl since her own poor mother left 
her to our care, when she was only a 
baby, in the old fort on the Plains. {He 
unconsciously rests his arm over Barket's 
shoulder, familiarly, and then suddenly 
draws up.) Ahem! {Gruffly.) What 
is it? Proceed; 

Barket. Her mother's bosom would have 
been the softest place for her poor little 
head to rest upon, now, sur. 

Buck. {Touching his eyes.) Well! 

Barket. Ould Margery tould me in Wash- 
ington that Miss Jenny and Captain 
Heartsease were in love wid aitch ither. 

Buck. {Starting.) In love! 

Barket. I approved of the match. 

Buck. What the devil ! 

(Barket salutes quickly and starts up 
stage and out. Buckthorn moves 
up after him, and stops at the post. 
Barket stops in the road.) 

Barket. So did ould Margery. 

Buck. {Angrily.) March! (Barket sa- 
lutes suddenly and marches off.) Hearts- 
ease! That young jackanapes! A mere 
fop ; he '11 never make a soldier. My girl 
in love with — bah ! I don't believe it ; 
she 's too good a soldier, herself, 



{Enter Haverill, on the veranda.) 

Ah, Haverill! 

Haver. General Buckthorn! Have you 
heard anything of General Sheridan 
since I sent that dispatch to him last 
evening ? 

Buck. He received it at midnight and sent 
back word that he considers it a ruse of 
the enemy. General Wright agrees with 
him. The reconnoissance yesterday 
showed no hostile force, on our right, and 
Crook reports that Early is retreating up 
the valley. But General Sheridan may, 
perhaps, give up his journey to Wash- 
ington, and he has ordered some changes 
in our line, to be executed this afternoon 
at four o'clock. I rode over to give you 
your instructions in person. You may 
order General McCuen tc go into camp 
on the right of Meadow Brook, with the 
second division. 

(Haverill is writing in his note-hook.) 

{Enter Jenny, on the veranda.) 

Jenny. Oh, Father ! I 'm so glad you 've 

come. I 've got something to say to you. 

{Running down and jumping into his 

arms, kissing him. He turns with 

her, and sets her down, squarely on 

her feet and straight before him.) 

Buck. And I 've got something to say to 
you — about Captain Heartsease. 

Jenny. Oh! That's just what I wanted 
to talk about. 

Buck. Fall in ! Front face ! {She jumps 
into military position, turning towards 
him.) What 's this I hear from Sergeant 
Barket ? He says you 've been falling in 
love. 

Jenny. I have. {Saluting.) 

Buck. Young woman! Listen to my 
orders. Fall out! {Turns sharply and 
marches to Haverill.) Order the Third 
Brigade of Cavalry, under Colonel 
Lowell, to occupy the left of the pike. 

Jenny. Father! {Running to him and 
seizing the tail of his coat.) Father, 
dear! 

Buck. Close in Colonel Powell on the ex- 
treme left — {slapping his coat-tails out 
of Jenny's hands, without looking 
around) — and hold Custer on the second 
line, at Old Forge Road. That is all at 
present. {Turning to Jenny.) Good- 
bye, my darling! {Kisses her.) Re- 
member your orders ! You little pet ! 
{Chuckling, as he taps her chin; draws up 



BRONSON HOWARD 



561 



suddenly and turns to Haverill.) Gen- 
eral ! I bid you good-day. 
Haver. Good-day, General Buckthorn. 
{They salute wii'h great dignity. 
BucKTiiORX starts up stage; Jenny 
springs after him, seizing his coat- 
tails.) 
Jenny. But I want to talk with you, 
Father ; I can't fall out. I— I— have n't 
finished yet. 

{Clinging to his coat, as BucktSORN 
marches out rapidly, in the road, 
holding back with all her might.) 
Haver. It may have been a ruse of the 
enemy, but I hope that General Sheridan 
has turned back from Washington. 
{Loohiyig at his note-hook.) We are to 
make changes in our line at four o'clock 
this afternoon. {Returning the hook to 
his pocket, he stands in thought.) The 
Surgeon tells me that Kerchival West will 
get on well enough if he remains quiet ; 
otherwise not. He shall not die by the 
hand of a common assassin f he has no 
right to die like that. My wife gave my 
own picture of herself to him — not to my 
son — and she looked so like an angel when 
she took it from my hand! They were 
both false to me, and they have been true 
to each other. I will save his life for 
myself. 

{Enter Gertrude, on the veranda.) 

Gert. General Haverill! {Anxiously, 
coming down.) Colonel West persists 
in disobeying the injunctions of the Sur- 
geon. He is preparing to join his regi- 
ment at the front. Give him your orders 
to remain here. Compel him to be 
prudent ! 

Haver. {Quickly.) The honor of death at 
the front is not in reserve for him. 

Gert. Eh? What did you say, General? 

Haver. Gertrude ! I wish to speak to you, 
as your father's old friend; and I was 
once your guardian. Your father was 
my senior officer in the Mexican War. 
Without his care I should have been left 
dead in a foreign land. He, himself, aft- 
erwards fell fighting for the old flag. 

Gert. The old flag*. {Aside.) My father 
died for it, and he — {looking toward the 
left) — is suffering for it — the old flag! 

Haver. I can now return the kindness 
your father did to me, by protecting his 
daughter from something that may be 
worse than death. 

Gert. What do you mean ? 



Haver. Last^ night I saw you kneeling at 
the side of Kerchival West ; you spoke to 
him with all the tender passion of a 
Southern woman. You said you loved 
him. But you spoke into ears that could 
not hear you. Has he ever heard those 
words from your lips? Have you ever 
confessed your love to him before? 

Gert. Never. Why do you ask? 

Haver. Do not repeat those words. Keep 
your heart to yourself, my girl. 

Gert. General! Why do you say this to 
me? And at such a moment — when his 
life— 

Haver. His life! {Turning sharply.) It 
belongs to me ! 

Gert. Oh! 

Ker. Sergeant! {Without. He steps 
into the road, looking hack. Haverill 
comes down.) See that my horse is ready 
at once. General! {Saluting.) Are 
there any orders for my regiment be- 
yond those given to Major Wilson, in my 
absence, this morning? I am about to 
ride on after the troops and reassume my 
command. 

Haver. {Quietly.) It is my wish, Colonel, 
that you remain here under the care of 
the Surgeon. 

Ker. My wound is a mere trifle. This 
may be a critical moment in the campaign, 
and I cannot rest here. I must be with 
my own men. 

Haver. {Quietly.) I beg to repeat the 
wish I have already expressed. 

(Kerchival walks to him, and speaks 
apart, almost under his hreath, but 
very earnest in tone.) 

Ker. I have had no opportunity, yet, to 
explain certain matters, as you requested 
me to do yesterday; but whatever there 
may be between us, you are now interfer- 
ing with my duty and my privilege as a 
soldier; and it is my right to be at the 
head of my regiment. 

Haver. {Quietly.) It is my positive order 
that you do not reassume your command. 

Ker. General Haverill, I protest against 
this— 

Haver. {Quietly.) You are under arrest, 
sir. 

Ker. Arrest ! 

Gert. Ah ! 

(Kerchival unclasps his belt and of- 
fers his sword to Haverill.) 

Haver. ( Quietly. ) Keep your sword ; I 
have no desire to humiliate you ; but hold 
j^ourself subject to further orders from 



562 



SHENANDOAH 



Kek. My regiment at the front ! — and I 
under arrest ! (Exit.) 

Haver. Gertrude! If your heart refuses 
to be silent — if you feel that you must 
confess your love to that man — hrst tell 
him what I have said to you, and refer 
him to me for an explanation. (Exit.) 

Gert. What can he mean"? He would 
save me from something' worse than death, 
he said. "His life — It belongs to me!" 
What can he mean"? Kerchival told me 
that he loved me — it seems many years 
since that morning in Charleston — and 
when we met again, yesterday, he said 
that he had never ceased to love me. I 
will not believe that he has told me a 
falsehood. I have given him my love, my 
whole soul and my faith. {Drawing up 
to her full height.) My perfect faith! 

(Jenny runs in, to the road, and up the 
slope. She looks down the hill, then 
toward the left and enters.) 

Jenny. A flag of truce, Gertrude. And a 
party of Confederate soldiers, with an 
escort, coming up the hill. They are 
carrying someone; he is wounded. 

{Enter, up the slope, a Lieutenant of In- 
fantry with an escort of Union Soldiers, 
their arms at right shoulder, and a party 
of Confederate Soldiers hearing a rustic 
stretcher. Lieutenant Frank Bedloe 
lies on the stretcher. Major Hard wick, 
a Confederate Surgeon, walks at his side. 
Madeline appears at the veranda, watch- 
ing them. Gertrude stands with her 
hack to the audience. The Lieutenant 
gives orders in a low tone, and the front 
escort moves toward the right, in the 
road. The Confederate hearers and the 
Surgeon pass through the gate. The 
rear escort moves on in the road, under 
the Lieutenant's orders. The hearers 
halt in the front of the stage; on a sign 
from the Surgeon, they leave the stretcher 
on the ground, stepping hack.) 

Maj. Hard. Is General Haverill here? 

Gert. Yes; what can we do, sir"? 

Mad. The General is just about mounting 
with his staff, to ride away. Shall I go 
for him, sir? 

Maj. Say to him, please, that Colonel 
Robert Ellingham, of the Tenth Virginia, 
sends his respects and sympathy. He in- 
structed me to bring this young officer to 
this point, in exchange for himself, as 
agreed upon between them last evening. 
(Exit Madeline.) 



Jenny. Is he unconscious or sleeping, sir"? 

Maj. Hovering between life and death. I 
thought he would bear the removal better. 
He is waking. Here, my lad! {Placing 
his canteen to the lips of Frank, who 
moves, reviving.) We have reached the 
end of our journey. 

Frank. My father ! 

Maj. He is thinking of his home. 

(Frank rises on one arm, assisted hy 
the Surgeon.) 

Frank. I have obeyed General Haverill's 
orders, and I have a report to make. 

Gert. We have already sent for him. 
{Stepping to him.) He will be here in a 
moment. 

Frank. {Looking into her face, brightly.) 
Is not this — Miss — Gertrude Ellingham? 

Gert. You know me? You have seen me 
before ? 

Frank. Long ago! Long ago! You 
know the wife of General Haverill? 

Gert. I have no dearer friend in the 
world. 

Frank. She will give a message for me to 
the dearest friend I have in the world. 
My little wife! I must not waste even 
the moment we are waiting. Doctor! 
My note-book! {Trying to get it from 
his coat. The Surgeon takes it out. 
A torn and hlood-stained lace handker- 
chief also falls out. Gertrude kneels at 
his side.) Ah! I — I — have a message 
from another — {holding up the hand- 
kerchief) — from Captain Heartsease. 
(Jenny makes a quick start towards 
hini. ) He lay at my side in the hospital, 
when they brought me away ; he had only 
strength enough to put this in my hand, 
and he spoke a woman's name; but I — 
I — forget what it is. The red spots 
upon it are the only message he sent. 
(Gertrude takes the handkerchief and 
looks hack at Jenny, extending her 
hand. Jenny moves to her, takes 
the handkerchief and turns hack, 
looking down on it. She drops her 
face into her hands and goes out sob- 
bing, on the veranda.) 

{Enter Madeline on the veranda.) 

Mad. General Haverill is coming. I was 
just in time. He was already on his 
horse. 

Frank. Ah! He is coming. {Then sud- 
denly.) Write! Write! (Gertrude 
writes in the note-book as he dictates.) 
"To— my wife— Edith :— Tell our little 
^on, when he is old enough to know — how 



BRONSON HOWARD 



563 



his father died; not how he lived. And 
tell her who filled my own mother's place 
so lovingly — she is your mother, too — 
that my father's portrait of her, w^hieh she 
gave to me in Charleston, helped me to 
be a better man!" And — Oh! I must 
not forget this^"It was taken away from 
me while I was a prisoner in Richmond, 
and it is in the possession of Captain 
Edward Thornton, of the Confederate 
Secret Service. But her face is still be- 
side your own in my heart. My best — 
warmest, last — love — to you, darling." 
I will sign it. 

(Gertrude holds the hook, and he signs 
it, then sinks hack very quietly, sup- 
ported hy the Surgeon. Gertrude 
rises and lualks away.) 
Mad. General Haverill is here. 

{The Surgeon lays the fold of the 
hlanket over Frank's face and rises.) 
Gert. Doctor ! 
Maj. He is dead. 

(Madeline, on the veranda, turns and 
looks away. The Lieutenant orders 
the guard, '^Present Arms.") 

{Enter Haverill, on the veranda. He sa- 
lutes the guard as he passes. The Lieu- 
tenant orders, "Carry Arms." Haverill 
comes down.) 

Hav"er. I am too late*? 
Maj. I 'm sorry. General. His one eager 
thought as we came was to reach here in 
time to see you. 

(Haverill moves to the hier, looks 
down at it, then folds hack the hlan- 
ket from the face. He starts slightly 
as he first sees it.) 
Haver. Brave boy ! I hoped once to have 
a son like you. I shall be in your father's 
place to-daj^, at your grave. {He re- 
places the hlanket and steps hack.) We 
will carry him to his comrades in the 
front. He shall have a soldier's burial, 
in sight of the mountain-top beneath 
which he sacrificed his young life; that 
shall be his monument. 
Maj. Pardon me, General. We Virgin- 
ians are your enemies, but you cannot 
honor this young soldier more than we do. 
Will you allow my men the privilege of 
carrying him to his grave'? 

(Haverill inclines his head. The Sur- 
geon motions to the Confederate Sol- 
diers, u'ho step to the hier and raise 
it gently.) 
Ha\t:r. Lieutenant ! 

{The Lieutenant orders the guard "Left 



Face." The Confederate hearers 
move through the gate, preceded hy 
Lieutenant Hardwick. Haverill 
draws his sword, reverses it, and 
moves up hehind the hier with howed 
head. The Lieutenant orders "For- 
ward March," and the cortege disap- 
pears. While the girls are still 
watching it, the heavy sound of dis- 
tant artillery is heard, with hooming 
reverherations among the hills and in 
the valley.) 
Mad. What is that sound, Gertrude? 
Gert. Listen ! 

{Another and more prolonged distant 
sound, with long reverherations.) 
Mad. Again ! Gertrude ! 

(Gertrude raises her hand to command 
silence; listens. Distant cannon 
again. ) 
Gert. It is the opening of a battle. 
Mad. Ah! {Running down stage. The 

sounds are heard again, prolonged.) 
Gert. How often have I heard that sound ! 
( Coming down. ) This is war, Madeline ! 
You are face to face with it now. 
Mad. And Robert is there ! He may be in 
the thickest of the danger — at this very 
moment. 
Gert. Yes. Let our prayers go up for 
him; mine do, with all a sister's heart. 

(Kerchival enters on veranda, without coat 
or vest, his sash ahout his waist, looking 
hack as he comes in.) 

Kerchival ! 

Ker. Go on ! Go on ! Keep the battle to 
yourselves. I 'm out of it. {The distant 
cannon and reverherations are rising in 
volume.) 

Mad. I pray for Robert Ellingham — and 
for the cause in which he risks his life! 
(Kerchival looks at her, suddenly; also 
Gertrude. ) Heaven forgive me if I am 
wrong, but I am praying for the enemies 
of my country. His people are my peo- 
ple, his enemies are my enemies. Heaven 
defend him and his, in this awful hour. 

Ker. Madeline ! My sister ! 

Mad. Oh, Kerchival ! {Turning and drop- 
ping her face on his hreast.) I cannot 
help it — I cannot help it ! 

Ker. My poor girl! Every woman's 
heart, the world over, belongs not to any 
country or any flag, but to her husband — 
and her lover. Pray for the man you 
love, sister — it would be treason not to. 
(Passes her hefore him to the left of the 
stage. Looks across to Gertrude.) Am 



564 



SHENANDOAH 



I right? (Gertrude drops her head. 
Madeline moves up veranda and out.) 
Is what I have said to Madeline true'? 

Gert. Yes! {Looks up.) Kerehival! 

Ker. Gertrude! {Hurries across to her, 
clasps her in his arms. He suddenly stag- 
gers and brings his hand to his breast.) 

Gert. Your wound ! 

{Supporting him as he reels and sinks 
into seat.) 

Ker. Wound! I have no wound! Y^ou 
do love me ! {Seizing her hand.) 

Gert. Let me call the Surgeon, Kerehival. 

Ker. You can be of more service to me 
than he can. {Detaining her. Very 
heavy sounds of the battle; she starts, 
listening.) Never mind that! It's only 
a battle. You love me! 

Gert. Be quiet, Kerehival, dear. I do love 
you. I told you so, when you lay bleed- 
ing here, last night. But you could not 
hear me. {At his side, resting her arm 
about him, stroking his head.) I said 
that same thing to — to — another, more 
than three years ago. It is in that letter 
that General Buckthorn gave you. (Ker- 
CHIVAL starts.) No — no — you must be 
very quiet, or I will not say another word. 
If you obey me, I will repeat that part 
of the letter, every word; I know it by 
heart, for I read it a dozen times. The 
letter is from Mrs. Haverill. 

Ker. {Quietly.) Go on. 

Gert. "I have kept your secret, my dar- 
ling, but I was sorely tempted to betray 
the confidence you reposed in me at 
Charleston. If Kerehival West — {she re- 
tires backivard from him as she proceeds) 
— had heard you say, as I did, when your 
face was hidden in my bosom, that night, 
that you loved him with your whole 
heart—" 

Ker. Ah! . 

{Starting to his feet. He sinks hack. 
She springs to support him.) 

Gert. I will go for help. 

Ker. Do not leave me at such a moment as 
this. You have brought me a new life. 
{Bringing her to her knees before him 
and looking down at her.) Heaven is 
just opening before me. {His hands 
drop suddenly and his head falls back.) 

Gert. Ah! Kerehival! You are dying! 
{Musketry. A sudden sharp burst of 
musketry, mingled ivith the roar of 
artillery near by. Kerchival starts, 
seizing Gertrude's arm and holding 
her away, still on her knees. He 
looks eagerly toward the left) 



Ker. The enemy is close upon us ! 

(Barket runs in, up the slope.) 

Barket. Colonel Wist! The devils have 
sprung out of the ground. They're 
pouring over our lift flank like Noah's 
own flood. The Union Army has started 
back for Winchester, on its way to the 
North Pole ; our own regiment. Colonel, is 
coming over the hill in full retrate. 
Ker. My own regiment! {Starting up.) 
Get my horse, Barket. {Turns.) Ger- 
trude, my life! {Embraces Gertrude.) 
Barket. Your horse is it f I 'm wid ye ! 
There's a row at Finnegan's ball, and 
we 're in it. {Springs to the road, and 
runs out.) 
Ker. {Turns away. Stops.) I am under 
arrest. 

{The retreat begins. Fugitives begin 
to straggle across the stage from the 
left.) 
Gert. You must not go, Kerchival ; it will 

kill you. 
Ker. Arrest be damned! {Starts up 
toward the center, raising his arms above 
his head with clenched fist, and rising to 
full height.) Stand out of my Avay, you 
cowards ! 

{They cower away from him as he 
rushes out among them. The stream 
of fugitives passing across the stage 
swells in volume. Gertrude runs 
through them and up to the elevation, 
turning. ) 
Gert. Men! Are you soldiers'? Turn 
back ! There is a leader for you ! Turn 
back ! Fight for your flag — and mine ! — 
the flag my father died for ! Turn back ! 
{She looks out toward the left and then 
turns totvard the front.) He has been, 
marked for death already, and I — I can 
only pray. {Dropping to her knees.) 
{The stream of fugitives continues, now 
over the elevation also. Rough and> 
torn uniforms, bandaged arms and 
legs; some limping and supported by 
others, some dragging their muskets 
after them, others without muskets, 
others using them as crutches. There 
is a variety of uniforms, both cav- 
alry and infantry; flags are draggled 
on the ground, the rattle of near 
musketry and roar of cannon con- 
tinue; two or three wounded fugi- 
tives drop down beside the hedge. 
Benson staggers in and drops upon 
a rock near the post Artillerists, 
rough, torn and wounded, drag and 



BRONSON HOWARD 



565 



force a field-piece across. Corporal 
Dunn, wounded, staggers to the top 
of elevation. There is a lull in the 
sounds of the battle. Distant cheers 
are heard tvithout.) 
Dunn. Listen, fellows! Stop! Listen! 
Sheridan! General Sheridan is coming! 
{Cheers from those on stage. Gertrude 
rises quickly. The ivounded soldiers rise, 
looking over the hedge. All on stage 
stop, looking eagerly toward the ■ left. 
The cheers without come nearer, with 
shouts of ^'Sheridan! Sheridan!^') The 
horse is down; he is worn out. 
Gert. No ! He is up again ! He is on my 
Jack ! Now, for your life. Jack, and for 
me! You've never failed me yet. {The 
cheers without now swell to full volume 
and are taken up hy those on the stage. 
The horse sweeps hi/ with General Sheri- 
dan.) Jack! Jack!! Jack!!! 

{Waving her arms as he passes. She 
throws up her arms and falls hack- 
ward, caught hy Dunn. The stream 
of men is reversed and surges across 
the stage to the left, in the road and 
on the elevation, with shouts, and 
throwing up of hats. The field-piece 
is forced up the slope with a few 
hold, rough movements; the artiller- 
ists are loading it, and the stream of 
returning fugitives is still surging 
hy in the road as the curtain falls.) 



ACT FOURTH. 

4. living room in the residence of General 
Buckthorn in Washington. There is a 
fireplace slanting 'upivard from the left 
toward the center of the stage. On the 
right toward the center there is a small 
alcove. On the left there is an opetiing 
to the hall with a stair-case heyond. 
There is a door on the right and a wide 
opening with portieres leads on the left 
toward another room. There is an up- 
right piano toward the front of the stage 
on the right and an armchair and low 
stool stand hefore the fireplace. A small 
table is set for tea. It is afternoon; 
Mrs. Haverill, in an armchair, is rest- 
ing her face upon her hand, and looking 
into the fire. Edith is on a low stool at 
Tier side, sewing a child's garment. 

Edith. It seems hardly possible that the 
war is over, and that General Lee has 
really surrendered. There is music in the 



streets nearly all the time, now, and 
everybody looks so cheerful and bright. 
{Distant fife and drums are heard playing 
''.Johnnie Comes Marching Home." 
Edith springs up and runs up to window, 
looking out.) More troops returning! 
The old tattered battle-flag is waving in 
the wind, and people are running after 
them so merrily. Every day, now, seems 
like a holiday. The war is over. All the 
women ought to feel very happy, whose — 
whose husbands are — coming back to 
them. 

Mrs, H. Yes, Edith ; those women whose — • 
husbands are coming back to them. 
{Still looking into the fire.) 

Edith. Oh! {Dropping upon the stool^ 
her head upon the arm of the chair.) 

Mrs. H. {Resting her arm over her.) My 
poor, little darling! Your husband will 
not come back. 

Edith. Frank's last message has never 
reached me. 

Mrs. H. No; but you have one sweet 
thought always w4th you. Madeline West 
heard part of it, as Gertrude wrote it 
down. His last thought was a loving one, 
of you. 

Edith. Madeline says that he was thinking 
of you, too. He knew that you were tak- 
ing such loving care of his little one, and 
of me. You have always done tha.t, since 
you first came back from Charleston, and 
found me alone in New York. 

Mrs. H. I found a dear, sweet little daugh- 
ter. {Stroking her head.) Heaven sent 
you, darling! You have been a blessing 
to me. I hardly know how I should have 
got through the past few months at all 
without you at my side. 

Edith. What is your own trouble, dear? 
I have found you in tears so often; and 
since last October, after the battle of 
Cedar Creek, you — you have never shown 
me a letter from — from my — Frank's 
father. General Haverill arrived in 
Washington yesterday, but has not been 
here yet. Is it because I am here? He 
has never seen me, and I fear that he has 
never forgiven Frank for marrying me. 

Mrs. H. Nonsense, my child ; he did think 
the marriage was imprudent, but he told 
me to do everything I could for you. If 
General Haverill has not been to see 
either of us, since his arrival in Wash- 
ington, it is nothing that you need to 
worry your dear little head about. How 
are you getting on with your son's ward- 
robe? 



56G 



SHENANDOAH 



Edith. Oh ! Splendidly ! Frankie is n't 
a baby any longer ; he 's a man, now, and 
he has to wear a man's clothes. {Holding 
up a little pair of trousers, with maternal 
pride. ) He 's rather young- to be dressed 
like a man, but I want Frank to grow up 
as soon as possible. I long to have him 
old enough to understand me when I re- 
peat to him the words in which General 
Haverill told the whole world how his 
father died! (Rising.) And yet, even 
in his official report to the Government, 
he only honored him as Lieutenant Bed- 
loe. He has never forgiven his son for 
the disgrace he brought upon his name. 

Mrs. H. I know him so well — (rising) — 
the unyielding pride, that conquers even 
the deep tenderness of his nature. He 
can be silent, though his own heart is 
breaking. (Aside.) He can be silent, 
too, though my heart is breaking. (Drop- 
ping her face in her hand.) 

Edith. Mother! (Putting her arm about 
her.) 

(Enter Jannette.) 

Jan. a letter for you. Madam. 

Mrs. H. (Taking note. Aside.) He has 
answered me. (She opens and reads the 
letter, and inclines her head to J An- 
nette, who goes out to the hall. Aloud.) 
General Haverill will be here this after- 
noon, Edith. (Exit.) 

Edith. There is something that she can- 
not confide to me, or to anyone. Gen- 
eral Haverill returned to Washington 
yesterday, and he has not been here yet. 
He will be here to-day. I always trem- 
ble when I think of meeting him. 

(General Buckthorn appears in the 
hall.) 

Buck. Come right in; this way, Barket. 
Ah, Edith! 

Barket. (Entering.) As I was saying, 
sur — just after the battle of Sayder 
Creek began — 

Buck. (To Edith.) More good news! 
The war is, indeed, over now ! 

Barket. Whin Colonel Wist rode to the 
front to mate his raytrating rigiment — 

Buck. General Johnston has surrendered 
his army, also; and that, of course, does 
end the war. 

Edith. I 'm very glad that all the fighting 
is over. 

Buck. So am I; but my occupation, and 
old Barket's, too, is gone. Always at 
work on new clothes for our little sol- 
dier? 



Edith. He 's growing so, I can hardly 
make them fast enough for him. But 
this is the time for his afternoon nap. 
I must go now, to see if he is sleeping 
soundly. 

Buck. Our dear little mother! (Tapping 
her chin.) I alw'ays claim the privilege 
of my wliite hair, you know. (She puts 
up her lips; he kisses her. She goes 
out.) The sweetest young widow I ever 
saw! (Barket coughs. Buckthorn 
turns sharply; Barket salutes.) Well! 
What the devil are you thinking about 
now? 

Barket. The ould time, sur. Yer honor 
used to claim the same privilege for 
brown hair. 

Buck. You old rascal! What a memory 
you have ! You were telling me for the 
hundredth time about the battle of Cedar 
Creek ; go on. I can never hear it often 
enough. Kerchival West was a favorite 
of mine, poor fellow! 

Barket. Just afther the battle of Sayder 
Creek began, when the Colonel rode to 
the front to mate his raytrating rigi- 
ment — 

Buck. I '11 tell Old Margery to bring in 
tea for both of us, Barket. 

Barket. For both of us, sur? 

Buck. Yes; and later in the evening 
we '11 have something else, together. 
This is a great day for all of us. I'm 
not your commander to-day, but your 
old comrade in arms — (Laying his arm 
over Barket's shoulder) — and I 'm glad 
I don't have to pull myself up now every 
time I forget my dignity. Ah! you and 
I will be laid away before long, but we '11 
be together again in the next world, 
won't we, Barket? 

Barket. Wid yer honor's permission. 

(Saluting.) 

Buck. Ha — ha — ha! (Laughing.) If we 
do meet there, I 'm certain you '11 salute 
me as your superior officer. There 's 
old Margery, now. (Looking toward 
the door and calling.) Margery! Tea 
for two! 

Margery. (Without.) The tay be wait- 
ing for ye, sur; and it be boilin' over 
wid impatience. 

Buck. Bring up a chair, Barket. 

(Sitting down in the arm-chair.) 

Barket. (Having placed table and draw- 
ing up a chair.) Do j'ou know, Gineral, 
I don't fale quite aisy in my moind. 
I 'm not quite sure that Margery will let 
us take our tay together. 



BRONSON HOWARD 



567 



( Sits do wn, doub t fully. ) 

Buck. I hadn't thought of that. I — 
{Glancing to the right.) — I hope she will, 
Barket. But, of course, if she won't — 
she 's been commander-in-chief of my 
household ever since Jenny was a baby. 

Barket. At Fort Duncan, in Texas. 

Buck. You and Old Margery never got 
along very well in those days; but I 
thought you had made it all up; she 
nursed you through your wound, -last 
summer, and after the battle of Cedar 
Creek, also. 

Barket. Yis, sur, bliss her kind heart, 
she 's been like a wife to me ; and that 's 
the trouble. A man's wife is such an 
angel when he 's ill that he dreads to get 
well; good health is a misfortune to him. 
Auld Margery and I have had anither 
misunderstanding. 

Buck. I '11 do the best I can for both of 
us, Barket. You were telling me about 
the battle of — 

Barket. Just afther the battle of Sayder 
Creek began, whin Colonel Wist rode 
to the front to mate his raytrating rigi- 
ment — 

(Enter Old Margery, with a tea-tray. 
She stops abruptly, looking at Barket. 
He squirms in Ms chair. Buckthorn 
rises and stands with his hack to the 
mantel. Old Margery moves to the ta- 
ble, arranges things on it, glances at 
Barket, then at Buckthorn, who looks 
up at the ceiling, rubbing his chin. Old 
Margery takes up one of the cups, with 
saucer.) 

Old Marg. I misunderstood yer order, 
sur. I see there 's no one here but yer- 
self. (Going.) 

Buck. Ah, Margery! (She stops.) Bar- 
ket tells me that there has been a slight 
misunderstanding between you and him. 

Old Marg. Day before yisterday, the 
ould Hibernian dhrone had the kitchen 
upside down, to show anither old mili- 
thary vagabone loike himself how the 
battle of Sayder Creek was fought. He 
knocked the crame pitcher into the bas- 
ket of clane clothes, and overturned some 
raspberry jam and the flat-irons into a 
pan of fresh eggs. There has been a 
misunderstanding betwane us. 

Buck. I see there has. I suppose Barket 
was showing his friend how Colonel 
Kerchival West rode forward to meet 
his regiment, when he was already 
wounded dangerously. 



Old Marg. Bliss the poor, dear young 
man! He 'and I was always good 
frinds, though he was something of a 
devil in the kitchen himself, whin he got 
there. (Wiping her eye with one cor- 
ner of her apron.) And bliss the young 
Southern lady that was in love wid him, 
too. (Changing the cup and wiping the 
other eye with the corner of her apron.) 
Nothing was iver heard of ayther of 
thim after that battle was over, to this 
very day. 

Buck. Barket was at Kerchival's side 
when he rode to the front. (Old Mar- 
gery hesitates a moment, then moves to 
the table, sets down the cup and mar dies 
out. Buckthorn sits in the arm-chair 
again, pouring tea.) I could always 
find some way to get Old Margery to do 
what I wanted her to do. 

Barket. You're a great man, Gineral; 
we 'd niver have conquered the South 
widout such men. 

Buck. Now go on, Barket; you were in- 
terrupted. 

Barket. Just afther the battle of Sayder 
Creek began, whin — 

(Enter Jannette, with a card, which she 
hands to Buckthorn.) 

Buck. (Reading card.) Robert EUing- 
ham! (Rises.) I will go to him. [To 
Jannette.) Go upstairs and tell Miss 
Madeline to come down. 

Jannette. Yes, sir. (Going.) 

Buck. And, Jannette, simply say there is 
a caller; don't tell her who is here. 
(Exit Jannette. Buckthorn follows 
her out to the hall.) EUingham! My 
dear fellow! 

(Extending his hand and disappear- 
ing.) 

Barket. Colonel EUingham and Miss 
Madeline — lovers ! That 's the kind o' 
volunteers the country nades now! 

(Enter Buckthorn and Ellingham.) 

Buck. (As he enters.) We 've been fight- 
ing four years to keep you out of Wash- 
ington, Colonel, but we are delighted to 
see you within the lines, now. 

Elling. I am glad, indeed. General, to 
have so warm a welcome. But can you 
tell me anything about my sister, Ger- 
trude? 

Buck. About your sister? Why, can't 
you tell us? And have you heard noth- 
ing of Kerchival West on your side of 
the line? 



568 



SHENANDOAH 



Elltng. All I can tell you is this: As 
soon as possible after our surrender at 
Appomattox, I made my way to the 
Shenandoah Valley. Our home there is 
utterly deserted. I have hurried down 
to Washington in the hopes that I might 
learn something of you. There is no 
human being about the old homestead; 
it is like a haunted house — empty, and 
dark, and solitary. You do not even 
know where Gertrude is? 

Buck. We only know that Kerchival was 
not found among the dead of his own 
regiment at Cedar Creek, though he fell 
among them during the fight. The three 
girls searched the field for him, but he 
was not there. As darkness came on, 
and they were returning to the house, 
Gertrude suddenly seized the bridle of a 
stray horse, sprang upon its back and 
rode away to the South, into the woods 
at the foot of Three Top Mountain. 
The other two girls watched for her in 
vain. She did not return, and we have 
heard nothing from her since. 

Elling. Poor girl! I understand what 
was in her thoughts, and she was right. 
We captured fourteen hundred prison- 
ers that day, although we were defeated, 
and Kerchival must have been among 
them. Gertrude rode away, alone, in 
the darkness, to find him. I shall return 
to the South at once and learn where 
she now is. 

(Jannette has re-entered, down the 
stairs. ) 

Jannette. Miss Madeline will be down 
in a moment. {Exit in hall.) 

Barket. (Aside.) That name wint 
through his chist like a rifle ball. 

Buck. Will you step into the drawing- 
room. Colonel? I will see Madeline my- 
self, first. She does not even know that 
you are living. 

Elling. I hardly dared ask for her. Is 
she well? 

Buck. Yes; and happy — or soon will be. 

Elling. Peace, at last! 

{Exit to the apartment. Buckthorn 
closes the portieres.) 

Buck. I ought to prepare Madeline a lit- 
tle, Barket; you must help me. 

Barket. Yis, sur, I will. 

{Enter Madeline, down the stairs.) 

Madeline. Uncle! Jannette said you 
wished to see me; there is a visitor here. 
Who is it? 



Barket. Colonel Robert Ellingham. 
Mad. Ah! {Staggering.) 
Buck. {Supporting her.) You infernal 
idiot ! I '11 put you in the guard-house ! 
Barket. You wanted me to help ye, Gin- 

eral. 
Mad. Robert is alive — and here? 

{Rising from his arms, she moves to 
the portieres, holds them aside, 
peeping in; gives a joyful start, 
tosses aside the portieres and runs 
through. ) 
Buck. Barket ! There 's nothing but that 

curtain between us and Heaven. 
Barket. I don't like stayin' out o' Hiven, 
myself, sur. Gineral ! I '11 kiss Ould 
Margery — if I die for it! {Exit.) 

Buck. Kiss Old Margery ! I '11 give him 
a soldier's funeral. 

{Enter Jenny from hall, demurely.) 

Ah! Jenny, my dear! I have news for 
you. Colonel Robert Ellingham is in 
the drawing-room. 

Jenny. Oh! I am delighted. {Starting.) 

Buck. A-h-e-ml 

Jen. Oh! — exactly. I see. I have some 
news for you, papa. Captain Hearts- 
ease has arrived in Washington. 

Buck. Oh! My dear! I have often con- 
fessed to you how utterly mistaken I was 
about that young man. He is a soldier 
— as good a soldier as you are. I '11 ask 
him to the house. 

Jen. {Demurely.) He is here now. 

Buck. Now? 

Jen. He 's been here an hour ; in the 
library. 

Buck. Why! Barket and I were in the 
library fifteen minutes ago. 

Jen. Yes, sir. We were in the bay-win- 
dow; the curtains were closed. 

Buck. Oh ! exactly ; I see. You may tell 
him he has my full consent. 

Jen. He has n't asked for it. 

Buck. Has n't he ? And you 've been in 
the bay-window an hour? Well, my 
darling — I was considered one of the 
best Indian fighters in the old army, but 
it took me four years to propose to your 
mother. I '11 go and see the Captain. 

{Exit.) 

Jen. I wonder if it will take Captain 
Heartsease four years to propose to me. 
Before he left Washington, nearly two 
years ago, he told everj^body in the circle 
of my acquaintance, except me, that he 
was in love with me. I '11 be an old lady 
in caps before our engagement com- 



BRONSON HOWARD 



569 



mences. Poor, dear mother! The idea 
of a girl's waiting four years for a 
chance to say, "Yes." It 's been on the 
tip of my tongue so often, I 'm afraid 
it '11 pop out, at last, before he pops the 
question. 

{Enter Buckthorn and Heartsease from 
the hall.) 

Buck. Walk right in. Captain ; this is the 
family room. You must make yourself 
quite at home here. 

Heartsease. Thank you. 

{Walking down toward the right.) 

Buck. My dear! {Apart to Jenny.) 
The very first thing he said to me, after 
our greeting, was that he loved my 
daughter. 

Jen. Now he 's told my father ! 

Buck. He 's on fire ! 

Jen. Is he? {Looking at Heartsease, 
who stands quietly stroking his mus- 
tache.) Why doesn't he tell mef 

Buck. You may have to help him a little ; 
your mother assisted me. When you 
and Jenny finish your chat, Captain — 
{Lighting a cigar at the mantel) — you 
must join me in the smoking room. 

Heart. I shall be delighted. By the 
way, General — I have been in such a 
fever of excitement since I arrived at 
this house — 

Jen. (Aside.) Fever? Chills! 

Heart. That I forgot it entirely. I have 
omitted a very important and a very sad 
commission. I have brought with me 
the note-book of Lieutenant Frank Bed- 
loe — otherwise Haverill — in which Miss 
Gertrude EUingham wrote dow^n his last 
message to his young wife. 

Jen. Have you seen Gertrude? 

Buck. {Taking the book.) How did this 
note-book come into your possession? 

Heart. Miss EUingham visited the prison 
in North Carolina where I was detained. 
She was going from hospital to hospital, 
from prison to prison, and from burial- 
place to burial-place, to find Colonel 
Kerchival West, if living — or some rec- 
ord of his death. 

Buck. Another Evangeline! Searching 
for her lover through the wilderness of 
this great war! 

Heart. I was about to be exchanged at 
the time, and she requested me to bring 
this to her friends in Washington. She 
had not intended to carry it away with 
her. I was not exchanged, as we then 
expected, but I afterwards escaped from 



prison to General Sherman's Army. 

Buck. I will carry this long-delayed mes- 
sage to the widowed young mother. 

{Exit.) 

Jen. I remember so well, when poor 
Lieutenant Haverill took out the note- 
book and asked Gertrude to write for 
him. He — he brought me a message at 
the same time. 

{Their eyes meet. He puts up his 
glasses. She turns away, touching 
her eyes.) 

Heart. I — I remember the circumstances 
you probably allude to ; that is — when he 
left my side — I — I gave him my — I 
mean your — lace handkerchief. 

Jen. It is sacred to me! 

Heart. Y-e-s — I would say — is it? 

Jen. {Wiping her eyes.) It was stained 
with the life-blood of a hero! 

Heart. I must apologize to you for its 
condition. I hadn't any chance to have 
it washed and ironed. 

Jen. {Looking around at him, suddenly; 
then, aside.) What could any girl do 
with a lover like that? 

{Turning up the stage.) 

Heart. {Aside.) She seems to remem- 
ber that incident so tenderly! My blood 
boils ! 

Jen. Didn't you long to see your — your 
friends at home — when you were in 
prison. Captain? 

Heart. Yes — especially — I longed espe- 
cially. Miss Buckthorn, to see — 

Jen. Yes! — to see — 

Heart. But there were lots of jolly fel- 
lows in the prison. 

(Jenny turns away.) 

Heart. We had a dramatic society, and 
a glee club, and an orchestra. I was 
one of the orchestra. I had a banjo, 
with one string; I played one tune on 
it, that I used to play on the piano, with 
one finger. But, Miss Buckthorn, I am 
a prisoner again, to-night — your pris- 
oner. 

Jen. {Aside.) At last! 

Heart. I '11 show you how that tune went. 
{Turns to the piano and sits.) 

Jen. {Aside.) Father said I'd have to 
help him, but I don't see an opening. 
(Heartsease plays part of an air 
with one finger and strikes two or 
three ivrong notes.) 

Heart. There are two notes down there, 
somewliere, that I never could get right. 
The fellows in pi;ison used to dance 
while I played — {Playing) — that is, the 



570 



SHENANDOAH 



lame ones did; those that weren't lame 
could n't keep the time. 

Jen. You must have been in great dan- 
ger, Captain, when you escaped from 
X)rison. 

Heart. Y-e-s. I was badly frightened 
several times. One night I came face to 
face, on the road, with a Confederate 
Officer. It was Captain Thornton. 

Jen. Oh! What did you do? 

Heart. I killed him. {Very quietly, and 
trying the tune again at once. JEnter 
Jannette, from the hall; she glances 
into the room and goes up the stairs.) I 
used to skip those two notes on the banjo. 
It 's very nice for a soldier to come home 
from the war, and meet those — I mean 
the one particular person — that he — j^ou 
see, when a soldier loves a woman, as — 
as — 

Jen. {Aside.) As he loves me. 

{Approaches him.) 

Heart. As soldiers often do — {Plays; she 
turns away, petulantly ; he plays the 
tune through correctly.) That's it! 

Jen. {Aside.) I 'm not going to be made 
love to by piece-meal, like this, any 
longer. {Aloud.) Captain Heartsease! 
Have you anything in particular to say 
to me? {Re looks up.) 

Heart. Y-e-s. {Rising.) 

Jen. Say it! You told my father, and 
all my friends, that you were in love 
with me. Whom are you going to tell 
next? 

Heart. I am in love with you. 

Jen. It was my turn. 

Heart. {Going near to her.) Do you 
love me? 

Jen. {Laying her head quietly on his 
breast.) I must take time to consider. 

Heart. {Quietly.) I assume that this 
means ''Yes." 

Jen. It isn 't the way a girl says "No." 

Heart. My darling! 

Jen. Why! His heart is beating as fast 
as mine is! 

Heart. {Quietly.) 1 am frantic with 
joy. {He kisses her. She hides her 
face on his breast. Enter Mrs. Haver- 
iLL_, down-stairs, followed by Jannette. 
Mrs. Haverill stops suddenly. Jan- 
nette stands in the doorway. Hearts- 
ease inclines his head to her, quietly 
looking at her over Jknny.) I am de- 
lighted to see you, after so long an ab- 
sence; I trust that we shall meet more 
frequently liereafter. 

Jen. {Looking at him). Eh? 



Heart. {Looking down at her.) I think, 
perhaps, it might be as well for us to 
repair to another apartment, and con- 
tinue our interview, there! 

Jen. {Dropping her head on his breast 
again.) This room is very comfortable. 

Mrs. H. Jenny, dear! 

(Jenny starts up; looks from Mrs. 
Haverill to Heartsease.) 

Jen. Constance ! I — 'Bout face ! March ! 
{She turns and goes out.) 

Mrs. H. I am glad to see you again, Cap- 
tain, and happy as well as safe. 

Heart. Thank you, Madam. I am 

happy. If you will excuse me, I will 

join — my father — in the smoking-room. 

(Mrs. Haverill inclines her head, and 

Heartsease walks out.) 

Mrs. H. Jannette! You may ask Gen- 
eral Haverill to come into this room. 
{Exit Jannette. Mrs. Haverill walks 
down the stage, reading a note.) "I 
have hesitated to come to you person- 
ally, as I have hesitated to write to you. 
If I have been silent, it is because I could 
not bring my hand to w^rite what was in 
my mind and in my heart. I do not 
know that I can trust my tongue to 
speak it, but I will come." 

{Enter Haverill, from the hall; he stops.) 

Haver. Constance ! 

Mrs. H. My husband! May I call you 
husband? After all these months of 
separation, with your life in almost daily 
peril, and my life — what? Only a 
weary longing for one loving word — and 
you are silent. 

Haver. May I call you wife? I do not 
wish to speak that word except with^ 
reverence. You have asked me to come 
to you. I am here. I will be plain, 
direct and brief. Where is the portrait 
of yourself, which I gave you, in 
Charleston, for my son? 

Mrs. H. Your son is dead, sir; and my 
portrait lies upon his breast, in the 
grave. (Haverill takes the miniature 
from his pocket and holds it towards her 
in his extended hand. She starts back.) 
He gave it to you? And you ask me 
where it is? 

Haver. It might have lain in the grave of 
Kerchival West! 

Mrs. H. Ah! 

Haver, Not in my son's. I found it 
upon his breast. {She turns front, 
dazed.) Well! I am listening! It 
was not I that sought this interview^ 



BRONSON HOWARD 



571 



madam; and if you prefer to remain 
silent, I will go. You know, now, why 
I have been silent so long. 

Mrs. H. My only witnesses to the truth 
are both dead. I shall remain silent. 
{Turning towards Mm.) We stand be- 
fore each other, living, but not so happy 
as they. We are parted, forever. Even 
if you should accept my unsupported 
word — if I could so far forget my pride 
as to give it to you — suspicion would 
still hang between us. I remain silent. 
(Haverill looks at her, earnestly, for 
a moment , then approaches her.) 

Haver. I cannot look into your eyes and 
not see truth and loyalty there. Con- 
stance ! 

Mrs. H. No, John! (Checking him.) I 
will not accept your blind faith! 

(Moving.) 

Haver. (Looking down at the picture in 
his hand.) My faith is blind;, blind as 
my love ! I do not wish to see ! 

(Enter Edith. She stops and looks at 
Haverill. He raises his head and looks 
at her.) 

Edith. This is General Haverill? (Drop- 
ping her eyes.) I am Edith, sir. 

Haver. (Gently.) My son's wife. (Kisses 
her forehead.) You shall take the place 
he once filled in my heart. His crime 
and his disgrace are buried in a distant 
grave. 

Edith. And you have not forgiven him, 
even yet? 

Mrs. H. Is there no atonement for poor 
Frank's sin — not even his death? Can 
you only bury the wrong and forget the 



Haver. The good? 

Mrs. H. Your own words to the Govern- 
ment, as his commander! 

Haver. What do you mean? 

Mrs. H. "The victory of Cedar Creek 
would have been impossible without the 
sacrifice of this young officer." 

Haver. My own words, yes — but — 

Edith. "His name must take its place 
forever, in the roll of names which his 
countrymen honor." 

Haver. Lieutenant Bedloe! 

Mrs. H. Haverill! You did not know? 

Haver. My — son. 

Edith. You did not receive mother's let- 
ter?— after his death? 

Haver. My son! (Sinking upon a chair.) 
I left him alone in his grave, unknown; 
but my tears fell for him then, as they 



do now. He died before I reached him. 

Edith. Father! (Laying her hand gently 
on his shoulder.) You shall see Frank's 
face again. His little son is lying asleep 
upstairs ; and when he wakes up, Frank's 
own eyes will look into yours. I have 
just received his last message. I will 
read it to you. (She opens the note- 
hook and reads.) "Tell our little son 
how his father died, not how he lived. 
And tell her who filled my own mother's 
place so lovingly." {She looks at Mrs. 
Haverill, moves to her and hides her 
face in her bosom.) My mother! 

Mrs. H. Edith— my child! Frank loved 
us both. 

Edith. (Reading.) "Father's portrait of 
her, which she gave to me in Charleston 
— (Haverill starts) — helped me to be a 
better man." 

Haver. (Rising to his feet.) Constance! 

Edith. (Reading.) "It was taken from 
me in Richmond, and it is in the posses- 
sion of Captain Edward Thornton." 

Haver. One moment! Stop! Let me 
think! (Edith looks at him.) Thorn- 
ton was a prisoner — and to Kerchival 
West. A dispatch had been found upon 
him — he was searched! (He moves to 
her and takes both her hands in his own, 
bowing his head over them.) My head 
is bowed in shame. 

Mrs. H. Speak to me, John, as you used 
to speak ! Tell me you still love me ! 

Haver. The — the words will come — but 
they are — choking me — now. (He 
presses her hand to his lips.) 

Mrs. H. We will think no more of the 
past, except of what was bright in it. 
Frank's memory, and our own love, will 
be with us always. 

(Enter Buckthorn, followed by Hearts- 
ease. ) 

Buck. Haverill! You are back from the 
war, too. It begins to look like peace in 
earnest. 
Haver. Yes. Peace and home. 

(Shaking hands with him. Mrs. 
Haverill joins Edith.) 

(Enter Barket.) 

Barket. Gineral! (Buckthorn moves 
to him. Haverill joins Mrs. Haverill 
and Edith. Barket speaks apart, twist- 
ing one side of his face.) 1 kissed her! 

Buck. Have you sent for a surgeon? 

Barket. I felt as if the inimy had sur- 



572 



SHENANDOAH 



prised us agin, and Sheridan was sixty 
miles away. 

Haver. This is old Sergeant Barket. 
(Barket salutes.) You were the last 
man of us all that saw Colonel West. 

Barket. Just afther the battle of Sayder 
Creek began — whin Colonel Wist rode 
to the front to mate his retrayting rigi- 
ment — the byes formed in line, at sight 
of him, to raysist the victorious inimy. 
It was just at the brow of a hill — about 
there, sur — {pointing with his cane) and 
— here! {He takes the tray from the 
table and sets it on the carpet, then lays 
the slices of bread in a row.) That be 
the rigiment. {All are interested. 
Madeline and Ellingham enter, and 
look on. Barket arranges the two cups 
and saucers in a row.) That be the in- 
imy's batthery, sur. 

(Enter Margery. She goes to the table, 
then looks around, sharply at Barket.) 

Old Marg. Ye ould Hibernian dhrone! 
What are yez doin' wid the china on the 
floor? You'll break it all! 

Buck. Ah — Margery! Barket is telling 
us where he last saw Colonel Kerchival 
West. 

Old Marg. The young Colonel ! The tay- 
cups and saucers he's the inimy's bat- 
thery ? Yez may smash 'em, if ye loike ! 

Buck. Go on, Barket. 

(Jenny and Heartsease have entered, 
as Barket proceeds, the whole party 



lean forward, intensely interested. 
Gertrude enters in the hall, looks in, 
beckons as if to some one without, 
and Kerchival follows. They move 
to the center of the stage, back of 
the rest and listen unseen.) 

Barket. Just as the rigiment was ray- 
formed in line, and Colonel Wist wa?' 
out in front — widout any coat or hat, 
and wid only a shtick in his hand — we 
heard cheers in the rear. Gineral Sheri- 
dan was coming! One word to the men 
— and we swept over the batthery like a 
whirlwind! {Slashing his cane through 
the cups and saucers.) 

Old Marg. Hoo-roo ! 

Barket. The attack on the lift flank was 
cheeked. But when we shtopped to take 
breath. Colonel Wist was n't wid us. 
(Gertrude turns lovingly to Kerchival. 
He places his arm about her.) Heaven 
knows where he is now. Afther the bat- 
tle was over, poor Miss Gertrude wint 
off by hersilf into the wilderness to find 
him. 

Ker. My wife! You saved my life, at 
last. {Embracing her.) 

Barket. They '11 niver come together in 
this world. I saw Miss Gertrude, my- 
self, ride away into the woods and dis- 
appear behind a school-house on the bat- 
tle-field, over there. 

Gert. No, Barket — {All start and look) — 
it was the little church; we were married 
there this morning! 



SECRET SERVICE 

A DRAMA OF "tHE SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY' 

IN FOUR ACTS 

BY 

William Gillette 



copybight, 1898, by wiliiam gillette 
All Rights Reserved 

All rights reserved under the International Copyright Act. 
Performance forbidden and right of representation reserved. 
Applications for the right of performing this piece with amor 
teurs must he made to the publisher, Samuel French, New 
York. Applications for professional perform,ances must be 
made to Messrs. Sanger and Jordan, 1432 Broadway, New York. 

Reprinted by permission of Mr. Williamr Oillette and by 
special arrangement with Samuel French. 



SECRET SEEVICE 

Secret Service represents another phase of the Civil War from that por- 
trayed in Shenandoah. It is also the most representative play of its author. 
William Gillette was born at Hartford, Connecticut, July 24, 1855, the son of 
Francis Gillette, at one time Senator of the United States. At the beginning of 
his stage career, he took special courses at Harvard and Boston Universities and 
the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and as early as 1875, acted in 
Across the Continent at New Orleans. His first professional appearance was at 
the Globe Theatre, Boston, as ''Guzman" in Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady, 
September 15, 1875. After a number of stage successes, he produced his first 
play The Professor at the Madison Square Theatre, New York, June 1, 1881, in 
which he played "Professor Hopkins," and at the same theatre, on October 29, 
3881, his play Esmeralda, founded on a story of Mrs. Francis Hodgson Bur- 
nett, was first performed. On September 29, 1884, he appeared at the Comedy 
Theatre, New York, in Bigty's Secretary, adapted by him from Von Moser's 
Der BiUiothekar. The same night, Mr. A. M. Palmer brought out Mr. Charles 
Hawtrey's version of the same play, called The Private Secretary and a contest 
ensued. As Mr. Gillette had made the proper arrangements with the German 
playwright, while Mr. Hawtrey had not, a compromise resulted in his continu- 
ing his version, somewhat modified, under Mr. Palmer's management, under the 
title of The Private Secretary. 

His first Civil War play, Held hy the Enemy, was produced at the Criterion 
Theatre, Brooklyn on February 22, 1886, the part of ''Thomas Henry Beene" 
being taken by Mr. Gillette. It was afterward produced at the Madison Square 
Theatre, New York City, in August, 1886. The play is laid in the South, and has 
as its main interest the love of a Southern girl for a Northern soldier. It was 
acted at the Princess Theatre, London, April 2, 1887. A Legal Wreck, a play 
dealing with the life in a sea coast town in New England, was first played at the 
Madison Square Theatre, New York, August 14, 1888. All the Comforts of Home, 
an amusing farce comedy, adapted from the German, was produced at the Boston 
Museum, March 3, 1890, and next came Mr. Wilkinson's Widows, a similar type 
of play, depicting the complications consequent upon a man marrying two 
women, supposedly on the same day. Its first New York production was at Proc- 
tor's Theatre, March 30, 1891. Too Much Johnson, his next important play, a 
clever farce, was first produced in Holyoke, ]\Iassachusetts, October 25, 1894, 
and was put on at the Standard Theatre, New York City, November 26, 1894. 

575 



576 SECRET SERVICE 



For this play he borrowed from La Plantation Thomasin, by Maurice Ordonneau, 
the idea of the trip to a tropical island, but the main plot and the central char- 
acters were original. After a successful career in this country, Mr. Gillette ap- 
peared as "Augustus Billings" in this play in London, at the Garrick Theatre, 
April 18, 1898. In the meantime he had produced Secret Service, and a very 
successful farce comedy, Because She Loved Him So, from the French play. 
Jalousie, of Bisson and Leclerq, played first in New Haven, October 28, 1898. 
After a "tryout" at Wilkes-Barre and Buffalo, Sherlock Holmes was first put 
on in New York City at the Garrick Theatre, November 6, 1899, and after touring 
this country, Mr. Gillette began a long run in the title role at the Lyceum Theatre 
in London, on September 9, 1901. He next appeared in a one-act play. The 
Painful Predicament of Sherlock Holmes, on March 23, 1905, at the Metropolitan 
Opera House, New York City, and on September 13, 1905, at the Duke of York's 
Theatre in London, he played for the first time the character of "Dr. Carring- 
ton" in his comedy of Clarice. Returning to this country he toured in Clarice 
and then appeared at the Criterion Theatre, New York, October 19, 1908, in the 
character of "Maurice Brachard" in Samson, adapted by him from the French 
of Henri Bernstein. His last play. Electricity, produced first at the Park Thea- 
tre, Boston, September 26, 1910, was an attempt to make use of modern electrical 
devices in a farcical situation but was not successful. Other plays of Mr. Gillette 
of less significance are She (1887), Settled Out of Court (1892), Ninety Days 
(1893), The Red Owl (1907), That Little Affair of Boyd's (1908), Ticey (1908), 
The Rohher (1909), Among Thieves (1909). Mr. Gillette has continued his ca- 
reer on the stage, taking part in the all-star revival of Diplomacy in 1914-15 
and appearing in his own plays in 1915-16. 

Secret Service was first performed at the Broad Street Theatre, Philadel- 
phia, as The Secret Service, May 13, 1895. It was at first only moderately suc- 
cessful, but when it was put on at the Garrick Theatre, New York, October 5, 
1896, Mr. Gillette appearing in the character of "Lewis Dumont" for the first 
time, it was a pronounced success. The play ran until March 6, 1897, when it 
was taken to Boston and afterward on tour. On May 15, 1897, Mr. Gillette made 
his first appearance on the London stage at the Adelphi Theatre in this play, at 
the beginning of a run which lasted till August 4. The play was acted by Eng- 
lish companies afterward and a French version by Pierre Decourcelle was played 
at the Theatre de la Renaissance in Paris on October 2, 1897. During the season 
of 1915-16 Secret Service was revived with Mr. Gillette in the part of "Lewis 
Dumont." The exact number of performances up to the present day is 1791. 

In Secret Service, Mr. Gillette carried to its highest point the conception of 
a cool, resourceful man of action. This same character appears in serious situa- 
tions in Held by the Enemy and Sherlock Holmes, and in farcical situations in 
All the Comforts of Home and Too Much Johnson. It is the unifying quality in 



SECRET SERVICE 577 



Mr. Gillette 's work, and the form of realism which he has contributed to the stage 
in America is distinctly important and distinctly American. 

Esmeralda, Held hy the Enemy, Too Much Johnson, and Secret Service have 
been published by Samuel French and All the Comforts of Home by Dick 
and Fitzgerald. Electricity appeared in The Drama, for December, 1913, and 
will be reprinted shortly by Samuel French. A Legal Wreck has been pub- 
lished in novel form. For a lecture by Mr. Gillette ''On the Illusion of the 
First Time in Acting" see the publications of the Dramatic Museum of Colum- 
bia University, Series 2, Vol. 1, New York, 1915. 

For biographical details see Who's Who in the Theatre (1912), and for in- 
formation concerning the plays, Plays of the Present, by J. B. Clapp and E. F. 
Edgett, New York, 1902, to which the present editor acknowledges his indebted- 
ness, as also to the courtesy of Mr. Francis E. Reid, of the Empire Theatre. The 
editor, however, is indebted in the largest measure to Mr. Gillette himself who 
has furnished him accurate information concerning the dates and circumstances 
of production of the plays, much of which has hitherto been unavailable in print. 

For criticism see Norman Hapgood, The Stage in America, 1901, Chap. 3, 
pp. 61-79. 

The text has been revised with the greatest care by Mr. Gillette, and the al- 
terations have been so marked that this edition of Secret Service may almost be 
looked upon as a new creation. It represents, so far as is possible in print, the 
actual stage production as Mr. Gillette directs it. For this reason, although its 
form is different from that of the other plays in the volume, the editor has re- 
printed the manuscript exactly as Mr. Gillette prepared it, feeling sure that 
readers of the book will be interested in seeing the interpretation of his own work 
by a dramatist who is also an actor and stage director. 

For permission to use the text the editor is indebted to Mr. Gillette and to 
Samuel French. ^ 



AN EVENING IN RICHMOND DURING THE WxVR OF THE REBELLION AT A TIME 
WHEN THE NORTHERN FORCES WERE ENTRENCHED BEFORE THE CITY AND ENDEAV- 
ORING BY ALL POSSIBLE MEANS TO BREAK DOWN THE DEFENSES AND CAPTURE THE 
CONFEDERATE CAPITAL. 



DRAWING-ROOM AT 
ACT I GEN. VARNEYS HOUSE EIGHT O'CLOCK 

FRANKLIN" STREET 

ACT II THE SAME PLACE NINE O'CLOCK 

ACT in;^^r;,tl^;™; ten o'clock 

ACT IV ^rrHrs^t^Ar ELEVEN O'CLOCK 



WHILE NO SPECIAL EFFORT HAS BEEN MADE IN THE DIRECTION OF HISTORICAL AC- 
CURACY THE MANAGEMENT TAKES THE LIBERTY OF REMINDING THE PUBLIC THAT 
THE CITY OF RICHMOND AT THE TIME SET FORTH IN " SECRET SERVICE" WAS IN A 
STATE OF THE UTMOST EXCITEMENT AND CONFUSION. WOUNDED AND DYING WERE 
BEING BROUGHT IN FROM THE DEFENSES BY THE CAR-LOAD. CHURCHES, LIBRARIES 
AND PUBLIC BUILDINGS WERE CONVERTED INTO HOSPITALS. OWING TO THE SCARCITY 
OF SURGEONS AND MEDICAL ATTENDANTS WOMEN AND EVEN YOUNG GIRLS ASSISTED 
AT THE DRESSING OF WOUNDS AND NURSED THE SUFFERERS DAY AND NIGHT. OTHER 
WOMEN WERE OCCUPIED SEWING COARSE AND HEAVY SAND BAGS FOR THE STRENGTH- 
ENING OF THE FORTIFICATIONS. STRICT MILITARY DISCIPLINE WAS IMPOSSIBLE. 
COURTS MARTIAL IF HELD AT ALL WERE COMPOSED OF ANY AVAILABLE MATERIAL, 
EVEN PRIVATE CITIZENS SERVING IP NECESSARY. Tl^QOPS WERE BEING HURRIED I^ 
FROM THE SOUTH AND NO CAREFUL SCRUTINY WAS ATTEMPTED. THIS MADE IT POS- 
SIBLE FOR MANY NORTHERN SECRET SERVICE MEN TO ENTER THE CITY AND REMAIN 
THERE IN VARIOUS DISGUISES. IN THE MIDST OF THIS TROUBLE A BRAVE ATTEMPT 
AT GAYETY WAS KEPT UP CHIEFLY BY THE YOUNG PEOPLE — IN A DESPERATE EN- 
DEAVOR TO DISTRACT THEIR MINDS FROM THE TERRIBLE SITUATION. THERE WERE 
DANCES AND *' STARVATION PARTIES" SO CALLED BECAUSE OF THE NECESSARILY LIM- 
ITED FARE PROVIDED, AND THE BOOMING OF THE GREAT SIEGE GUNS OFTEN SOUNDED 
ABOVE THE STRAINS OF A DREAMY WALTZ OR THE LIVELY BEAT OF A POLKA. 



CAST OF CHAEACTERS 

Garrick Theatre, New York, October 5, 1896. 

General Nelson Randolph, commanding in Richmond . . Mr. Joseph Brennan 
Mrs. General Varney, wife of a Confederate officer of high 

rank Miss Ida Waterman 

Edith Varney, her daughter Miss Amy Busby 

Wilfred Varney, her youngest son Mr. Walter Thomas 

Caroline Mitford, from across the street Miss Odette Tyler 

Lewis Dumont, United States Secret Service — known in Richmond 

as Captain Thorne jMr. AVilliam Gillette 

Henry Dumont, United States Secret Service — Lewis Dumont 's 

brother Mr. ]\I. L. Alsop 

Mr. Benton Arrelsford, Confederate Secret Service Mr. Campbell Gollan 

Miss Kittridge, sewing for the hospitals Miss Meta Brittain 

Martha, negro house servant Miss Alice Leigh 

Jonas, negro house servant Mr. H. D. James 

Lieut. Maxwell, President 's detail ]\Ir. Francis Neilson 

Lieut. Foray, first operator military telegraph lines Mr. William B. Smith 

Lieut. Allison, second operator military telegraph lines .... Mr. Louis Duval 
Lieut. Tyree, artillery 
Lieut. Ensing, artillery. 

Sergeant Wilson Mr. I. N. Drew 

Sergeant Ellington Mr. Henry Wilton 

Corporal Matson Mr. H. A. Morey 

Cavalry Orderly 
Artillery Orderly 
Hospital IMessenger 
First War Dept. Messenger 
Second War Dept. Messenger 
Third War Dept. Messenger 
Fourth War Dept. IMessenger 
Telegraph Office Messenger A 
Telegraph Office Messenger B 
Eddinger 



SECRET SERVICE 



ACT I 

The Scene is a drawing-room in General 
Varney's House on Franklin Street in 
Richmond. 

Eight o'Clock. 

A riclily furnished room. — Southern char- 
acteristics. 

Fireplace on the left side. A wide door or 
arch up L. or L. C. set diagonally, open 
to a front hall. The portieres on this 
door or arch draw, completely closing 
the opening. A stairway is seen through 
this door or arch, in the hall, at the hack, 
ascending from a landing a few steps 
high hack of the center of the opening, 
and rising off to the left. Entrance to 
the front hall — which communicates witli 
other parts of the house, or via front 
door to the street, is off L. helow stairs. 
Entrance to the dining-room and kitchen 
off B. helow stairs. Both of these open-^ 
ings are hack of the wide door or arch 
up L. CJ- A wide door up C. opens to 
a hack parlor which is heing used for 
women who come, there to sew and work 
for hospitals. In elahorate production, 
when the doors are opened, these wome^i 
are seen in the room at the hack, seated 
at tahles luorking. Two double French 
ivmdows on the right side, one up stage 
set ohlique, and one down, hoth opening 
to a wide veranda. There is shruhbery 
heyond the veranda and vines on the 
halustrade and the posts of the veranda — 
which must he in the line of sight for the 
whole house outside the upper of these 
two windows. Both these windows are 
"French,^' extending down to the floor, 
and opening and closing on hinges. They 
also have curtains or draperies which can 
easily he drawn to cover them. Below 
the window down R. a writing desk and 
a chair. Between these icindows stand 
a pedestal and a vase of flowers to he 
knocked over hy Thorne in Act IV. 
A chair near the pedestal. A chair and 

1 Entrances and exits marked "Up L. C. to L." 
and "Up L. C. to R." indicate to front hall, or to 
door to dining room and back of house, respec- 
tively; and "Up L. C. from L." and "Up L. C. 
from R." indicate coming from front hall or from 
dining room, respectively. 



a cabinet R. of C. door against wall. 
Table up C. or trifle L. of C, on which 
is a lamp and vase of flowers. Couch 
down R. C. Small table and two chairs 
L. C. Chair each side of the fireplace 
at the left. Hall seat in the hall. Ped- 
estal and statue on the landing in the 
hall. Dark or nearly dark outside the 
windows R. with moonlight effect. The 
lights are on in the hall outside the door 
up left and in the room up center hut 
are not glaring. The light in the room 
itself is full on hut is shaded so that it 
gives a subdued effect. No fire is in the 
fireplace. The portieres on both windows 
closed at the rise. Windows are closed 
at the rise. 

[At the rise of the curtain low distant boom 
of cannonading rolls in the distance and 
quiets down — then is heard again.] 

[Miss Kittridge, one of the women who 
are sewing for the hospitals, enters C. D. 
and comes down C. a little. She stops, 
listens to the sound of cannon with, some 
anxiety, — and crosses to the window up 
R. and looks out. Flashes on her face. 
She turns and goes down toward the table 
at the left. She gatJiers up the pieces of 
cloth and linen rags that are on the table. 
Looks toward the window again. Then 
she takes the cloth off at the door up C, 
closing it carefidly after her.] 

[Sound of a heavy door closing outside up 
Left.] 

[Enter at the door tip L. C. from L. Wil- 
fred Varney, a hoy of about sixteen — 
impetuous — Southern — -black-eyed — dark 
hair. He is fairly well dressed, hut in a 
suit that has evidently been worn for 
some time, and of a dark shade. He 
comes rapidly into the room, looking 
about. Goes to the door ivhich he opens 
a little way and looks off. Closes it, goes 
to ivindow up R. Throws open the por- 
tieres and windows and looks anxiously 
off. Red flashes on hacking. Distant 
boom and low thunder of cannon.] 

[Enter Martha, an old negro servant, 
through the door at the foot of the stairs. 
Wilfred^ turning, sees her, and crosses 
toward her.] 



581 



582 



SECRET SERVICE 



Wilfred. Where's Mother? 
Martha. She 's up staai's with Mars How- 
ard sah. 
Wilfred. I 've got to see 'er ! 
Martha. Mars Howard he's putty bad 
dis ebenin' — I dunno 's she 'd want to 
leave 'im — I '11 go up an' see what she 
says. 

[Exit door up L. and up the stairway.] 
[Wilfred, left alone, moves restlessly 
about, especially when low rumble 
of distant cannon is heard. Effect 
of passing artillery in the street out- 
side. — On hearing it he hurries to 
the window and looks out, continuing 
to do so while the sounds of the 
passing guns, horses and men are 
heard. While he is at the window 
B., Mrs. Vaeney enters, coming 
down the stairway and on at door 
U. L. C. She is quiet, pale, with 
white or nearly white hair and a 
rather young face. Her dress is 
black and though rich, is plain. Not 
in the least "dressy" or fashion- 
able. — In manner she is calm and 
self-possessed. She stops and looks 
at Wilfred a moment. — He turns 
and sees her. — Martha follows her 
down the stairway and exits door at 
foot of the stairway.] 
Wilfred. [Goes toward Mrs. Varney.] 

Howard isn't worse is he? 
Mrs. Varney. [Meeting Wilfred near c] 

I 'm afraid so. 
Wilfred. Anything I can do? 
Mrs. Varney. [Shakes head] No — no. — 
We can only wait — and hope. [Wil- 
fred walks away a little as if he could 
not quite say the thing on his mind] 
I 'm thankful there 's a lull in the can- 
nonading. Do they know why it stopped? 
[Boom of cannon — a low distant rum- 
ble] 
Wilfred, [r. c] It hasn't stopped al- 
together — don't you hear? 
Mrs. Varney. [c] Yes, but compared 
to what it was yesterday — you know it 
shook the house. Howard sulfered 
dreadfully! [Wilfred suddenly faces 
her] 
Wilfred. So did I, Mother! [Slight 

pause] [Loiu boom of cannon] 
Mrs. Varney. You! 

Wilfred. When I hear those guns and 
know the fighting 's on, it makes 

me 

Mrs. Varney. [Goes toiuard table l. c. 
Interrupting quickly] Y'es yes — we all 



suffered — we all suffered dear! [Sits R. 
of table L. c] 

Wilfred. Mother — you may not like it 
but you must listen — [Going toward her] 
— you must let me tell you how 

Mrs. Varney. Wilfred ! [He stops speak- 
ing. — She takes his hand in hers ten- 
derly. — A brief pause] I know. 

Wilfred. [Low pleading voice] But it's 
true Mother ! I can't stay back here any 
longer ! It 's worse than being shot to 
pieces! I can't do it! [Mrs. Varney 
looks steadily into Wilfred's face but 
says nothing. Soon she turns away a 
little as if she felt tears coming into her 
eyes] Why don't you speak? 

Mrs. Varney. [Turning to him. A faint 
attempt to smile] I don't know what to 
say. 

Wilfred. Say you won't mind if I go 
down there and help 'em ! 

Mrs. Varney. It would n't be true : 

Wilfred. I can't stay here! 

Mrs. Varney. You 're so young ! 

Wilfred. No younger than Tom Kittridge 
— no younger than Ell Stuart — nor cousin 
Stephen — nor hundreds of the fellows 
fighting down there I — See Mother — 
they 've called for all over eighteen — that 
was weeks ago ! The seventeen call may 
be out any minute — the next one after 
that takes me! Do I want to stay back 
iiere till they order me out! I should 
think not! [Walks about to G. Stops 
and speaks to Mrs. Varney] If I was 
hit with a shell an' had to stay it would 
be different ! But I can't stand this — I 
can't do it Mother! 

Mrs. Varney. [Rising and going to him] 
I '11 write to your Father. 

Wilfred. Why that '11 take forever ! You 
don't know where his Division is — they 
change 'em every day! I can't wait for 
you to write. 

Mrs. Varney. [Speaks finally] I could n't 
let you go without his consent! You 
must be patient ! [Wilfred starts slowly 
across toward door L. witli head lowered 
in disappointment, — but not ill-naturedly. 
Mrs. Varney looks yearningly after him 
a moment as he moves away, then goes 
toward him] Wilfred! [Wilfred 
turns and meets her and she holds 
him and smooths his hair a little 
with her hand] Don't feel bad that 
you have to stay here with your mother 
a little longer! 

Wilfred. Aw — no it isn't that! 

Mrs. Varney. Darling boy — I know it I 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



583 



You want to fight for your country — and 
I 'm proud of you ! I want my sons to 
do their duty! But with your father 
commanding a brigade at the front and 
one boy lying wounded — perhaps mor- 
tally — [Pause. — Mrs. Varney turns 
and moves aicay a few steps toward R.] 

Wilfred. [After pause — goes to her] 
You will write to Father to-night — ^won't 
you"? 

Mrs. Varney. Yes — yes ! I '11 write to 
him. [Door hell is heard ringing in dis- 
tant part of the house. — Wilfred and 
Mrs. Varney both listen. — Martha en- 
ters up L. c. from R. and crosses outside 
door up L. c. on her way to the front 
door, going off up l. to l. — Heavy sound 
of door off up L. — In a moment she re- 
turns up L. from L. and stands in the 
wide doorway up l. c] 

Martha. Hit's one o' de men fum de 
hossiple ma'am. [Wilfred hurries to 
door up l. and exits to L. to see the mes- 



Mrs. Varney. We 've just sent all the 
bandages we have Martha. 

Martha. He says dey's all used up, an' 
two more trains juss come in crowded 
full o' wounded sojers — an' mos' all of 
'em drefful bad! 

Mrs. Varney. Is Miss Kittridge here yet 1 

Martha. Yass 'm, she 's yeah. 

Mrs. Varney. Ask her if they 've got 
enough to send. Even if it 's only a lit- 
tle let them have it. What they need 
most is bandages. 

Martha. [Crossing toward door up c] 
Yaas 'm. [Exits door up c. — Mrs. Var- 
ney goes toward the door up L. c. Stops 
near the door and speaks a word to Mes- 
senger who is waiting at front door out- 
side to L. to attract his attention — then 
beckons him] 

Mrs. Varney. Oh — [Beckoning] Come 
in please! [She moves toward c. — Mes- 
senger appears at the door up L. c. from 
L. He is a crippled soldier in battered 
Confederate uniform. His left arm is in 
a sling] What hospital did you come 
from'? 

Messenger. [Bemains up near door up 
L. c] The Winder ma'am. 

Mrs. Varney. Have you been to St. 
Paul's? You know the ladies are work- 
ing there to-night. 

Messenger. Yes — but they hain't a-work- 
in' for the hospitals, ma'am — they 're 
a-making of sandbags for the fortifica- 
tions. 



Mrs. Varney. I do hoj)e we can give you 
something. 

Messenger. Yes ma'am. [Miss Kitt- 
ridge enters at door up c. bringing a 
small bundle of lint, etc. — Mrs. Varney 
moves doivn and soon seats herself on 
couch down R. c] 

Miss Kittridge. This is all there is now. 
[She hands the package to the Messen- 
ger] If you '11 come back in an hour 
we'll have more. [Messenger takes 
package and exits at door up L. c. to l. — 
Sound of heavy door closing outside up 
L.] We 're all going to stay to-night, 
Mrs. Varney. There 's so many more 
wounded come in it won't do to stop now. 

Mrs. Varney. [On couch] No no — we 
mustn't stop. 

Miss Kittridge. [Near c] Is — is your 
son — is there any change ■? 

Mrs. Varney. I'm afraid the fever's in- 
creasing. 

Miss Kittridge. Has the Surgeon seen 
him this evening*? 

Mrs. Varney. No — oh no ! [Shaking her 
head] We could n't ask him to come 
twice — with so many waiting for him at 
the hospital. 

Miss Kittridge. But they could n't refuse 
you Mrs. Varney ! — There 's that man go- 
ing right back to the hospital ! I '11 call 
him and send word that — [Starting to- 
ward the door up L.] 

Mrs. Varney. [Bises] No no — I can't 
let you! 

[Miss Kittridge stops and turns to 
Mrs. Varney in surprise] 

Miss Kittridge. Not for — ^j^our own son*? 

Mrs. Varney. Think how many own sons 
must be neglected to visit mine twice ! 
[Sound of door outside up l. — Enter 
Edith Varney at door up l. c. from 
L. — a light quick entrance — coming 
from outside — hat in hand as if tak- 
ing it off as she comes in] 

Mrs. Varney. [Meeting Edith] Edith 
dear ! How late you are ! You must be 
tired to death ! 

Edith. Oh no I'm not! — Besides, I 
have n't been at the hospital all day. 
Good-bye Miss Kittridge — I want to tell 
Mama something. 

Miss Kittridge. dear! [Turning up] 
I '11 get out of hearing right quick ! 
[Goes out at door up c] 

Edith. [Up to door lightly and calling 
after Miss Kittridge] I hope you don't 
mind ! 

Miss Kittridge. [As she exits up c] 



684 



SECRET SERVICE 



Mercy no — I should think not! [Edith 
closes the door and goes to Mrs. Varney 
taking her down stage to chair r. of 
table L. c. — Mrs. Varney sits in chair 
and Edith on stool close to her on her h., 
in front of the table] 

Edith. Mama — what do you think? What 
do you think? 

Mrs. Varney. What is it dear? 

Edith. I 've been to see the President ! 

Mrs. Varney. Mr. Davis! 

Edith. Um hm! [Assent] An' I asked 
him for an appointment for Captain 
Thorne on the War Department Tele- 
g-raph Service — an' he gave it to me — a 
Special Commission Mama — appointing 
him to duty here in Richmond — a very 
important position — so now he won't 
have to be sent back to the front — an' 
it '11 be doing his duty just the same! 

Mrs. Varney. But Edith — ^you don't 

Edith. Yes it will, Mama! The Presi- 
dent told me they needed a man who mi- 
derstood telegraphing and who was of 
high enough rank to take charge of the 
Service! And you know Cap'n Thorne 
is an expert ! Since he 's been here in 
Richmond he 's helped 'em in the tele- 
graph office over an' over again — Lieu- 
tenant Foray told me so ! [Mrs. Varney 
sloicly rises and moves away toward c. — 
After a slight pause] Now Mama, 
you 're going to scold an' behave dread- 
fully — an' you must n't — because it 's all 
fixed — an' there 's no trouble — an' the 
commission '11 be sent over here in a few 
minutes — just as soon as it can be made 
out ! An' the next time he comes I 'm to 
hand it to him myself! [Turiis l. 
a7id moves away a little beyond the table 
L. c] 

Mrs. Varney, [Moves back toward table 
L. c] He 's coming this evening. 

Edith. [Turns quickly at down l. and 
looks at Mrs. Varney an instant before 
speaking — then in low voice] How do 
you know? 

Mrs. Varney. [Moving toward table l. c] 
This note came half an hour ago. 
[Reaching toward the note to get it for 
Edith. — Edith however sees the note in- 
stantly, and impulsively snatches it and 
goes toward r. with it] 

Edith. Has it been here — all this time? 
[Takes note from the already opened en- 
velope as she pauses near c. and eagerly 
glances at it] 

Mrs. Varney. [After a moment] You 
sje what he says — this '11 be his last call. — 



He 's got his orders to leave. [Sits R. of 
table L. c] 

Edith. [Sitting on couch r. c] Why it 's 
too ridiculous! Just as if the Commis- 
sion from the President would n't super- 
sede everything! It puts him at the 
head of the Telegraph Service! He'll 
be in the command of the Department ! — 
He says — [Glancing at note] '"good-by 
call" does he! All the better— it'll be 
that much more of a surprise. [Rising 
and going toward Mrs. Varney] Now 
Mama, don't you breathe — I want to tell 
him myself! 

Mrs. Varney. But Edith dear— I don't 
quite approve of your going to the Presi- 
dent about this. 

Edith. [Changing from light manner 
to earnestness] But listen. Mama — I 
could n't go to the War Department peo- 
ple — Mr. Arrelsford 's there in one of 
the offices — and ever since I refused him 
you know how he 's treated me ! — 
[Slight deprecatory motion from MiSS 
Varney] If I 'd applied for the ap- 
pointment there he 'd have had it re- 
fused — and he 'd have got them to order 
Cap'n Thorne away right off — I know he 
would — and — [Stands motionless as she 
til inks of it] That 's where his orders to 
go came from! 

Mrs. Varney. But my dear 

Edith. It is, Mama! [Slight pause] 
Is n't it lucky I got that commission to- 
day ! [Emphasis on "Is n't." — Crossing 
down R. — at R. c. near lounge] [Door 
bell lings in distant part of the house. — 
Jonas appears above door up l. c. from 
R. and goes off l. to front door. — Mrs. 
Varney moves up stage a little waiting 
to see who it is. — Edith listening.—^ 
Heavy sound of door closing outside up 
L. — Jonas eyiters at the door up l. c. 
from L.] 

Jonas. [Coming down r. of Mrs. Var- 
ney] It 's a officer, ma'am. He saj^s 
he's fum de President — an' — [Hands a 
card to Mrs. Varney] he's got ter see 
Miss Edith pussonully. 

Edith. [Going up c. a little. — Low voice] 
It 's come, Mama ! 

Mrs. Varney. [Rises and goes up c] 
Ask the gentleman in. [Jonas exits at 
door up L. c. to L. — Mrs. Varney gives 
Edith the card] 

Edith. [After a glance at the card] Oh 
yes! 

Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Do you know 
who it is? 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



585 



Edith. [Low voice] No ! But he 's from 
the President so it must be the Commis- 
sion! 

[Enter Jonas at door up l. c. from L. He 
comes on a little way, bowing someone 
in] 

[Enter Lieut. Maxwell at door up l. c. 
from L. — He is a very dashing young 
officer, handsome, polite and dressed. in a 
showy and perfectly fitting uniform. — 
Jonas exits at door up l. c. to r. — Mrs. 
Varney advances a little] 

Lieut. Maxwell. Good evening. [Bow- 
ing] [Mrs. Varney hows slightly. — To 
Mrs. Varney] Have I the honah of ad- 
dressing- Miss Varney'? 

Mrs. Varney. [c] I am Mrs. Varney, 
sir. [Emphasizing "Mrs." a little] 

Lieut. Maxwell, [l. c. — Bowing to Mrs. 
, Varney] Madam — I 'm very much 
afraid this looks like an intrusion on my 
part, but I come from the President and 
he desires me to see Miss Varney person- 
ally! 

Mrs. Varney. [Inclining her head gra- 
ciously] Anyone from the President 
could not be otherwise than welcome. — 
This is my daughter. [Indicating Edith 
who is R. c] 

(Lieut. Maxwell hows to Edith and 
she returns the salutation. He then 
walks across to her, taking a large 
brown envelope from his belt] 

Lieut. Maxwell. Miss Varney, the Presi- 
dent directed me to deliver this into your 
hands — with his compliments. [Handing 
the envelope to Edith] He is glad to 
be able to do this not only at your re- 
quest, but as a special favor to your fa- 
ther, General Varney. 

Edith. [Taking envelope] Oh thank 
you! 

Mrs. Varney. Won't you be seated, Lieu- 
tenant <? 

Edith. [In front] yes — do! [Holds 
envelope pressed very tight against her 
side] 

Lieut. Maxwell. Nothing would please 
me so much I assure you — but I 'm com- 
pelled to be back at the President's house 
right away — I 'm on duty this evening. — 
Would you mind writing me off a line or 
two Miss Varney — just to say you have 
the communication'? 

Edith. Why certainly! — [Takes a step or 
two toward desk at right] You want a 
receipt — I — [Stops hesitating — then turns 



and crosses^ toward door up L.] I'll go 
upstairs to my desk — it won't take a min- 
ute! [Turns at door] And — could I 
put in how much I thank the President 
for his kindness"? 

Lieut. Maxwell, [c] I'm very sure 
he 'd be more than pleased ! [Edith 
exits at door up L. c. and hastens up the 
stairway] 

Mrs. Varney. [Moving forward slowly] 
We have n't heard so much cannonading 
to-day. Lieutenant. Do they know what 
it means'? 

Lieut. Maxwell. [Going forward with 
Mrs. Varney] I don't think they're 
quite positive ma'am, but they can't help 
lookin' for a violent attack to follow. 

Mrs. Varney. I don't see why it should 
quiet down before an assault! 

Lieut. Maxwell. [Near c] It might be 
some signal, ma'am, or it might be they 're 
moving their batteries to open on a spe- 
cial point. They 're tryin' ev'ry way to 
break through our defenses — ev'ry way 
they know ! 

[Boor hell rings in distant part of 
house] 

Mrs. Varney. It 's very discouraging ! 
[Seats herself R. of table l. c] We can't 
seem to drive them back this time ! 

Lieut. Maxwell. No ma'am, but we're 
holding 'em where they are ! They 're no 
nearer, now than they were six weeks ago, 
an' they '11 never get in unless they do it 
by some scurvy trick — that 's where the 
danger lies ! [Heavy sound of door out- 
side up L.] 

[Enter Edith coming lightly and quickly 
down the stairway up L.] 

Edith. [Entering at door up l. c. from 
stairivay, with a note in her hand, and 
ivithout the official envelope, which she 
has left in her room] Is Lieutenant Max- 
well — [Seeing him down stage with Mrs. 
Varney and going across toward him] 
yes! 

[Lieut. Maxwell moves up r. c. meet- 
ing Edith] 

[Jonas enters at door up l. c. from l. as 
Edith reaches c, showing in Captain 
Thorne] 

Jonas. [As he enters and stands hack for 
Thorne to pass] Will you jess kinely 
step dis way suh ! 

[Mrs. Varney rises and moves down 
in front of and then up L. of table. — 
Maxwell meets Edith up r. c] 



586 



SECRET SERVICE 



Edith. [Meeting Maxwell up r. c] I 
did ii't know but you — [-67ie stops — hear- 
ing Jonas up l. — and quickly turns, look- 
ing off L.] Oh! — Captain Tliorne! 

[Enter Captain Thorxe at door up l. c. 
from L., meeting and shaking hands with 
Edith up l. c. — Thorne wears the uni- 
form of a Confederate Captain of Artil- 
lery. It is somewhat ivorn and soiled. 
Lieut. Maxwell turned and moved up 
a little on Edith's entrance, remaining a 
little R. of c. — Jonas exits door up l. c. 
to R.] 

Edith. [Up l. c. — Giving Thorne her 
hand briefly] We were expecting you ! — 
Here *s Captain Thorne, mama ! 

[Mrs. Varney moves up l. c. meeting 
Thorne and shaking hands with him 
graciously. — Edith turns away and 
goes to Lieut. Maxwell up r. c. — 
Thorne and Mrs. Varney move up 
C. near small table and converse] 
Edith, [r. c] I wasn't so very long 
writing it, was I Lieutenant? [She 
hands Lieut. Maxwell tlie note] 
Lieut. Maxwell, [r. c] I 've never seen 
a quicker piece of work, Miss Varney. 
[Putting the note in belt or pocket] 
When you want a clerkship ovah at the 
Government offices you must shorely let 
me know ! 
Edith. [Smilingly] You 'd better not 
commit yourself — I might take you at 
your word ! 
Lieut. Maxwell. Nothing would please 
me so much I 'm sure ! All you 've got to 
do is just to apply! 
Edith. Lots of the girls are doing it — 
they have to, to live ! Are n't there a 
good many where you are'? 
Lieut. Maxwell. Well we don't have so 
many as they do over at the Treasury. I 
believe there are more ladies there than 
men! 
Mrs. Varney. [Comes down a little] 
Perhaps you gentlemen have met ! — 
[Glancing toward Lieut. Maxwell and 
hack to Thorne] 

[Thorne shakes head a little and takes 
a step forward l. c. facing Max- 
well] 
Mrs. Varney. [Introducing] Cap'n 

Thome — Lieutenant Maxwell. 
Thorne. [Slight inclination of head] 

Lieutenant. 
Lieut. Maxwell. [Returning bow pleas- 
antly] I have n't had that pleasure — 



though I 've heard the Cap'n's name men- 
tioned several times! 

Thorne. Yes? [Mrs. Varney awrf Edith 
are looking at Maxwell] 

Lieut. Maxwell. [As if it were rather 
amusing] In fact, Cap'n, there 's a gen- 
tleman in one of our offices who seems 
mighty anxious to pick a fight with 
you! 

[Edith is suddenly serious and a look 
of apprehension spreads over Mrs. 
Varney's face] 

Thorne. [Easily] Pick a fight ! Really ! 
Why what office is that, Lieutenant? 

Lieut. Maxwell. [Slightly annoyed] 
The War Office, sir! 

Thorx^e. Oh dear ! I did n't suppose you 
had anybody in the War Office who 
wanted to fight ! 

Lieut. Maxwell. [Almost angry] An' 
why not, sir? 

Thorne. [Easily] Well he'd hardly be 
in an office would he — at a time like "this? 

Lieut. Maxwell. [Trying to be light 
again] I 'd better not tell him that, 
Cap'n — he'd certainly insist on havin' 
you out! 

Thorne. [Moving down L. c. with Mrs. 
Varney] That would be too bad — to in-, 
terfere with the gentleman's office hours! 
[Thorne and Mrs. Varney move down 
L. c. near table — in conversation] 

Lieut. Maxwell. [To Edith] He doesn't 
believe it Miss Varney, — but it 's certainly 
true, an' I dare say you know who the 

Edith. [Quickly interrupting Maxwell — 
low voice] Please don't Lieutenant! — 
I — [An apprehensive glance toward 
Thorne] I 'd rather not — [With a slight 
catch of breath] — talk about it! 

Lieut. Maxwell. [After short pause of^ 
surprise] Yes, of course! — I didn't J 
know there was any I 

Edith. [Interrupting again, with attempt 
to turn it off] Yes! [A rather nervous 
effort to laugh lightly] — You know 
there 's always the weather to fall back 
on ! 

Lieut. Maxwell. [Picking it up easily] 
Yes — an' mighty bad weather too — most 
of the time! 

Edith. [Laughingly] Yes — is n't it ! 
[They laugh a little and go on talking 
and laughing to themselves, moving to- 
ward R. upper window for a moment and 
soon move across toward door up L. as 
if Maxwell were going] 

Mrs. Varney. [Back of table l. c, r. of 
Thorne] From your note Captain 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



587 



Tliorne, I suppose you 're leaving us 
soon. Your orders have come. 

Thorne. [Back of table l.c. — l. of Mrs. 
Varxey] Yes — Mrs. Varney, they have. 
— I 'm very much afraid this '11 be my last 
call. 

Mrs. Varney. Is n't it rather sudden *? It 
seems to me they ought to give you a 
little time. 

Thorne. [Slight smile] We have to be 
ready for anything you know! 

Mrs. Varney. [With a sigh] Yes — I 
know ! — It 's been a great pleasure to 
have you drop in on us while you were 
here. We shall quite miss your visits. 

Thorne. [A slight formality in manner] 
Thank you Mrs. Varney — I shall never 
forget what they 've been to me. 

[Maxwell is taking leave of Edith 
up c] 

Edith. [Up c] Lieutenant Maxwell is 
going, Mama ! 

Mrs. Varney. So soon! Excuse me a 
moment, Captain ! [Goes hurriedly to- 
ward Maxwell. — Thorne goes doivn l. 
of table l. c. 7zear mantel] 1 'm right 
sorry to have you hurry away, Lieu- 
tenant. We shall hope for the pleasure 
of seeing you again, [r. of Maxwell] 

Lieut. Maxwell. I shall certainly call, 
Mrs. Varney — if you '11 allow me. — 
[Crosses toward door] — Cap'n ! [Salut- 
ing Thorne from near door up l.] 

Thorne. [Turning from mantel. Half 
salute] Lieutenant ! 

Maxwell. Miss Varney! Mrs. Varney! 
[Bowing to each. Exiis door up L. c. to 
l. — Mrs. Varney follows Maxwell of 
at door up L. c. to L. speaking as she 
goes] 

Mrs. Varney. [As she goes off with Max- 
well] Now remember Lieutenant, 
you, 're to come sometime when duty 
does n't call you away so soon ! 

[Edith turns and moves slonly to table 
up c. on Maxwell's exit] 

Lieut. Maxwell. [Outside. — Voice get- 
ting more dista7it] Trust me to attend 
to that, Mrs. Varney! 

[Sound of heavy door closing off up L.] 

Thorne. [Moving toward Edith who is 
up c. at small table] Shall I see Mrs. 
Varney again? 

Edith. [Getting a rose from vase on table 
up c] Oh yes — you '11 see her again I 

Thorne. [At the little table up l.c. near 
Edith — on her left] I have n't long to 
stay. 

Edith. Oh — not long! 



Thorne. No-^I 'm sorry to say. 

Edith. [Moving slowly down l. c] Well 
— do you know — I think you have more 
time than you really think you have! 
It would be odd if it turned out that 
way — would n't it ? [Playing with the 
flower in her hand] 

Thorne. [Who moves down l. c as Edith 
does] Yes — but it won't turn out that 
way. 

Edith. Yes — but you — [She stops as 
Thorne is taking the rose from her hand 
— which she ivas holding up in an absent 
icay as she talked. — Thorne at the same 
time holds the hand she had it in. She 
lets go of the rose and draws away her 
hand] 
[Slight pause] 

Edith. [A little embarrassed] You know 
— you can sit down if you want to! 
[Indicating chair at L. of table] 

Thorne. [Smiles a little] Yes — I see. 
[He has the rose] 

Edith. [Sits r. of table l.c] You'd 
better! — I have a great many things to 
say! 

Thorne. Oh — you have! 

Edith. [Nodding. — Her left hand is on 
the table] Yes. 

Thorne. I have only one. 

Edith. [Looking up at him] And — that 
is •? 

Thorne. [Leaning toward her over table, 
and covering her hand with his] Good- 
bye. 

Edith. But I don't really think you'll 
have to say it! 

Thorne. [Earnestly — looking down into 
her eyes] 1 know I will! 

Edith. [Low voice — more serious] Then 
it '11 be because you want to ! 

Thorne. [Quickly] Oh no! It will be 
— because I must. 

Edith. [Rising slowly and looking at him 
a little mischievously as she does so] 
Oh — because you must! [Thorne nods 
a little — saying "yes'' with his lips. — 
Edith walks toward C. thinking how to 
tell him. — He watches her. — She sud- 
denly turns back and goes again to table 
l. c] You don't know some things I 
do! [She sits in chair r. of table] 

Thorne. [Laughing a little first] 1 
think that 's more than likely Miss Var- 
ney! [Moves to l. of table and seats 
himself in chair facing Edith] Would 
you mind telling me a few so I can some- 
w4iat approach you in that respect*? 

Edith. [Seriously] I wouldn't mind 



588 



SECRET SERVICE 



telling you one, and that is, it 's very 
wrong for you to think of leaving Rich- 
mond 3'et ! 

Thorne. Ah — but you don't 

Edith. [Breaking quickly in'\ Oh yes I 
do! 

Thorne. [Looking up at Iter amused'] 
Well— what? 

Edith. Whatever you were going to say! 
Most likely it was that there 's something 
or other I don't know about! — But I 
know this — [Looking away front — eyes 
lowered a little] you were sent here only 
a few weeks ago to recover from a very 
bad wound — [Thorne looks down and a 
little front quickly] — and you haven't 
nearly had time for it yet ! 

Thorne. [As if amused] Ha ha — yes. 
[Looking up at Edith with usual expres- 
sion] I do look as if the next gentle 
breeze would blow me away, don't I*? 

Edith. [Turning to him earnestly — half 
rising] No matter how you look, you 
ought not — Oh — [Rising fully and turn- 
ing away from him] You're just mak- 
ing fun of it like you always do! [Goes 
up c. a little. — Turns to Thorne again 
a little up c] No matter! You can 
make all the fun you like, but the whole 
thing is settled and you aren't going 
away at all! 

[Thorne has risen with Edith and 
stands near table L. c. watching her 
smilingly — his hat in left hand] 

Thorne. Oh — I'm not! 

Edith. No — ^you're not! Doesn't that 
surprise you"? 

Thorne. Well rather! [Puts hat on table 
and moves up near Edith going hack of 
table] Now you 've gone into the 
proiDhesying business perhaps you 
would n't mind telling me what I am 
going to do? 

Edith. [Up C. a little. Turning to him] 
I would n't mind at all — an' it 's this — 
you see I've been to the — [Hesitates] 
Now ! I 'm almost afraid to tell you ! 

Thorne. [Near Edith — left of her] 
Don't tell me Miss Vamey — because it 's 
true that my orders have come — I 'm 
leaving tonight. 

[Edith looks at Thorne an instant — 
then turns and goes R. C. and sits on 
couch. Turns and looks at him from 
there] 

Edith. [After looking at Thorne an in- 
stant] Where — to the front? 

Thorne. [Moving easily across to the 
couch where Edith sits] Well — [Little 



laugh] you see we — [Sits on couch R. c. 
near Edith] we can't always tell where 
orders will take us Miss Varney. 

Edith. But listen ! Supposing there were 
other orders — from a higher authority — 
appointing you to duty here? 

Thorne. [Eyes lowered before him] It 
would n't make any difference. 

Edith. [Sudden alarm] You don't — ^you 
don't mean you'd go — in spite of them? 
[Thorne raises his eyes to hers in slight 
surprise and looks at her an instant. 
Then he nods affirmatively] But if it 
proved your first order was a mistake — 
and — [In her earnestness she makes a lit- 
tle motion with her left hand within his 
reach] 

Thorne. [Catching her hand and holding 
it close in both of his] My first order 
is n't a mistake Miss Varney. — I — I don't 
suppose I shall ever see you — [He stops 
suddenly — then rises quickly and moves 
up R. c. a little, standing faced up toward 
window] 

[After watching Thorne until he is 
motionless Edith rises and crosses 
up C. to L. of him] 

Edith. [Up c. — With a new apprehen- 
sion] Is it — is it something danger- 
ous? 

Thorne. [Turning to Edith and speaking 
lightly] Well I hope so — enough to 
make it interesting! 

Edith. [Low voice] Don't be angry if I 
ask you again about your orders — ^I — Oh 
I must know! 

Thorne. Why? 

Edith. Tell me! — ^Please tell me! 

Thorne. I can't do that Miss Varney. 

Edith. You need n't! I know! [Thornte 
very slight apprehensive glance to down 
L. but instantly back to her] They 're 
sending you on some mission where death 
is almost certain ! They '11 sacrifice your 
life because they know you are fearless 
and will do anything! There's a chance 
for you to stay here in Richmond and be 
just as much use — and I 'm going to ask 
you to do this ! It is n't your life alone 
— there are other lives to think of — 
that 's why I ask you ! — It may not sound 
well — but — you see 

Thorne. [Catching her hands passion- 
ately] Ah my clear one — my dear — my 

darling — how can I [Suddenly stops. 

Recovers control of himself] No! 
[Head turned slightly away] You 
shan't have this against me too ! 

Edith. Oh no! No! I could never have 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



589 



against 



you!- 



-Wliat do you 



anytliinj 
mean ? 

Thorne. [Holding her hands close] I 
mean that I must go — my business is 
elsewhere — I ought never to have seen 
you or spoken to you — but I had to come 
to this house — and you were here — and 
now it's only you in the — [Stops. Re- 
leases her hands. Turns blindly R. 
Then turns L. starting toward door up 
L. c] Your mother — I'll say good-bye 
to her! 

Edith. [Stepping quickly in his way] 
No! — You must listen! [Thorne stops 
before her near c] They need you here 
in Richmond more than anywhere else — 
the President told me so himself! — Your 
orders are to stay! You are given a 
Special Commission on the War Depart- 
ment Telegraph service, and you 

Thorxe. [Quickly, decisively, but in sub- 
dued voice] No no ! I won't take it ! I 
could n't take it Miss Varney ! 

Edith. You'll do that much for me! 

Thorxe. [Seizing her hands again] It 's 
for you that I '11 do nothmg of the kind ! 
If you ever think of me again remember 
that I refused it! 

Edith. [Breaking into Thorne's last few 
words] You can't refuse ! It 's the 
President's request — it 's his order ! 
[Breaking away from him and going to- 
ward door up L. c] Please wait a min- 
ute ! I left it upstairs and you '11 see for 
yourself that 

Thorxe. Don't get it Miss Varney! 
[Following her] I won't look at it ! 

Edith. [Stops and turns] But I want 
you to see what it is ! It puts you at the 
head of everything! You have entire 
control ! When you see it I know you '11 
accept! Please wait! [Edith exits at 
door up L. c. and runs lightly up the 
stairway] 

Thorxe. [Following her up toward stair- 
way] Miss Yarney — I can't 

Edith. [As she goes] Oh yes you can! 
[Thorxe stands looking up the stair- 
way after Edith for an instant. 
Then turns and hurries down to the 
table at L. c. and seizing his hat and 
the rose starts rapidly up towards 
door up L. c. as if to go. — As Thorxe 
starts down for hat sound of heavy 
door closing outside up L.] 

[Enter at door up L. c. from L. Carolixe 
MiTFORD, skipping in lightly, and cross- 
ing in front of Thorxe — who has stepped 



up out of the way. — She is breathless 
from having run across the street. — Her 
dress is made of her great grandmother's 
wedding gown — as light and pretty as 
possible — with a touch of the old-fash- 
ioned in cut and pattern. She is very 
young and charming] 

Caroline. [Comes quickly on to c. Stops 
abruptly] Oh! — Cap'n Thorne! 

Thorxe. [Saluting mechanically] Miss 
Mitford ! [Turns and looks up the stair- 
way again] 

Carolixe. [Saluting] Yes of co'se — I 
forgot ! — How lucky this is ! You 're just 
the very person I wanted to see! [Going 
toward couch at R. c] . I'll tell you all 
about it in just a minute ! Goodness me ! 
[Sits on couch] 1 'm all out o' breath — 
just runnin' ovah from our house ! [De- 
votes herself to breathing for a moment] 

Thorxe. [Going quickly down to Caro- 
lixe at R. c] Miss Mitford — would you 
do something for me! 

Carolixe. Why of co'se I would! 

Thorxe. [Rapidly] Thank you very 
much! — Tell Miss Varney when she 
comes down — Just say good-night for me 
and tell her I 've gone ! 

Carolixe. [Pretending astonishment] Why 
I w^ould n't do such a thing for the wide 
wide w^orld! It would be a wicked 
dreadful lie — because you won't be gone ! 

Thorxe. Well I 'm sorry you look at it 
that way. — Good-night Miss Mitford! 
[Turns to go] 

Carolixe. [Jumping to her feet and run- 
ning round on his left between him and 
the door] No no! — You don't seem to 
understand ! I 've got something to say 
to you! 

Thorxe. [Hurriedly] Yes — I understand 
that all right — but some other time ! 
[Trying to pass Carolixe] 

Carolixe. [Detaining him] No no no ! — 
Wait! [Thorxe stops] There isn't 
any other time ! It 's to-night ! — We 're 
going to have a Starvation Party! 

Thorxe. Good heavens — another of those 
things ! 

Carolixe. Yes we are ! It 's goin' to be 
ovah at mah house this time ! Now we '11 
expect you in half an hour. [Her finger 
up to emphasize the time] 

Thorxe. Thank you very much Miss Mit- 
ford, but I can't come! [Indicating of 
L.] I've got to be — 

Carolixe. [Interrupting] N — n — n — 
[Until she quiets him] Now that 



590 



SECRET SERVICE 



would n't do at all ! 
Would 



You went to Mamie 
you treat me like 



Jones's ! 
that ? 

Thorne. Mamie Jones — that was last 
week Thursday— [Caroline trying to 
stop him with ''now now — now!" etc.] 
and her mother — [Caroline louder with 
''now — now!" — Thorne raises his voice 

above the din] Her mother 

[As Caroline is still going on he gives 
it up and turns front in despair] 

Caroline. [When quiet has come. — Very 
distinctly] Now there is n't any use o' 
talkin' ! 

Thorne. Yes I see that ! 

Caroline. Did n't you promise to obey 
v/hen I gave orders'? Well these are or- 
ders! 

Thorne. [Turning to her for a last at- 
tempt] Yes, but this time 

Caroline. This time is just the same as all 
the other times only worse! [Turns 
away and goes to hack of table l. c. and 
picks up something from table] 

[Thorne turns and goes a little way 
toward up r. c. as if discouraged] 

Caroline. [Without turning] Besides 
that, she expects it. 

[Thorne turns and looks across at 
Caroline] 

Thorne. What did you say? 

Caroline. [At table l. c. — Smelling a 
flower daintily. Facing front] I say 
she expects it — that 's all ! 

Thorne. Who do you mean"? [Moves 
toward her to C. enquiringly] 

Caroline. [Turns and looks at him] 
Who? 

Thorne. 

Caroline. 
you? 

Thorne. 

Caroline. 
you s'pose 
time? 

Thorne. You mean — you mean she ex- 
pects me to — [Slight motion of hand to- 
ward door up L. c] 

Caroline. Why of co'se she does! — Just 
to take her ovah that 's all ! — Goodness 
me — you need n't stay if you don't want 
to ! Now I '11 go an' tell her you 're 
waiting — that 's what I '11 do ! [Starts 
up toward door up l. c. — Stops and 
turns] You won't go now? [Emphasize 
-go^'] 

Thorne. [Hesitating] Well — e — I — I 

If she expects it Miss Mitford [Moving 
y,p toward Caroline] I '11 wait an' take 



[Assent] Um hm! 
[Innocently] Who 



expects 



[Assent again] Ah ha! 
AVhy Edith of co'se ! Who did 
I was talkin' about all this 



her over — but I can't stay at your party 
a minute! 

Caroline. I thought you 'd come to your 
senses some time or other! — You don't 
seem to quite realize w^hat you 've got to 
do! — See here, Mr. Captain — [Taking 
hold of the left sleeve of his coat and 
bringing him down C. a little way] Was 
she most ready? 

Thorne. Well — e — how do I — how — 

Caroline. What dress did she have on? 

Thorne. Dress? — Why I hardly 

Caroline. Oh you men! Why she 's only 
got two! 

Thorne. [Believed] Yes — well then veiy 
likely this was one of them, Miss Mit- 
ford! 

Caroline. [Starting up toward door up 
L. c] Oh^ no mattali — I 'm going up 
anyhow! [Thorne moves up c. as Caro- 
line goes up L. c. — Caroline stops up 
l. c. near door and turns back to 
Thorne] Cap'n Thome — you can wait 
out there on the veranda! [Pointing to 
window up R.] 

Thorne. [Glances where site points — then 
to her] Yes of course — but if I wait 
right here I can see her when she 

Caroline. [Majestically] Those are or- 
ders! [Thorne looks at her an instant 
— tlien salutes and wheels about making 
complete military turn to R. and marches 
toward the icindow at up R. — Caroline 
is watching him admiringly. Speaks as 
Thorne reaches up r. c] It's cooler 
outside you know! 

Thorne. [Turning to her at up R. C. and 
standing in stiff mUitary attitude] Par- 
don me Miss Mitford — orders never have 
to be explained! 

Caroline. That 's right ! — I take back th^ 
explanation ! [Taking one step to her 
R. as she gives an odd little salute] 

Thorne. [With deferential salute in 
slight imitation of hers — but with step 
to his left] That's right Miss Mitford 
— take it back! [Turns and is reaching 
to pull aside curtains of icindow up R. 
with right hand] 

Caroline. And — oh yes — Cap'n! 

[Thorne turns to her again question- 
ingly — right hand still holding cur- 
tain behind him] 

Caroline. [A peremptory order] Smoke! 
[For an instant Thorne does not un- 
derstand. Then he sees it and re- \ 
lapses at once into easy manner, I 
stepping forward a little and feeling 
with right hand in breast of coat 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



591 



front for cigar — turning somewhat 
to front] 

Thorxe. [As above] Oh — lia lia — [Smil- 
ing] you mean one of those Nashville 
sto — 

Caroline. Silence sir ! [Thorne looks at 
her quickly] Orders never have to be ex- 
plained ; 

Thorxe. [With salute] Right again Miss 
Mitford — orders never have to be ex- 
plained ! [Salutes, turns and goes off at 
'Window up R.] 

Caroline. [Looks admiringly after 
Thorxe] He's splendid! If Wilfred 
was only like that! [Moves down c. 
slowly, thinking it over] But then — our 
engagement 's broken off anyhow so 
what's the diff! — Only — if he was like 
that I 'd. — no ! I don't think I would 
either! [Shakes her head] No! — Still 
— I must say it would make a heap of 
difference! An' then if he was like 

that [In same tone — seeing Mrs. 

Varxey close to her] Why how dy do! 

[Mrs. Varxey has entered on earlier 

cue, at door up l. c. from L., and 

noticing Carolixe has come down to 

her on her left] 

Mrs. Varxey. Why Caroline dear, what 
are you talking about all to yourself? 

Caroline. [Confused] Oh — just — I was 
just saying you know — that — why I don't 
know — I don't really know what I was 
goin' to — e — Do you think it's goin' to 
rain? 

Mrs. Varxey. Dear me, child — I have n't 
thought about it ! — Why what have you 
got on? Is that a new dress? 

Carolixe. New dress! Well I should 
think it was — I mean is! These are my 
great grandmother's mother's weddin' 
clothes ! Are n't they just the most beau- 
fleist you ever saw ! Just in the nick of 
time too! I was on my very last rags, 
an' I did n't know what to do — an' Mama 
gave me a key and told me to look in an 
old horsehair trunk in the attic — an' I 
did^and these were in it! [Takes a 
dance step or two, holding skirt out] 
Just in time for the Starvation party to- 
night! Ran ovah to show it to Edith — 
where is she? 

Mrs. Varxey. She won't be over to-night, 
I 'm afraid. [Crosses to R. c] 

Caroline, [c] Oh yes she will! 

Mrs. Varney. But I 've just come down 
dear ! 

Caroline, Yes but I'm just going up 
dear! [Turns and rum off at door up 



L. c. and up the stairway, disappearing 
at the upper landing. — Mrs. Varney 
alone a moment. After a little she moves 
forward in thought. Then turns to desk 
R. and prepares to write a letter. Sud- 
denly Caroline races down the stairs 
again and runs lightly on at door up 
L. c. — Mrs. Varney looks up surprised. — 
Caroline hurries across toward window 
up R. as if going out] You see Caroline, 
it was no use! 
Caroline. [Turning] No use! [Comes 
down in front of couch near Mrs. Var- 
ney] 
Mrs. Varney. [At desk r.] Why you 

don't mean — in this short time 

Caroline. Goodness me ! I did n't stop 

to argue with her — I just told her ! 

Mrs. Varney. Told her what, child ! 

Caroline. Why — that Cap'n Thorne was 

waitin' for her out yere on the v'randah ! 

Mrs. Varney. But she is n't going is she ? 

Caroline. Well, I wouldn't like to say 

for sure — [Moving nearer Mrs. VaRney 

and in lower voice] but you just watch 

which dress she has on when she comes 

down ! Now I '11 go out there an' tell 

him she '11 be down in a minute — then 

the whole thing's finished up all round! 

[Turns l. and goes around couch and up 

toward window up r. speaking as she 

goes] I have more work getting people 

fixed up so they can come to my party 

than it would take to run a blockade into 

Savannah every fifteen minutes! [She 

runs lightly off at window up R.] 

[Mrs. Varney looks after Caroline 
with a smile and then taking some 
paper and envelopes in her hand, 
rises and moves as if to go to door 
up L. — Enter Wilfred at door up 
L. c. from L. coming in as though 
he wished to avoid being seen, and 
looking off up the stairway as he en- 
ters. He carries a large bundle 
stujfed loosely under his coat, which 
is done up in a paper. He turns 
quickly seeing Mrs. Varney and 
makes a very slight movement as if 
to better conceal the package he car- 
ries. Stands looking at her] 
Mrs. Varxey. What have you got there 

Wilfred? 
Wilfred. Here ? 

Mrs. Varxey. Yes — under your coat. 
Wilfred. Oh — this! [Tapping the place 
where his coat protrudes] Why it 's 
only a — that is, it 's one of the — e — Have 
you written that letter yet ? 



591 



SECRET SERVICE 



Miia. Vauxey. No dear, I Ve been too 

busy. But I 'm going* to do it right now. 

[Mrs. Varney goes across to door up 

L. c. — Near the door she glances round a 

little anxiously at Wilfred. — Wilfred is 

looking at her. — Then she turns and exits 

at door up L. c. and goes up the stairicay] 

[Wilfred turns away after she has 

gone. Glances round room. Goes 

to table down L. c. and begins to 

undo the package cautiously. He 

has hardly more than loosened the 

paper when Caroline appears at 

window up R.] 

Caroline. [Speaking off at window up r.] 

Those are orders Cap'n — an' orders never 

have to be explained ! 

[Wilfred hurriedly stuffs the loosened 
bundle inside his coat again'] 
Thorne. [Outside the ivindow up R.] 
Right you are Miss Mitford! I'll see 
that they 're carried out ! 

[Caroline enters through windoiv up R. 
closiyig it after her, but does not close the 
portieres. — Wilfred is about to start to- 
ward down L. — Caroline turning from 
window r. sees Wilfred. — Both stand an 
instant] 

Caroline. [After the pause] Good eve- 
ning Mr. Vamey! [Emphasize "Mr. 
Varney"] 

Wilfred. [Coldly] Good evening Miss 
Mitford! [Emphasize "Miss Mitford"] 
[Both now start rapidly toward door up 
L. c, but as it brings them toward each 
other they stop simultaneously up l. in 
order to avoid meeting in the cloorway] 

Caroline. Excuse me — I 'm in a great 
hurry ! 

Wilfred. That 's plain enough ! [Looks 
at her] Another party I reckon ! 
["Party" with contemptuous emphasis] 

Caroline. You reckon perfectly correct — 
it is another party! [Turns and moves 
slowly down toward c] 

Wilfred. Dancing! [Moves down h. c] 

Caroline. Well — what of it ! W^hat 's 
the matter with dancing I 'd like to know ! 

Wilfred, [d. c] Nothing 's the matter 
with it — if you w^ant to do it ! [Stands 
looking away to down l.] 

Caroline. Well I want to do it fast 
enough if that 's all you mean ! [Turns 
away a little toward r.] 

Wilfred. [An emphatic turn toward her] 
But I must say it 's a pretty way to 
carry on — with the sound of the cannon 
not six miles away! 



[Wilfred is dead in earnest not only 
in this scene but throughout the en- 
tire performance. To give the faint- 
est idea tliat he thinks there is any- 
thing humorous about his lines or 
behavior would be inexcusable] 

Caroline. [Turning back to him] Well 
what do you want us to do — sit down and 
cry about if? — A heap o' good that would 
do now would n't it '^. 

Wilfred. Oh — I haven't time to talk 
about it! [Turns up as if to go] 

Caroline. Well it was you who started 
out to talk about it — I 'm right sure I 
didn't! 

[Wilfred stops dead on Caroline's 
speech, and after a quick glance to 
see that no one is near, goes down to 
her] 

Wilfred. You need n't try to fool me ! I 
know well enough how you 've been car- 
rying on since our engagement was 
broken off! Half a dozen officers pro- 
posing to you — a dozen for all I know ! 

Caroline. What difference does it make? 
I haven't got to marry 'em have I'? 

Wilfred, [l. c] Well — [Twist of head] 
it is n't very nice to go on like that I 
must say — proposals by the wholesale! 
[Turning away] 

Caroline. [c] Goodness gracious — 
what 's the use of talking to me about it *? 
They We the ones that propose — I don't! 

Wilfred. [Turning on her l. c] Well 
what do you let 'em do it for? 

Caroline, [c] How can I help it? 

Wilfred. Ho! [Sneer] Any girl can 
help it ! — You helped it with me all right ! 

Caroline. Well — [An odd little glance to 
floor in front] that was different ! 

Wilfred. And ever since you threw me" 
ovah — 

Caroline. [Looking up at him indig- 
nantly] Oh! — I didn't throw you ovah 
— you just went ovah! [Turns away to 
R. a little] 

Wilfred. Well I went over because you 
walked off alone, with Major Sillsby that 
night we were at Drury's Bluff an' en- 
couraged him to propose — [Caroline 
looks round in wrath] Yes — [Advancing 
to c] encouraged him! 

Caroline, [r. c] Of co'se I did! I 
did n't want 'im hangin' round forever 
did I ? That 's the on'y way to jBnish 'em 
off! 

Wilfred, [c] You want to finish too 
many of 'em off! Nearly every officer 
in the 17th Virginyab, I 'U be sworn I 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



593 



Caroline. Well what do you want me to 
do — string a placard round my neck say- 
ing' "No proposals received here — apply 
at the office !" Would that make you feel 
any better *? 

Wilfred. [Throwing it of loith pretended 
carelessness] Oh — it does n't make any 
difference to me what you do ! [Turns 
away] 

Caroline. Well if it does n't make any 
difference to you, it doesn't even make 
as much as that to me! [Turns and goes 
to couch at R. C. and sits on left end 
of it] 

Wilfred. [Turning on her again] Oh — 
it does n't ! I think it does though ! — 
You looked as if you enjoyed it pretty 
well while the 3rd Virginyah w^as in the 
city! 

Caroline. [Jumping to her feet] En- 
joyed it! I should think I did! I just 
love every one of 'em ! They 're on their 
way to the front ! They 're going to 
fight for us — an' — an' ^ie for us — an' I 
love 'em! [Turns front] 

Wilfred. Well why don't you accept one 
of 'em an' done with it! 

Caroline. How do you know but what 
I 'm going to % 

Wilfred. [Goes toward her a little] I 
suppose it '11 be one of those smart young 
fellows with a cavalry uniform ! 

Caroline. It '11 be some kind of a uni- 
form — I can tell you that ! It won't be 
anybody that stays here in Richmond — ■ 

Wilfred. [Unable for a few seconds to 
say anything. Looks about room help- 
lessly. Then speaks in low voice] Now 
I see what it was ! I had to stay in Rich- 
mond — an' so you — an' so 

Caroline. [In front of couch r. c] Well 
— [Looking down — playing with some- 
thing with her foot] that made a heap o' 
difference! [Looks up. — Different tone] 
Why I was the on'y girl on Franklin 
Street that did n't have a — a — [Hesitates] 
— someone she was engaged to at the 
front! The on'y one! Just thiiik what 
it was to be out of it like that! [Wil- 
fred simply looks at her] Why you 've 
no idea what I suffered ! Besides, it 's 
our — it 's our duty to help all we can ! 

Wilfred. [Looking up toward front] 
Help ! [Thinking of the trousers under 
his coat] 

Caroline. Yes — help ! There are n't many 
things we girls can do — I know that well 
enough ! But Colonel Woodbridge — he 's 
one o' Morgan's men you know — well he 



told MolliO' Pickens that the boys fight 
twice as well when they have a — a sweet- 
heart at home! [Wilfred glances 
quickly about as he thinks] 

Wilfred. He said that did he ! 

Caroline. Yes — an' if we can make 'em 
fight twice as w^ell why we just ought to 
do it — that 's all ! We girls can't do 
much but we can do something! 

Wilfred. [Short pause. — He makes an 
absent-minded motion of feeling of the 
package under his arm] You 're in 
earnest are you"? 

Caroline. Earnest ! 

Wilfred. You really . want to help — all 
you can! 

Caroline. Well I should think I did! 

Wilfred. Yes — but do you now? 

Caroline. Of co'se — that 's what I say ! 

Wilfred. An' if I was — [Glances around 
cautiously] — if I was going to join the 
army — would you help mef 

Caroline. [Looking front and down. — 
Slight embarrassment] Why of co'se I 
w^ould — if it w^as anything I could do ! 
[Emphasize "do'' slightly] 

AYilfred. [Earnestly — quite near her] 
Oh it 's something you can do all right ! 

Caroline, [r. c. — Hardly daring to look 
up] What is it? 

Wilfred. [Unrolling a pair of old gray 
army trousers taking them from' under 
his coat so that they unfurl before her on 
cue] Cut these off! [Short pause. — 
Caroline looking at trousers. — Wilfred 
looking at her. Wilfred soon goes on 
very earnestly, holding trousers before 
his own legs to measure] They're about 
twice too. long! All you got to do is to 
cut 'em off about there, an' sew up the 
ends so they won't ravel out ! 

Caroline, [r. c, — The idea beginning to 
dawn on her] Why they 're for the 
Army! [Taking trousers and hugging 
them to her — legs hanging down] 

Wilfred, [c] Sh ! — Don't speak so loud 
for heaven's sake ! [A glance back as if 
afraid of being overheard] I 've got a 
jacket here too ! [Shows her a small 
army coat] Nearly a fit — came from the 
hospital — Johnny Seldon wore it — he 

w^on't want it any more you know 

an' he w^as just about my size! 

Caroline. [r. c. — Low voice] No — ^he 
won't want it any more. [Stands think- 
ing] 

Wilfred, [c. — After a slight pause] 
Well ! — What is it ! — I thought you said 
you wanted to help ! 



SECRET SERVICE 



Caroline. [QuicJdy] Oh yes — I do! I 
do! 

Wilfred. Well go on — what are you wait- 
in- for? 

Caroline, [r. c. near end of coiicli] Yes! 
Yes ! [Hurriedly drops on knees on Jloor 
and takes hold, spreading trousers out ex- 
actly and patting them smooth'] This is 
the place isn't it? [Pointing to near 
the knees'] 

Wilfred. No — not up there — Here ! [In- 
dicating about five inches from the hot- 
torn of the trouser leg] 

Caroline. Oh yes — I see! [Hurriedly 
snatches pins from her dress. Puts one 
in mouth and one in place Wilfred indi- 
cates. All very rapid and earnest. 
Takes hold of other leg of trousers. 
Speaking as if pin in mouth. Innocently 
— and without looking up] The other 
one just the same? [A musical rise to 
voice at end of this. — Wilfred does not 
deign to reply. — Caroline hearing noth- 
ing looks up at him] Oh yes, o' co'se! 
[She quickly puts pin in other leg of 
trousers] 

[From this time on Caroline's de- 
meanor toward Wilfred is entirely 
changed. It is because he is going 
to join the army] 

[Caroline on floor with trousers and coat 
takes hold of the work with enthusiasm — 
very busy — pins — etc. — etc.] Do you 
see any scissors around anywhere! 
[Wilfred dashes about looking on tables, 
after throwing jacket on end of couch 
R. c] This won't never tear — [Trying 
to tear off the trousers' leg] — for all I 
can do! 

Wilfred. [First looking on table down 
L. c. and picking up the paper jacket 
was wrapped in. Getting a work-basket 
from table up C. and quickly bringing it] 
There must be some in here! [Hands 
the scissors out of the basket to Caro- 
line. — As she reaches up from her posi- 
tion on the floor to take them, she looks 
in Wilfred's face an instant — then 
quickly down to work again. Then she 
works with head down. — Wilfred leaves 
wrapping paper up stage out of the way] 
[Brief pause. — Caroline working. — 
Wilfred standing near c. looking 
down at her] 

Caroline. [On her knees r. c. near couch. 
Low voice — not looking up at him] 
When are you goin' to wear 'em? 

Wilfred. [Rather gruffly] When they 're 
cut off! 



[Caroline looks up at him. Thread 
or scissors in mouth] 

Caroline. You mean — you're really 

Wilfred. Um hm! [Assent] 

Caroline. But your mother 

Wilfred. She knows. 

Caroline. Oh ! 

Wilfred. She's going to write the Gen- 
eral to-night. 

Caroline. But how about if he won't let 
you? 

Wilfred. [With boyish determination — 
hut keeping voice down] I '11 go just 
the same! 

Caroline. [Suddenly jumps to her feet 
dropping everything on the floor and 
catches his hand] Oh I'm so glad! 
Why it makes another thing of it ! When 
I said that about staying in Richmond I 
did n't know ! Oh, I do want to help all 
I can! 

Wilfred. [Who has been regarding her 
burst of enthusiasm rather coldly] You 
do! 

Caroline. Indeed — indeed I do! 

Wilfred. Then cut those off for Heaven's 
sake! 

Caroline. Oh yes! [She catches up 
trousers, jacket, etc., and sits quickly on 
lounge and excitedly paws them over] 
Where shall I cut 'em? 

Wilfred. The same place — I haven't 
grown any! 

Caroline. Dear me — I don't know where 
it was! 

Wilfred. You stuck some pins in ! 

Caroline. [Finding p)ins] Oh yes — here 
they are ! [Seizing the trousers and go- 
ing to work, soon cutting off one of the 
legs] 

Wilfred. That 's it ! 

Caroline. When did you say she was go- 
ing to write? 

Wilfred. To-night. 

Caroline. [Looking up with distrust] 
She does n't want you to go does she ? 

Wilfred. I don't reckon she does — very 
much! 

Caroline. She '11 tell him not to let you ! 

Wilfred. [Looks at her with wide open 
eyes] No ! 

Caroline. That 's the way they always do ! 

Wilfred. The devil! 

Caroline. I should think so! 

Wilfred. What can I do? 

Caroline. Write to him yourself! 

Wilfred. Good idea! 

Caroline. Then you can just tell him 
what you like t 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



595 



Wilfred. I '11 tell him I can't stay here ! 
Caroline. [Excitedly rising — letting the 
jacket fall on floor at one side] Tell him 
you 're coming anyhow ! 
Wilfred. I will! 

Caroline. Whether he says so or not! 
Wilfred. Then he'll say so won't he? 
Caroline. 0' co'se he will — there ain't 

anythin' else to say! 
Wilfred. I '11 do it ! [Starts to go up l. 
Stops and goes hack to Caroline] Say 
— you 're pretty good! [Catching one of 
Caroline's hands impulsively. — Caro- 
line looks down at work on floor] 1 '11 
go upstairs an' write it now! [Starts 
toward door up L. c. — Caroline watches 
him. — He turns hack and she looks 
quickly down again] Finish those things 
as soon as you can an' leave 'em here — 
in the hall closet ! [Indicating outside l.] 
Caroline. [Nodding her head] Yes — I 

will. 
Wilfred. An' don't let anyone see 'em 

whatever you do ! 
Caroline. [Shaking her head] No — I 
won't. 

[Wilfred hurries off at door up l. c. 
to L. — Caroline looks after him with 
expression of ecstasy — lapsing into 
dreaminess as she turns to front. 
Suddenly recollects with a start and 
a little "0" and slipping down on 
floor near couch she goes excitedly 
to work on the trousers, cutting at 
the other leg with violence and rapid- 
ity, getting it nearly cut through so 
that later it dangles hy a few threads. 
Suddenly she stops work and listens. 
Then with great haste she gathers up 
all the things she can, leaving the 
jacket however where it fell, and 
jumps to her feet with them in her 
arms, hugging the confused bundle 
close against her and hastily tucking 
in portions that hang out so that 
Mrs. Varney won't see what it is] 

[Enter Mrs. Varney door up l. c. coming 
down the stairway and into the room] 

Mrs. Varney. Oh Caroline — you haven't 

gone yet ! 
Caroline. Not quite ! — I mean not yet ! — 

It does n't begin for an hour you know ! 
Mrs. Varney. What doesn't begin? 
Caroline. The party! 
Mrs. Varney. Oh — then you have plenty 

of time! [Turning as if to go up c] 
'Caroline. [Hastening across toward door 

up L, c. with her arms fidl of things] 



Yes — but I'il have to go now sure 

enough ! [Near c. she drops the scissors] 

Mrs. Varney. [Up c. — Turning] You 

dropped your scissors dear! 
Caroline. Oh! [Coming hack for them] 
I — I thought I heard something! [In 
picking them up she lets the cut-off end 
of a trouser leg fall hut does not notice 
it and goes toward door up l. c] 
Mrs. Varney. [Coming down c] What 

are you making, Caroline ? 
Caroline. [Turning near door up l. c] 
Oh — I — I was just altering a dress — 
that's all! [Turning to go] 
Mrs. Varney. [Stooping and picking up 
the piece of trouser leg] Here Carrie ! — 
you dropped a — a — [Looks at it] 
Caroline. [Hurrying to Mrs. Varney 
and snatching the piece — stuffing it in 
with rest] Oh yes ! — Ha ha ! [Looks at 
Mrs. Varney an instant. The other 
piece of the trouser leg is hanging hy its 
shred in full sight] That — that was one 
of the sleeves! [Turns and hurries off 
at door up l. c. and exits to R. at door 
near foot of stairway] 

[Mrs. Varney after a moment turns 
and goes toward door up c. — Seeing 
something on the couch r. c. she 
stops and goes to pick it up. On 
coming to it she finds the little gray 
soldier's jacket left hy Caroline in 
her hasty scramble. She stoops and 
picks it up and stands for a moment 
looking at it] 
[After a brief pause the sound of hur- 
ried opening of front door outside 
left and tramp of heavy feet in the 
hall is heard] 
[Mrs. Varney looks up and across up 
left, letting the coat fall on the 
couch] 

[Enter Mr. Benton Arrelsford at door 
up L. c. from L. — He is a tall fine looking 
Southern man of about thirty-five or 
forty, dressed in citizen's clothes — black 
frock coat, and of rather distinguished 
appearance. He is seen outside door up 
L. c. hurriedly placing a guard of Con- 
federate soldiers at doors outside up left 
and also at foot of stairway. — Mrs. Var- 
ney, much surprised, moves toward door 
up L. c. — Mr. Arrelsford at the same 
time and as noiselessly as possible, has- 
tens into the room] 

Mrs. Varney. [As he enters] Mr. Ar- 
relsford! [Goes toward c. up a little] 
Arrelsford. [Comes quickly across to 



596 



SECRET SERVICE 



Mrs. Varney. Speaks in a low voice 
and rapidlij] I was obliged to come in 
without ceremony Mi's. Varney. You '11 
understand when I tell you what it is! 

Mrs. Varney. And those men — [Motions 
toward guard outside door up L. c] 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] They 're on 
guard at the doors out there! 

Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] On guard! — 
You mean that in this house you 

Arrelsford. I 'm very much afraid Mrs. 
Varney, that we 've got to put you to a 
little inconvenience. [Glances about caii- 
tiouslif. — Mrs. Varney stands aston- 
ished] Is there anybody in that room'? 
[Pointing to door up c] 

Mrs. Varney. Yes. 

Arrelsford. Who? 

Mrs. Varney. There are quite a number 
of ladies there — sewing- for the hospitals. 

Arrelsford. Kindly come this way a lit- 
tle. [Going down l. c. with Mrs. Var- 
ney] One of your servants has got him- 
self into trouble, Mrs. Varney, an' we 're 
compelled to have him watched! 

Mrs. Varney. One of my servants! — ^Why 
what kind of trouble? 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] Pretty serious 
ma'am — that 's the way it looks now !— 
You 've got an old white-haired niggah 
here 

Mrs. Varney. You mean Jonas'? 

Arrelsford. I believe that 's his name ! 

Mrs. Varney. You suspect him of some- 
thing! 

Arrelsford. [Keeping voice down] We 
don't suspect — ^we know what he 's done ! 
[Glances round before going on] He's 
been down in the Libby Prison under pre- 
tense of selling something to the Yankees 
we 've got in there, an' he now has on 
his person a wiitten communication from 
one of those Yankees which he intends to 
deliver to another one that 's here in 
Richmond! [Arrelsford goes around 
in front of table and up L. of it to near 
door up L. c] 

[Mrs. Varney stands motionless a 
second. She soon recovers] 

Mrs. Varney. Send for the man ! [Start- 
ing to move up stage and toward l.] 
Let us see if there 's any truth in such 
a — 

Arrelsford. [Up l. c. near r. upper cor- 
ner of table l. c. — Quickly stopping her] 
No! Not yet! [Glances quicklij round 
at doors and windows — then speaks in 
lowered voice but with great intensity 
and clearness] I 've got to get that 



paper ! If he 's alarmed he '11 destroy it ! 
I 've got to have it ! It 's the clue to one 
o' their cursed plots ! They 've been 
right close on this town for months — 
trying to make a break in our defenses 
and get in. This is some rascally game 
they 're at to weaken us from the inside ! 
— Two weeks ago we got word from one 
of our agents over there in the Yankee 
lines telling us that two brothers — Lewis 
and Henry Dumont — ^liave been under 
Secret Service orders to do some rascally 
piece of work here in Richmond. We 
had close descriptions of these two men 
but we 've never been able to lay our 
hands on 'em till last night! 

Mrs. Varney. [Up c. and a little l. near 
Arrelsford. — Intense whisper] You've 
got them'? 

Arrelsford. [Up l. c. — Low voice, but 
intense] We 've got one o' them ! An' 
it won't take long to run down the 
othah ! 

Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] The one — 
the one you caught — ^was he here in Rich- 
mond •? 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] No — he was 
brought in last night with a lot o' men 
we captured making a raid. 

Mrs. Varney. Y^ou mean he was taken 
prisoner? 

Arrelsford. [Nods affirmatively. — Glances 
round] Let himself be taken ! That 's 
one of their tiicks for getting through 
our lines when they want to bring a mes- 
sage or give some signal. 

Mrs. Varney. They — they actually get 
into Libby Prison? 

Arrelsford. [Low voice. Great intens- 
ity] Yes! Damn them! [This oath 
indistinctly between his teeth] But we" 
were on the lookout for this man an' we 
spotted him mighty quick! I gave or- 
ders not to search him or take away his 
clothes but to put him in with the others 
and keep the closest watch on him that 
was ever kept on a man ! Here was one 
of the Dumont brothers an' we knew 
from his coming in that the othah must 
be here in the city waiting to hear from 
him, an' he 'd send him a message the 
first chance he got! 

Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] But Jonas! 
— How could he 

Arrelsford. [Low and intense] Easy 
enough! — Easy enough! He comes down 
to Libby to sell goubers to the prisoners 
— we let 'im pass in — he fools around 
awhile until he gets a chance to brush 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



597 



against this man Dumont — we 're watch- 
ing, an' we see a bit of paper pass be- 
tween 'em! The old nigger's got that 
paper on 'im now ma'am, an' besides 
these men in heah I 've got a dozen more 
on the outside watehmg him through the 
windows! [Turns and moves up, glanc- 
ing off up L. with some anxiety] 

Mrs. 'Yarxey. [After slight pause turns 
and speaks in intense hut subdued voice 
— almost ichisper] The man he gives it 
to ! He 's the one we want ! 

Arrelsford. [Approaching her quickly. — 
Lou- voice but intense] Yes — but I can't 
wait long! If the niggah sees a man or 
hears a sound he '11 destroy it before we 
can jump in on 'im — an' I must have 
that paper! [Strides quickly up, Mrs. 
Yarney following a step or two. — 
Speaking off' up L. in low but sharp 
voice] Corporal! 

[Enter Corporal at door up l. c. from l. — 
He salutes and stands in the large arched 
doorway] 

How is it now*? 
Corporal. [Low voice] All quiet sir! 
[Arrelsford and Mrs. Yarxey face 
each other] 
Arrelsford. [Low, intense] It won't do 

to wait — I 've got to get that paper ! 

It 's the key to the game they 're trj^ing 

to play an' w^e must have it! 
Mrs. Yarxey. [Intense. — Half whisper] 

No no — the man who 's going to play it ! 

Get him! 
Arrelsford. [Low — intense] That paper 

the nigger 's got might give us a clue ! 

If not I '11 make him tell who it was 

for — damn it I'll shoot it out of him! 

[Turns to Corporal] How quick can 

you get at him from that door! [Poitit- 

ing off' up L. c. to door R. of stairway] 
Corporal. [No salute. Low voice] It's 

through a hallway sir — and across the 

dining-room. 
Arrelsford. [Low voice] Well, take two 

men and 

Mrs. Yarxey. [Interrupting — touching 

Arrelsford to stop him. Low voice] 

Why not keep your men out of sight and 

let me send for him — here? 
Arrelsford. [After a second's thought. 

Low voice] That 's better — we '11 get 'im 

in here ! While you 're talking to him 

they can nab him from behind! [Turns 

to Corporal] You heard ! 
Corporal. [Low voice] Yes sir. 
Arrelsford. [Low voice] Keep your 



men out of §ight — get 'em back there in 
the hall — an' while w^e 're making him 
talk send a man down each side and pin 
him ! Hold 'im stiff ! He must n't de- 
stroy any paper he 's got ! Look out for 
that! 

[Corporal salutes and exits with men 
door up L. c. and to l. — After exit 
of Corporal and Men, Mrs. Yar- 
ney moves swiftly to L. side, and 
taking the bell-cord in her hand, 
turns toward Arrelsford. — Pause. — 
Both motionless for four seconds] 
Mrs. Yarxey. [After the motionless 
pause. — Loiv voice — but distinct] Now 
Mr. Arrelsford? 
Arrelsford. [Low voice] Yes. 

[Mrs. Yarney rings the bell. — Short 

pause. — Enter Martha at door -up 

L. c. from R. She stands up l. c. 

below the doorway] 

Mrs. Yarxey. [Down l. near mantel] Is 

there anyone I can send to the hospital 

Martha? 

Martha. [Up l. c] Luther's out yere, 

mam. 
Mrs. Yarney. Luther? [Considers] No 

— he 's too small. I don't want a boy. 
Martha. Jonas is yere, mam — if you 

want him. 
Mrs. Yarney. Oh, Jonas — ^yes ! Tell him 

to come here right away. 
Martha. Yaas 'm. [Exits at door up l. 
c. to R.] 

[Mrs. Yarney crosses back of table 
L. c. to E. c. and sits on couch. — 
Arrelsford waits up c] 

[Old Jonas appears at the door up l. C. 
coming from R. — He is a thick-set gray- 
haired old negro. — He comes a few steps 
into the room] 

[Mrs. Yarxey looks at Jonas and he 
at her.— At first he is entirely un- 
suspecting, but in a moment, seeing 
Arrelsford standing up c. his eyes 
shift restlessly for an instant] 

Mrs. Yarney. [On couch r. c] Jonas 

Jonas. [Vp'L.c] Yes'm. 

Mrs. Yarney. Have you any idea why I 

sent for you? 
Jonas. I heers you was wantin' to sen' to 
de hossiple ma'am. 

[Corporal and Men enter very quietly up 
L. c. from L. and on to behind Jonas] 

Mrs. Yarney. Oh — then Martha told you? 

[Corporal motions to Men and two 

instantly step forward — one on each 



SECRET SERVICE 



side of JoxAS, and stand there mo- 
tionless] 
Jonas. Wall she didn't ezzackly say 
what you — [Sees man each side of him 
and stops in the midst of his speech. 
He does not start, hut is frozen with 
terror. Expression of face scarcely 
changes. Soon he lowers his eyes and 
then begins stealtJiily to get Iiis right 
hand toward his inside breast pocket] 
[Corporal gives a sharp order. — The 
two Men instantly seize JoxAS. — 
Corporal quickly feels in his pock- 
ets. — JoxAS struggles desperately 
but in an instant the Corporal has 
the paper ichich he hands — with a 
salute — to Arrelsford. — Mrs. Var- 
NEY has risen as Men seized Jonas] 
Arrelsford. [r. of Men and Jonas] 
See if there 's anything more ! [Arrels- 
ford stands watching tlie search] 

[Corporal quickly searches Jonas — 
feeling rapidly along body, arms, 
down each leg, etc.. Men raising his 
arms above head, etc., for the pur- 
pose. Pushes fingers down into slip- 
pers — which are sufficiently loose for 
this. — After the search Men release 
Jonas and stand guard one on each 
side of him] 
Corporal. [Rises and comes to salute] 
That's all sir! 

[Arrelsford turns quickly away to 
lamp on table up c. opening the 
paper as he does so. — Mrs. Varney 
watches him intently. — Arrelsford 
reads the paper quickly and at once 
wheels round on Jonas coming down 
R. of him] 
Arrelsford. [Low voice — hut sharp and 
telling] Who was this for? [Jonas 
stands silent] If you don't tell it 's go- 
ing to be mighty bad for you! [Jonas 
stands silent] [After a pause Arrels- 
ford turns to Mrs. Varney] I'm right 
sorry ma'am but it looks like we 've got 
to shoot 'im! [Eyeing Jonas a mo- 
ment — then goes down c] Corporal! 
[Motions Corporal to approach. — Cor- 
poral steps to Arrelsford on salute. — 
To Corporal in a low voice] Take 
him outside and get it out of him! 
String him up till he talks ! You under- 
stand ! [Corporal salutes and is about 
to turn] Here! [Corporal turns hack 
to Arrlesford on salute. — Arrelsford 
glances toward the ivindows at r. and 
then to L.] Go down on that side — back 
of the house! [Indicating up l.] And 



keep it quiet! Nobody must know of 
this! Not a soul! 

[Corporal salutes again and goes up 
to Men. Gives a low-voiced order. — 
Men turn on order and march Jonas 
off at door up l. c. and off" l. All 
very quick with military precision. 
The Corporal goes with them. — ■ 
Arrelsford stands watching exit of 
Jonas and Men until they are gone 
and the sound of the closing of heavy 
front door is heard outside left. He 
then turns to Mrs. Varney. — Ar- 
relsford and Mrs. Varney keep 
voices down to nearly a whisper in 
the coming scene — but speak with 
the utmost force and intensity] 
Mrs. Varney. [Indicating the paper in 
Arrelsford's hand] Was there any- 
thing in that — 
Arrelsford. [Near Mrs. Varney on her 
L.] We've got the trick they want to 
play! 
Mrs. Varney. But not the man — not the 

man who is to play it? 
Arrelsford. I did n't say that ! 



Mrs. Varney. 

to himf 
Arrelsford. I 



You mean there 's a clue — 
mean there 's a clue to 
Do you 



Mrs. Varney. Will it answer? 
know who it is? Do you 

Arrelsford. [Interrupting] As plain as 
if we had his name! 

Mrs. Varney. Thank God! [3Iotionless 
an instant — then she extends her hand 
for the paper] Let me see! [Arrels- 
ford momentary hesitation — then hands 
her the paper. — She looks at paper, then 
reads it aloud — not too easily] "AT- 
TACK TO-NIGHT— PLAN 3— USE" 
TELEGRAFB.."— [Slight motion or 
sound from Arrelsford to quiet her, and 
a quick glance about. — After the glance 
about by Arrelsford she goes on in low 
voice] What does it mean? 

Arrelsford. [Takes paper from her. 
Low voice hut incisive] They attack to- 
night ! — The place where they strike is 
indicated by "Plan 3." [Finger on the 
words on paper in his hand] 

Mrs. Varney. Plan three ? 

Arrelsford. He knows what they mean 
by that! — It's arranged beforehand! 

Mrs. Varney. And — the last — the last 
there! [Excited motion toward the 
paper in Arrelsford's hands] "Use 
Telegraph"?— What does that 

Arrelsford. He 's to use our War De- 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



599 



partment Telegraph Lines to send some 
false order and weaken that position — 
the one they mdicate by "Plan Three" — 
so they can break through and come down 
on the city! 

Mrs. Varney. Oh! [A breathless ex- 
clamation of indignation. — A second's 
pause — then suddenly] But the man — 
the man who is to do this — there 's noth- 
ing about him! 

Arrelsford. There is something about 
him! 

Mrs. Varney. [Rapidhj — almost run to- 
gether] What? Where? I don't see 
it! 

Arrelsford. "Use Telegraph" ! [A pause. 
— Both stand motionless regarding one 
another. — Arrelsford goes on after 
playing this pause to the limit] We 
know every man on the Telegraph Serv- 
ice — and every man of them 's true ! 
But there 's some who want to get on 
that service that we don't know quite so 
well! 

Mrs. Varney. [Indicating the paper] 
He would be one — of course ! 

Arrelsford. There aren't so very many! 
[These speeches given suggestively — 
icith slight pause after each. — All very 
low voice and intense] It is n't every 
man that 's an expert ! — The niggah 
brought this paper to your house, Mrs. 
Varney ! 

Mrs. Varney. My — [Hesitates — begin- 
ning to realise] — my house you say! 

Arrelsford. For more than a month your 
daughter has been working to get an 
appointment for someone on the Tele- 
graph Service — perhaps she could give 
us some idea — [Stops in the midst of 
speech and stands looking at Mrs. 
Varney] 

[A moment's pause. — Suddenly Mrs. 
Varney turns and hurries to window 
up R. and quickly pulls curtains to- 
gether, turning and facing back to 
Arrelsford at same instant] 

Arrelsford. [Almost ivhisper — but with 
utmost intensity] IS HE THERE? 
[Mrs. Varney nods affirmatively. She 
then comes down toward Arrelsford] 
Could he hear what we said? 

Mrs. Varney. [Shakes head negatively. 
Almost whisper] He 's at the further 
end! [Comes back to R. of Arrelsford. 
— Arrelsford glances at windows r. nerv- 
ously. — Mrs. Varney — after a pause — in 
low voice] You have a description you 
say! 



Arrelsford. [Nods affirmatively] At 
the office. 

Mrs. Varney. Then this man — this Cap- 
tain Thorne — 

Arrelsford. [Breaking in savagely but in 
low voice] There is no Captain Thorne ! 
This fellow you have in your house is 
Lewis Dumont! 

[Short pause] 

Mrs. Varney. You mean — he came here 
to— 

Arrelsford. [With vindictive fury break- 
ing through in spite of himself — yet voice 
subdued al-most to a sharp whisper] He 
came to this town — he came to this house 
— knowing your position and the in- 
fluence of your name — for the sole pur- 
pose of getting some hold on our De- 
partment Telegraph Lines ! — He 's cor- 
rupted your servants — he 's thick with 
the men in the telegraph office — what he 
has n't done God A'mighty knows ! But 
Washington ain't the only place where 
there 's a Secret Service ! We 've got one 
here in Richmond! Oh — [A shake of 
his head] two can play at that game — an' 
it 's my move now ! [Goes up R. c. a 
few steps] 

[Enter Edith Varney running rapidly 
down the stairway up left and in at door 
up L. c. — She wears a white dress' and 
has in her hand the large official envelope 
which she took upstairs at the end of her 
first scene. — Arrelsford goes toward 
windows up R.] 

Edith. [As she runs down the stairway] 
Mama! Mama! — Quick Mama! [Mrs. 
Varney hurries toward door up l. c. to 
meet her. — Arrelsford turns in surprise 
looking toward door up l. c. — Edith 
meeting Mrs. Varney] Under my win- 
dow — in the garden — they 're hurting 
someone frightfully — I 'm sure they are ! 
Oh — come! [Starting toward door to 
lead the way. — Mrs. Varney stands look- 
ing at Edith. — Edith stops surprised 
that Mrs. Varney does not follow] If 
you are n't coming I '11 go myself ! 
[Turning to go] It's terrible! 

Mrs. Varney. Wait, Edith! [Edith 
stops up l. c. and turns back to Mrs. 
Varney. — Mrs. Varney goes to her and 
brings her a little way down L. c] I 
must tell you something — it will be a 
terrible shock I'm afraid! [Edith 
moves down with Mrs. Varney. — Ar- 
relsford turns away a little — standing 



600 



SECRET SERVICE 



tiear r. c. uatching window] A man we 
trusted as a friend has shown himself a 
treacherous conspirator against us! 
Edith. [After a slight pause. — Low 
voice] Who? [Pause. — ]\Irs. Varney 
cannot bring herself to speak the name] 
Who is it "? 
Arrelsford. [Swinging round on her at R. 
— Low voice — suppressed vindictiveness] 
It is the gentleman, Miss Varney, whose 
attentions you have been pleased to ac- 
cept in the place of mine ! 

[Short pause. — Edith white and mo- 
tionless looking at Arrelsford. 
Soon she turns her face appealing 
to her mother. — Mrs. Varney nods 
slowly in a/firmation] 
Edith. [Low voice] Is it Mr. Arrelsford 

who makes this accusation? 
Arrelsford. [Breaking out hotly hut 
keeping voice in suppressed voice] Yes 
— since you wish to know! From the 
first I 've had my suspicions that this — 
[He stops on seeing Edith's move toward 
tJie window up b.] 

[Edith, on cue ''Yes'' quickly thrusts 
envelope containing commission into 
belt or ivaist of Iter dress, and starts 
rapidly toward the window up R. 
crossing Mrs. Varxey. — x\rrels- 
FORD breaks off in liis speech and 
steps before her] 
Arrelsford [r. c. — Low voice — speaking 

rapidly] Where are you going? 
Edith, [c. — Low voice] For Captain 

Thorne. 
Arrelsford. [Low voice] Not now! 
Edith. ■ [Turning with flashing indignation 
on Arrelsford] Mr. Arrelsford, if this 
is something you 're afraid to say to him 
— don't you dare say it to me! 
Arrelsford. [Indignantly. — Low voice] 

Miss Varney, if you 

Mrs. Varney. [l. c. — Interrupting 
quickly. — Low voice] Edith — listen to 
me! [Edith turns quickly to Mrs. Var- 
ney] Mr. Arrelsford has good reasons 
for not meeting Captain Thorne just 
now! 
Edith. I should think he had! [Quick 
turn back to Arrelsford] The man 
who said that to his face wouldn't live 
to speak again ! 

Mrs. Varney. My dear, you don't 

Edith, [c] Mama — this man has left 
his desk in the War Department so that 
he can have the pleasure of persecuting 
me! He's never attempted anything in 
the active service before! And when I 



ask him to face the man he accuses he 
turns like a coward! 

Arrelsford. [Angrily, but keeping voice 
down] Mrs. Varney, if she thinks — 

Edith. [Low voice] I think nothing! I 
know that a man of Captain Thome's 
character is above suspicion ! 

Arrelsford [Low voice] His character! 
[Sneeringly] Where did he come from? 
— Who is he? 

Edith. [Low voice] Who are you? 

Arrelsford. That 's not the question ! 

Edith. [Low voice] Neither is it the 
question who he is! If it were I'd 
answer it — the answer above all others — 
he 's a soldier who has fought and been 
wounded for his countiy! 

Arrelsford. [Loiv voice but incisive] 
We're not so sure of that! 

Edith. [After a pause of indignation] 
He brought us letters from General 
Stonewall Jackson and from — 

Arrelsford. [Quick and sharp] Jack- 
son was killed before his letter was pre- 
sented ! 

Edith. What does that signify if he wrote 
it? 

Arrelsford Nothing — if he wrote it! 
[Accent on "if' with vindictive fury] 

Edith. Mr. Arrelsford — if you mean — 
[Mrs. Varney goes to Edith putting her 
hand on Edith's arm] 

Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Listen Edith ! 
They have proofs of a conspiracy on our 
Government Telegraph Lines. [Arrels- 
ford says "Sh" and goes to window up 
R. — Edith turns from Arrelsford and 
looks before her, listening on mention of 
"Telegraph Lines." — Mrs. Varney leads 
Edith a little l. of c. — Arrelsford 
stands near window up r.] A treacher- 
ous conspiracy on the War Department 
lines to the front. Two men in the 
Northern Secret Service have been sent 
here to carry it out. One is in Libby 
Prison. He 's just been brought in — and 
he allowed himself to be taken prisoner 
so as to get in here and bring a message 
to the other. Our old Jonas went there 
to-day — secretly took that message from 
him and brought it here! [Edith turns 
toward Mrs. Varney sharply.] Yes 
Edith — he brought it to this house! 
We 've just had Jonas in and found that 
paper on him! 

[Arrelsford quietly moves down r. 
looking of through curtains at win- 
dows down r.] 

Edith. [Rapidly — desperately — in low 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



601 



voice] But be lias n't said it was for 

[Heavi/ sound of front door closing 
outside L.] 

Arrelsford. [Low voice hut incisively] 
Not yet — but be will! [Edith looks at 
Arrelsford not comprehending. — Enter 
Corporal at door up l. c. from l. — He 
stands on salute. — Ladies turn to him. — 
Edith breathless with anxiety. — Mrs. 
Varxey calm hut intent. — Arrelsford 
goes quickly across from R. c. to Cor- 
poral up l. 0. Low voice] Well — 
wbat does be say*? 

Corporal. [Low voice] Notbing! — He 
won't speak! 

Arrelsford. [Sharply, hut voice subdued] 
Won't speak! Wbat bave you done"? 

Corporal. Stining' bim up tbree times 
and 

Arrelsford. [Enraged but keeping his 
voice down] Well string bim up again ! 
If be won't speak sboot it out of bim! 
Kill tbe dog! [Comes blindly down l. — 
Corporal salutes and exits at door up 
L., c. to L. — Arrelsford turns to ladies 
coming down L. hack of table] We don't 
need tbe niggab's evidence — tbere 's 
enougb witbout it ! [Takes his hat from 
table] 

Edith. [Up c. — Low voice] Tbere is 
notbing! 

Arrelsford. [l. of table l. c. — Low voice] 
By twelve o'clock to-nigbt you '11 bave 
all tbe proof you want ! 

Edith. [Low voice] Tbere 's no proof 
at all ! 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] I '11 sbow it to 
you at tbe telegi'apb office ! Do you dare 
go tbere witb me*? 

Edith. [Low voice] Dare! [Moves to- 
ward him,] I will go witb you! 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] I'll call for 
you in balf an bour! [Goes toward 
door up L. c] 

Edith. Wait! [Arrelsford stops and 
turns to her up L. c] Wbat are you go- 
ing to do? 

Arrelsford. [Comes down hack of table. 
— Low voice but incisive] I 'm going to 
let bim get tbis paper! Wben be looks 
at it be '11 know wbat tbey want bim to 
do — and tben we '11 see bim try to 
do it! 

Edith, [l. c] You're going to spy on 
bim — bound bim like a criminal! 

Arrelsford. I 'm going to prove wbat be 
is! 

Edith. Tben prove it openly! Prove it 
at once ! It 's a sbame to let a suspicion 



like tbat rest on an bonorable man ! Let 
bim come in bere and — 

Arrelsford [Low voice] Impossible ! 
[Goes down l. of table a little.] 

Edith. [Low voice] Tben do sometbing 
else but do it now! [Turning away goes 
up c. a little, speaks desperately] We 
must know tbat be — tbat be 's innocent ! 
We must know tbat! [A thought. 
Turns to Arrelsford] You say — 
[Arrelsford makes a movement to go] 
Wait! Wait! [Arrelsford stops] 

You say .tbe man in Libby Prison is his 
brother — that 's what you said — bis 
brother ! Bring bim bere ! Go to the 
prison and bring that man bere ! 

Arrelsford. [l. of table speaking across 
it. Subdued exclamation] What! 

Edith. Let them meet ! Bring them face 
to face! Then you can see whether 

Arrelsford. [Low voice. — Speaks rap- 
idly] You mean — bring them together 
bere? 

Edith. Yes! Here! — Anywhere! Wher- 
ever you please! 

Arrelsford. As if tbe prisoner was try- 
ing to escape? 

Edith. Any way you like — but end it ! 

Arrelsford. When 1 

Edith. Now! Now! — I won't bave such 
a suspicion as tbat banging over bim ! 

Arrelsford. [After instant's thought] 
I 'm willing to try tbat ! — Can you keep 
bim bere? [With a motion toward win- 
dows R.] 

Edith. [Scarcely more than a movement 
of lips] Yes. 

Arrelsford. It won't be more than half 
an hour. — Be out there on tbe veranda. — 
When I tap on the glass bring bim into 
tbis room and leave bim alone! You 
understand — alone ! 

Edith. [Hardly more than a whisper] 
Yes. [Turns away toward front] 

Arrelsford. [Goes rapidly toward door 
up L. C. — Stops and turns near door] I 
rely on you Miss Varney to give bim no 
hint or sign that we suspect — 

Mrs. Varney. [Interrupting Arrelsford 
indignantly] Mr. Arrelsford! 

[Edith does not notice anything] 
[Arrelsford stands an instant — then 
bows stiffly and exits at door up L. c. 
to L. — Sound of closing of heavy 
door outside L. shortly after his dis- 
appearance. — Edith stands where 
she was as if stunned. — Mrs. Varney 
remains R. c. looking after Arrels- 
ford — then turns to Edith] 



602 



SECRET SERVICE 



Edith. [After pause — not looking round 
— nearlfi whisper'] Mama! [Reaches 
out her hand as if feeling for help or 
support. — Mrs. Varney comes down to 
Edith on her left and takes her liand] 
Mama ! 
Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] I 'm here, 
Edith!- 

[Pause. — Edith thinking of something 
— her eyes wide open — staring va- 
cantly before her] 
Edith. [Holding tight to Mrs. Varney's 
hand] Do you think — do y.ou think — 
that could be what he meant? [Mrs. 
Varney looking intently at Edith] 
The Commission I got for him — this aft- 
ernoon — you know! 
Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Yes — yes! 
Edith. The Commission — from the Presi- 
dent — for the — for the Telegraph Serv- 
ice! He — he — refused to take it! 
Mrs. Varney. Refused! 
Edith. [Nodding a little — hardly able to 
speak] He said — he said it was for me 
that he could not ! 
Mrs. Varney. [Sudden deep emphasis] 

It 's true then ! 
Edith. [Turning quickly to Mrs Varney 
and trying to stop her hy putting her 
hand over her mouth. Speaking rapidly, 
breathlessly — yet not in loud voice] No 
no ! Don't say it ! — Don't say it ! 
Mrs. Varney. [Putting Edith's hand 

away] Yes ! 
Edith. Oh no! 

Mrs. Varney. Infamous traitor ! They 
ought to lash him through the streets of 
Richmond ! 
Edith. [Impulsively trying to stop Mrs. 
Varney] No Mama! No — no — no! 
[She stops. A moment's pause. She real- 
izes the truth. Speaks in almost a whis- 
per] Yes — yes — [Fainter and fainter] 
Yes — yes — [Stops — pauses — stands erect 
— looks about — makes very slight motion 
asking Mrs. Varney to leave her] 

[Mrs. Varney turns quietly and leaves 
the. room going out at the door up 
L. C. and to L. — Edith stands sup- 
porting herself without knowing that 
she does so — one hand on a table or 
back of chair. — Soon coming to her- 
self she turns and goes toward the 
window up R. When near c. she 
hesitates, stands there a moment 
looking toward the window, then 
brushes her hand quickly across her 
eyes and takes the President's Com- 
mission from her waist or belt. She 



looks at it a moment, folds it slowly 
and puts it back again. Walks to 
the window, throws aside the curtains 
and pushes it open] 
[Upon Edith pushing open the window 
up R. Captain Thorne outside r. at 
some distance, makes sound with 
chair as though he rose and pushed 
or set it back, and the sound of his 
footsteps outside approaching the 
window briskly follows at once. — 
Edith moves back away from the 
window and across to up L. c. near 
table, and stands there looking across 
at the window up R. for an instant, 
but soon turning away, so that she 
is not looking at Thorne as he enters. 
— After footsteps and after Edith 
is motionless at up L. c. Captain 
Thorne walks easily and unsuspi- 
ciously into the room at window up 
R., glancing about as he does so — not 
seeing Edith until he is a little way 
in. Upon seeing her he stops an in- 
■stant where he is, and then goes di- 
rectly across to her and is about to 
take her hand as he speaks] 
Thorne. [Coming to Edith up l. c] 

Miss Varney 

Edith. [Quickly snatching her hand away 
and shrinking backward to left a step 
or two. — Speaks rapidly — breathlessly — 
with almost a gasp] No — don't touch 
me! [A second's pause. — She recovers 
almost instantly] Oh — it was you! 
[Smiling as if at her own stupidity] 
Why how perfectly absurd I am! 
[Crossing in front of Thorne lightly and 
going to window at up R.] I'm sure I 
ought to be ashamed of myself! [Turns 
to him at R.] Do come out a minute — 
on the veranda.- — I want to talk to you 
about a whole lot o' things ! There 's 
half an hour yet before the party! 
[Turning to go] Isn't it a perfectly 
lovely evening! [She exits at the win- 
dow up R. with forced gaiety of manner, 
disappearing in the darkness] 

[Thorne stands looking at Edith when 
she first speaks. As she crosses R. 
he is looking down a little but looks 
slowly up toward front and turns a 
little after her crossing, looking at 
her as she stands for a moment in 
the window up R. After her exit he 
slowly turns toward front and his 
eyes glance about and down once as 
he weighs the chances] 
Edith. [After brief pause for above — 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



603 



calling gaily from outside up r. not too 
near the window'] Oh, Cap'n Thorne! 
[Entrphasis on 'Oh'] 

[Thorne turns quickly looking off R. 
again. Hesitates an instant. Makes 



[CURTAIN] 



up his mind. Walks rapidly to win- 
dow up R. A very slight hesitation 
there — without stopping. Exits at 
window up R. — Ring as Thorne 
passes out at the window] 



ACT II 

Scene : — The same room. 

Nine o'clock. 

Furniture as in Act I. Electric calciums 
for strong moonlight outside both win- 
dows at R. Portieres are closed at both 
windows. 

[Mrs. Varney discovered seated at desk 
down R. — She is not busy with anything 
but sits there to see that no one goes out 
to the veranda at n. — Sound of closing of 
door outside l. — Enter Miss Kittridge 
at door up l. c. from l. — The door up c. 
stands ajar as if she had recently come 
out] 

Mrs. Varney. Was it the same man'? 

Miss Kittridge. [Pausing up c] No — 
they sent another this time. 

Mrs. Varney, Did you have anything 
ready '? 

Miss Kittridge. Oh yes — I gave him 
quite a lot. We 've all been at the band- 
ages — that's what they need most. 
[Mrs. Varney rises. Seems preoccupied. 
Goes across to up L. and looks off. — Miss 
Kittridge watches her rather anxiously] 
Did you want anything Mrs. Varney'? 

Mrs. Varney. [Turning at up l.] No — 
I — nothing thank you. [Miss Kittridge 
is turning to go, but stops luhen Mrs. 
Varney speaks again. — Mrs. Varney 
goes nearer to Miss Kittridge] Per- 
haps it would be just as well if any of 
the ladies want to go, to let them out the 
other way — through the dining room I 
mean. We 're expecting someone here 
on important business. 

Miss Kittridge. I '11 see to it Mrs. Var- 
ney. 

Mrs. Varney. Thank you. [Exit Miss 
Kittridge at door up c. — Mrs. Varney 
stands a moment, then goes down l. and 
rings bell. Crosses to R. c, going back 
of table L. c. Then goes slowly up c. 
waiting] [Enter Martha at door up 
L. c. from R.] Did Miss Caroline go 
home"? 

Martpia. [Up L. c. near door] No 'm — 
she 's been out yere in de kitchen fur a 
while. 

Mrs. Varney. In the kitchen ! 



C04 



Martha. Yaas 'm. 

Mrs. Varney. What has she been doing? 

Martha. She been mostly sewin' and be- 
havin' mighty strange about sumHn a 
great deal o' de time. I bleeye she gittin' 
ready to go home now. 

Mrs. Varney. Ask her to come here a 
moment. 

Martha. Yaas 'm. [Martha turns and 
exits up L. c. to R.] [Mrs. Varney waits 
a little. Then goes forward r. c. a few 
steps] [Enter Caroline at door up l. c. 
from R. She comes into the room trying 
to look perfectly innocent] 

Mrs. Varney. [r. c] Caroline — [Caro- 
line goes down c. with Mrs. Varney. 
She is expecting to hear something said 
about the sewing she has been doing] 
Are you in a huiTy to get home"? Be- 
cause if you can wait a few minutes while 
I go up stairs to Howard it will be a great 
help. 

Caroline. [Looking round in some doubt] 
You want me to — just waif? 

Mrs. Varney. Yes. — You see I — [Hesi- 
tates a little] — I don't want anyone to go 
out on the veranda — just now. 

Caroline. [Doubtfully] Oh. 

Mrs. Varney. Edith and — and — 

Caroline. — And Captain Thorne 

(Mrs. Varney nods very slightly] 

Caroline. [Suddenly comprehending] 
Oh yes! [Glances toward windows R.] 
I know how that is! — I'll attend to it 
Mrs. Varney! [Crosses to up n. c] 

Mrs. Varney. Yes — if you will — just 
while I 'm upstairs— it won't be long! 
[Goes to door up l. c. Turns at door] 
Be careful won't you dear! [Exit at 
door up L. c. and up the stairway] 

Caroline. [Up r. c] Careful !— Well I 
should think so ! As if I did n't know 
enough for that ! [Goes toward tcindoiv 
up R. and pauses up R. C. Her face is 
radiant with the imagined romance of the 
situation. Goes to window up R. and 
peeps out slyly through curtains. After 
a moment she turns, an idea having oc- 
curred to her, and quickly rolls the couch 
up across before the window. Kneels on 
it with her back to the audience and tries 
to peep through curtains again. — Enter 
Wilfred Varney door up l. c. from l. 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



605 



coming in cautiously and as if he had 
been watching for an opportunity. He 
stops just within the door and looks hack 
up stairway. He has on the trousers 
wliich (Caroline fixed for him in the pre- 
vious act, and also the Army Jacket. — 
Carolixe rises and turns from the couch 
up R. and sees ^YILFRED. — He turns to 
her. — She stands adoring him in his uni- 
form] 

[These clothes are not hy any means 
new. — The trousers must he all right 
as to length though showing strange 
folds and awkwardness at bottom 
from being cut off and sewed hy an 
amateur. But on no account must 
there be anything grotesque or laugh- 
able] 

Carolixe. [Up r. Subdued exclamation 
as she sees Wilfred in uniform] Oh ! 

Wilfred, [l. c. — Low voice — speaking 
across from door] Mother isn't any- 
where around is she? 

Carolixe. [Coming out to up c] She — 
she just went upstairs. 

Wilfred. [Down l. c. a little] I'm not 
running away — but if she saw me with 
these things on she might feel funny. 

Carolixe. [Half to herself] She might 
not feel so very funny! 

Wilfred. Well — [Going over to desk 
down r, a7id taking papers and letters 
from pockets] — you know how it is with 
a feller's mother. [Carolixe nods af- 
firmatively from up c] [Wilfred busi- 
ness of hurriedly finding letter among 
others — feeling in different pockets for 
it — so that he speaks without much think- 
ing what he says] Other people don't 
care — but mothers — well — they 're dif- 
ferent. 

Carolixe. [c. — Speaks absently] Yes — 
other people don't care! [Moves over 
toward up l. — The thought of Wilfred 
actually going gives her a slight sinking 
of the heart at which she herself is sur- 
prised] 

Wilfred. I 've written that letter to the 
General ! — Here it is — on'y I 've got to 
end it off some way ! [Pulls a chair 
sideways to desk and half sits on it — 
intent on finishing the letter. — Business 
with pen, etc. and running hand into his 
hair impetuously] I 'm not going to say 
'•Your loving son" or any such rubbish as 
that ! It would be an almighty let-down ! 
I love him of course — that 's all right you 
know — but this is n't that kind of a letter ! 
[Pointing out writing on letter and speak- 



ing as if he supposed Carolixe was at 
his shoulder] I 've been telling him — 
[Looking round sees that Carolixe is 
standing at a considerable distance up 
L. c. looking at him] — What's the mat- 
ter? 

Carolixe. Nothing — ! That is — I was 
only 

Wilfred. I thought you wanted to help! 

Carolixe. [Quickly] Oh yes — I do! I 
do! [Goes down at once to Wilfred at 
desk] 

Wilfred. [Looks in her face an instant. — 
A slight pause] [Carolixe stammer- 
ingly asks] The — ^the — [Indicating his 
trousers by a little gesture] — are they 
how you Avanted 'em? 

Wilfred. What? 

Carolixe. Those things. [Pointing to 
trousers Wilfred is wearing] 

Wilfred. [Glances at legs] Oh — they We 
all right! — Fine! — Now about this letter 
— tell me what you think! [Turning to 
letter again] 

Carolixe. Tell me what you said ! 

Wilfred. Want to hear it? 

Carolixe. I 've got to have n't I ? How 
could I help you if I did n't know what 
it was all about! 

Wilfred. You 're pretty good ! [Looks 
at her hriefiy] You wiU help me won't 
you? [Catching hold of her r. hand as 
she stands near him on his L.] 

Carolixe. 0' co'se I will — [After an in- 
stant's pause draws hand away from him] 
— about the letter! 

Wilfred. That's what I mean! — It's 
mighty important you know! Every- 
thing depends on it ! 

Carolixe. Well I should think so! 
[Carolixe gets chair from up between 
windows and pulls it around near Wil- 
fred on his left, and sits looking over the 
letter while he reads] 

Wilfred. I just gave it to him stroiig ! 

Carolixe. That 's the way to give it to 
him! 

Wilfred. You can't fool round with him 
much ! He means business ! But he '11 
find out I mean business too ! 

Carolixe. That 's right — everybody means 
business! — What did you say? 

Wilfred. I said this! — [Beads letter] 
"General Ranson Varney — Commanding- 
Division Anny of Northern Virginia — 
Dear Papa ! This is to notify you that 
I want you to let me come right now ! 
If you don't I '11 come anyhow^ — that 's 
all! The seventeen call is almost out — 



GOG 



SECRET SERVICE 



the sixteen comes next an' 1 'm not going 
to wait for it ! Do you think I 'm a 
damned coward *? Tom Kittridge has 
gone! He was killed yesterday at Cold 
Harbor. Billy Fisher has gone. So has 
Cousin Stephen and he ain't sixteen. He 
lied about his age but I don't want to do 
that unless you make me. Answer this 
right now or not at all !" 

Caroline. That ^s splendid! 

Wilfred. [Surprised and delighted] Do 
you think so*? 

Caroline. It 's just the thing ! 

Wilfred. But how 'm I going to end it *? 

Caroline. Why just end it! 

Wilfred. How "? 

Caroline. Sign your name. 

Wilfred. Nothing else*? 

Caroline. What else is there*? 

Wilfred. Just "Wilfred"? 

Caroline. 0' eo'se! 

Wilfred. [Looks at her an instant then 
turns suddenly to desk and writes his 
name] That 's the thing! [Holds it up] 
Will the rest of it do? 

Caroline. Do! 1 should think so! 
[Rising] I wish he had it now! [Goes 
toward c] 

Wilfred. [Rising] So do I! — It might 
take two or three days! [Moves toward 
c] I can't wait that long! — Why the 
Seventeen call might — [Stops. — Thinks 
frowningly] 

Caroline. [Suddenly turning at c] I '11 
tell you what to do ! — Telegraph ! [Wil- 
fred looks at her — she at him. — After an 
instant he glances at the letter] 

Wilfred, [c. at r.] Whew! [A whis- 
tle] 1 have n't got money enough ! 

Caroline, [c. at l.] 'T won't take so 
very much ! 

Wilfred. Do you know what they 're 
charging now? Over seven dollars a 
word! 

Caroline. Let 'em charge ! We can cut it 
down so there 's only a few words an' it 
means just the same! [They both go at 
the letter each holding it on his or her 
side] You know the address won't cost a 
thing ! 

Wilfred. Won't it? 

Caroline. No ! They never do ! There 's 
a heap o' money saved right now ! We 
can use that to pay for the rest ! [Wil- 
fred looks at her a little puzzled] What 
comes next? [Both look over the let- 
ter] 

Wilfred. [Looks at letter] "Dear 
Papa"— 



Caroline. Leave that out ! [Both scratch 
at it with pens or pencils] 

Wilfred. I didn^t care much for it any- 
way! 

Caroline. He knew it before. 

Wilfred. Of course he did!— I'm glad 
it 's out ! 

Caroline. So'm I!— What's next? 
[Reading] "This-is-to-notify-you-that-I 
want-you-to-let-me-come-right-now.'* We 
might leave out that last "to." 

Wilfred and Caroline. [Reciting it off 
together experimentally to see how it 
reads without the "to''] "I-w^ant-you — 
let-me-come-right-now." [After instant's 
thought both shake heads] 

Wilfred. [Shaking head] No! 

Caroline. [Shaking head] No! 

Wilfred. It does n't sound right. 

Caroline. That 's only a little word any- 
how ! 

Wilfred. So it is. What's after that? 
[Both eagerly look at letter] 

Caroline. Wait — here it is! [Reads] 
"If-you-don't — I '11 — come — anyhow — 
that 's — all." [They consider] 

Wilfred. We might leave out "that 's 
all." 

Caroline. [Quickly] No! Don't leave 
that out ! It 's very important. It 
does n't seem so but it is ! It shows — 
[Hesitates] well — it shows that 's all 
there is about it ! That one thing might 
convince him ! 

Wilfred. We've got to leave out some- 
thing ! 

Caroline. Yes — but not that! Perhaps 
there 's something in the next ! 
[Reads] "The-seventeen-call-is-almost- 
out"— That 's got to stay ! 

Wilfred. [Reads] "The-sixteen-comes- 
next." 

Caroline. That 's got to stay ! 

Wilfred. [Shaking head] Yes! 

Caroline. [Taking it up] "And-I'm- 
not-going-to-wait-for-it !" [Shaking her 
head without looking up] No ! No ! 

Wilfred. [Shaking head] No! 

Caroline. We '11 find something in just a 
minute! [Reading] "Do-you-think-I 'm- 
a-damned-coward !" [Both look up from 
the letter simultaneously and gaze at each 
other in silence for an instant] 

Wilfred. [After the pause] We might 
leave out the 

Caroline. [Breaking in on him with al- 
most a scream] No ! [They again re- 
gard each other] 

Wilfred. [After the paus" 



Tviat c^amn 's 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



607 



going to cost us seven dollars and a 
half! 
Caroline. It 's worth it ! Why it 's the 
best thing you 've got in the whole thing ! 
Your papa 's a general in the army ! 
He '11 understand that ! What 's next *? 
I know there 's something now. 
Wilfred. [Reads] "Tom-Kittridge-has- 
gone. He-was-killed-yesterday-at-Cold- 
Harbor." 
Caroline. [Slight change in tone — a little 
lower] Leave out that about his [Very 
slight catch of breath] about his being 
killed. 
AYilfred. [Looking at Caroline] But he 

was ! 
Caroline. [She is suddenly very quiet] 
I know he was — but you haven't got to 
tell him the news have you? 
Wilfred. That's so! [They hoth cross 

off' the words] 
Caroline. [Becoming cheerful again] 
How does it read now*? [They are both 
looking' over the letter] 
Wilfred. It reads just the same — except 

that about Tom Kittridge. 
Caroline. [Looking at Wilfred aston- 
ished] Just the same! After all this 
work ! 

[They look at one another rather as- 
tounded, then suddenly turn to the 
letter again and study over it earn- 
estly. — Sound of door bell in dis- 
tant part of house. — Soon after 
Martha crosses outside up l. c. com- 
ing from door r. of stairway and 
disappearing outside up L. c. to l. — 
Sound of door off L. — A moment 
later she enters up l. c. from l. and 
goes up the stairway carrying a large 
envelope. — Wilfred and Caroline 
are so absorbed in work that they do 
not observe the hell or Martha's 
movements] 
Caroline. [Looking up from letter] 

Everything else has got to stay ! 
Wilfred. Then we can't telegraph — it 

would take hundreds of dollars! 
Caroline. [With determination] Yes we 
can ! [Wilfred looks at her. — She takes 
the letter] I'll send it! [Backing up a 
Utile toward door up L. c] 
Wilfred. How can you — 
Caroline. Never you mind ! 
Wilfred. [Follows her up a little] See 
here! [Taking hold of the letter] I'm 
not going to have you spending money ! 
Caroline. Ha — no danger ! I have n't 
got any to spend ! 



Wilfred. [Releases hold on letter] Then 
what are you going to do? 

Caroline. [Turning up toward door up 
L. c. with letter] Oh — I know! [Turns 
toward Wilfred] I reckon Douglass 
Stafford '11 send it for me ! 

Wilfred. [Quickly to her] No he won't! 
[They face each other. — Caroline sur- 
prised] 

Caroline. What 's the reason he won't 1 

Wilfred. [Slight ptause] If he wants to 
send it for me he can — but he won't send 
it for you! 

Caroline. What do you care so long as he 
sends it ? 

Wilfred. [Up c. — Looking at Caroline — 
slight change of tone] Well — I care! — 
that 's enough ! [They look at each other, 
then both lower eyes, looking in different 
directions] 

Caroline. [Up l. c] Oh well — if you 
feel like that about it — ! [Turns away 
down L. c] 

Wilfred. [Up c. — Eyes lowered] That's 
the way I feel ! [Pause. — Wilfred* Zoo A-s 
up at her — then moves down toward her] 
You — you won't give up the idea of help- 
ing me because I feel like that — will you? 

Caroline. [Impulsively, with start and 
turn toward AYilfred] Mercy no — I '11 
help you all I can — [Wilfred impulsively 
takes her hand as if in gratitude and so 
quick that she draws it away and goes on 
with only a slight break] — about the 
letter ! 

Wilfred. That's what I mean! [They 
stand an instant, Caroline looking down, 
Wilfred at her] 

Caroline. [Suddenly turning toward desk 
and crossing him ^o R.] I 'm going to 
see if we can't leave out something else! 
[Sits at desk. — Wilfred goes down r. 
near her on her l. and stands looking 
over her, intent on the letter] 

[Enter Mrs. Varney, coming down the 
stairway and into the room at door up 
L. c. — She has an open letter in her hand. 
Also brings a belt and cap rolled up to- 
gether. She pauses near the door and 
motions someone who is outside up L. c. 
to come in — then comes in a little way. — 
Martha follows her down and exits 
through door r. of stairway] 

[Enter an orderly up L. c. from L. just 
from his horse after a long ride. Dusty, 
faded and bloody uniform; yellow stripes. 
Face sunburned and grim. He stands 
near the door up l. c. waiting, without 



608 



SECRET SERVICE 



effort to he precise or formal, but never- 
theless being entirely soldierly. — Mrs. 
Yarney waits up L. c. until he enters^ 

Mrs. Varney. [Turning to Wilfred and 
moving toward c] Wilfred ! [Wilfred 
and Caroline turn quickly. They both 
stare motionless for a moment^ Here 's a 
letter from your Father. He sent it by 
the orderly, [Wilfred moves a step or 
tico toward Mrs. Varney and stands look- 
ing at her. — Caroline slowly rises with 
her eyes on Mrs. Varney. — Mrs. Varney 
speaks calmly but with the measured 
quietness of one who is controlling her- 
self] He tells me — [She stops a little 
but it is only her voice that fails. Holds 
letter toward Wilfred] You read it! 
[Wilfred, after a glance at Caroline, 
steps quickly to Mrs. Varney and 
takes the letter. Reads it — Mrs. 
Varney looking away a little as he 
does so. — Caroline's eyes upon Wil- 
fred as he reads. — The Orderly 
faced to r. on obliqued line of door. 
— Wilfred finishes very soon — only 
two or three seconds necessary. He 
glances at the Orderly, then hands 
the letter to his Mother as he steps 
across to him] 
Wilfred. [Standing before the Orderly] 
The General says I 'm going* back with 
you! 
Orderly. [Saluting] His orders sir! 
Wilfred. When do we start '? 
Orderly. Soon as you can sir — I 'm wait- 
ing ! 
Wilfred We '11 make it right now ! 
[Wilfred turns and walks quickly to his 
Mother] You won't mind. Mother? 
[Mrs. Varney does not speak, but 
quietly strokes the hair back from his 
forehead with a trembling hand — and 
only once. She then hands him the 
belt and cap. Old and worn cap. 
Belt that has seen service] 
Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Your brother 
wanted you to take these — I told him you 
were going. [Wilfred takes them. 
Puts on the belt at once] He says he 
can get another belt — when he wants it. 
You 're to have his blanket too — I '11 get 
it. [She crosses Wilfred and goes off at 
door up l. c. to L., going back of 
Orderly] 

[Wilfred finishing adjusting the belt. 
— Caroline motionless down r. but 
now looking down at the floor — 
facing nearly front] 



Wilfred. [Suppresses excitement] Fits 
as if it was made for me! [To orderly] 
I'll be with you in a jiffy! [Wilfred 
goes to Caroline] We won't have to 
send that now — [indicating letter they 
have been working on] will we? [Wil- 
fred stands on her l. — Caroline shakes 
her head a little without looking up — 
then slowly raises left hand in which she 
has the letter and holds it out to him, her 
eyes still on the floor. — Wilfred takes the 
letter mechanically and keeps it in his 
hand during the next few lines, tearing 
it up absent-mindedly] You 're pretty 
good — to help me like you did! You 
can help me again if you — if you want 
to! [Caroline raises her eyes and looks 
at him] I 'd like to fight twice as well 
if — [Hesitates. — Caroline looks at 
him an instant longer and then looks 
down without speaking] . Good-bye! 
[Wilfred holds out his hand. — Caroline 
puts her hand in his without looking at 
him] Perhaps you'll write to me about 
— about helping me fight twice as well! 
I would n't mind if you telegraphed ! 
That is — if you telegraphed that you 
would ! [Slight pause. Wilfred hold- 
ing Caroline's hand boyishly. — Caro- 
line looking down. — Wilfred trying to 
say something but not ffnding the words. 
— Enter Mrs. Varney at door up l. c. 
from L. — Wilfred hears her and turns — 
leaving Caroline and meeting his mother 
near c. — She brings an army blanket 
rolled up and tied. — Wilfred takes it 
and slings it over his shoulder] Good- 
bye mother! [He kisses her rather hur- 
riedly. — Mrs. Varney stands passive] 
You won't mind, will you! [Wilfred 
crosses at once to Orderly] Ready sh'! 
[Saluting. — Orderly turns and marches 
off at door up left. — Wilfred follows the 
Orderly. — Brief pause] 

[The opening and heavy closing of the 
door outside left is heard, and then 
it is still. — Mrs. Varney is the first 
to move. She turns and walks 
slowly up a few steps, her back to 
the audience, but with no visible emo- 
tion. It is as if her eyes filled with 
tears and she turned away. — When 
Mrs. Varney stops up c. Caroline 
moves a Utile, her eyes still down, 
walking slowly across toward the 
door up L. c. — Mrs. Varney hears 
her and turns in time to speak just 
before she reaches the door up l. c] 
Mrs. Varney. Going, dear? [Caroline 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



609 



nods her head a little without looking 
round^ Oh yes! {Speaks icith a shade 
of forced cheerfulness] Your party of 
course! You ought to be there! [Caro- 
line stops and speaks hack into the room 
without looking at Mrs. Varney] 

Caroline. [Subdued voice. With a sad 
little shake of head] There won't — 
there won't be any party to-night. [Exit 
at door up l. c. to l.] 

Mrs. Varney. [After an instanfs wait 
starts toward door up l. c] Caroline! 
Stop a moment! [J.^ door] I don't 
want you to go home alone! [She goes 
down L. and rings the hell] 

Caroline. [Outside up l.] Oh I don't 
mind ! 

[Sounds of front door and heavy steps 
of men outside up left. — Mrs. Var- 
ney goes tip l. c. looking off, and 
then retires hack a little to up c] 

[Enter Arrelsford and two soldiers at the 
door up l. c. from L. — Arrelsford mo- 
tions men to stand at the door and goes 
quickly to Mrs. Varney up c] 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] Is he — f [A 

motion toward window at r.] 
Mrs. Varney. [To Arrelsford, hardly 

ahove a whisper] Yes! 

[Enter Caroline at door up l. c. from l.] 

Caroline. [Up Jj.c] Oh Mrs. Varney — 
there 's a heap o' soldiers out yere ! Yon 
don't reckon anything 's the mattah do 
you? 

[Enter Martha at door up l. c. from door 
R. of stairway. — Arrelsford goes hack of 
Mrs. Varney to r. — Looks through cur- 
tains of window down R.] 

Mrs. Varney. [Hastening to Caroline] 
Sh ! — No — there 's nothing the matter ! 
Martha, I want you to go home with Miss 
Mitford — at once! [Urging Caroline 
off] Good night dear ! [Kissing her] 

Caroline. [Up l. c] Good night! 
[Looks up in Mrs. Varney's face] You 
don't reckon she could go with me to — 
[Hesitates] to somewhere else, do you*? 

Mrs. Varney. [Up l. c, r. of Caroline] 
Why where do you want to go*? 

Caroline. Just to — just to the telegraph 
office! 

[Arrelsford turns sharply and looks 
at Caroline from window down r.] 

Mrs. Varney. Now! At this time of 
night ! 



Caroline. I 've got to ! Oh, it 's very im- 
portant business! 

[Arrelsford r. watching Caroline] 

Mrs. Varney. Of course, then, Martha 
must go with you ! Good night ! 

Caroline. Good night! [Exit Caroline 
and Martha at door up l. c. to l.] 

Mrs. Varney. [Calling off up l. c. to l.] 
Martha, don't leave her an instant! 

Martha. [Outside l. or just going] 
No 'm — I '11 take care ! 

[Martha does not com.e into room for 
foregoing scene. She remains hack 
of archway or opening up L. c. — 
Heavy sound of door outside up L.] 

Arrelsford. [Going up c. quickly — low, 
sharp voice] What is she going to do 
at the telegTaph office'? — What is if? 

Mrs. Varney. [Going down l. c. a little. 
Low voice] 1 've no idea ! [Accent on 
first syllahle of "idea"] 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] Has she had 
any conversation with him? [Motion to- 
te ard R.] 

Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Why — they 
were talking together here — early this 
evening ! But it is n't possible that Caro- 



line could have any- 

Arrelsford. [Interrupting. Low voice] 
Anything is possible! [Goes over to 
Corporal at up l. c. quickly, passing 
hack of Mrs. Varney. — Mrs. Varney 
moves to up R. c. as Arrelsford crosses 
at hack] Have Eddinger follow that 
girl ! She 's going to the telegraph office. 
— Don't let her get any despatch off until 
I see it ! Make no mistake about that ! 
[Corporal exits with salute at door up 
L. c. to L. — Brrief pause. — Arrelsford 
turns to Mrs. Varney] Are they both 
out there? [Motioning tov'ard veranda 
at r] 

Mrs. Varney. [Up r. c. — Low tone] 
Yes ! — Did you bring the man from Libby 
Prison? 

Arrelsford. [l. of her. — Lotv voice] 
The guard 's holding him out in the street. 
When she gets Thorne in here and leaves 
him alone I '11 have them bring him up to 
that window [Pointing to window up R.] 
and then shove him into the room. 

[Corporal re-appears at the door up 
L. c. from L. and awaits further or- 
ders. — Arrelsford and Mrs. Var- 
ney continue in low tones] 

Mrs. Varney. [r. c] Where shall i 

Arrelsford. Out there [Pointing up l. 
and going toward door a little] where you 
can get a view of this room ! 



610 



SECRET SERVICE 



Mrs. Varney. But if he sees me 

Arrelsford. He won't if it 's dark in the 
hall! [Tiims to Corporal and gives or- 
der in low distinct voice] Shut off those 
lights out there! [Indicating lights out- 
side the door or archway up left. — Cor- 
poral exits up L. c. to L. — An instant 
later the lights outside up L. go off] We 
can close these curtains can't we*? 
Mrs. Varney. Yes. [Arrelsford draws 
curtains or portieres across at door or 
arch w a) I up l. c] 

[Corporal and Men are out of sight 
behind the drawn curtains] 
Arrelsford. [Turning front] I don't 
want much light in here! [Indicating 
drawing-room] 

[Arrelsford goes to table up c. and 

turns down the lamp. — Mrs. Varney 

turns down lamp on desk down R. — 

Stage in dim light] 

Arrelsford. [C are f idly moves couch away 

from window up R. and opens portieres 

of window. — Almost in a whisper] Now 

open those curtains ! — Carefully ! — -Don't 

attract attention ! [Indicating window 

doivn R.] 

[Mrs. Varney very quietly draws hack 
the curtains to window down r. — 
Moonlight on through window down 
R. covering as much of stage as pos- 
sible. Moonlight also strong on 
barking up R. and cdso in across room 
from ill ere] 
Arrelsford. [Moving over to up L. c. — 
Speaking across to Mrs. Varney after 
the lights are down] Are those women 
in there yet? [Indicating door up c] 
Mrs. Varney. Yes. 

Arrelsford. Where's the key? [Mrs. 
Varney moves noiselessly to the door up 
c] Is it on this side? 

[Mrs. Varney turns and nods affirma- 
tively] 
Arrelsford. Lock the door! 

[Mrs. Varney turns the key as noise- 
lessly as possible. — Edith suddenly 
appears at ivindow up R. coming on 
quickly and closing the ivindow after 
her. — Mrs. Varney and Arrelsford 
both turn and stand looking at 
her. 
Edith. [Going down r. c. and stretching 
out left hand toward Mrs. Varney. — 
Very low voice — but breathlessly] 
Mama! [Mrs. Varney hurries forward 
with her c. — Edith on her r. — Arrels- 
ford remains up l. c. looking on] I 
want to speak to you! 



Arrelsford. [l. c. — Low tone. — Stepping 
forward] We can't wait ! 

Edith. [c] You must! [Arrelsford 
moves back protestingly. — Edith turns to 
Mrs. Varney. — Almost a whisper] I 
can't — I can't do it ! Oh — let me go ! 

Mrs. Varney. [c. — Very low voice] 
Edith ! You w^ere the one "who 

Edith. [Almost a whisper] I was sure 
then !' 

Mrs. Varney. Has he confessed? 

Edith. [Quickly] No no! [Glance to- 
ward Arrelsford] 

Arrelsford. [Low voice — sharp] Don't 
speak so loud! 

Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] What is it 
Edith — you must tell me! 

Edith. [Almost a whisper] Mama — he 

loves me! [Breathless] — Yes — and I 

Oh — let someone else do it ! 

Mrs. Varney. You don't mean that you — 
[Arrelsford comes forward quickly l. c] 

Edith. [Seeing Arrelsford approach and 
crossing Mrs. Varney to him] No no! 
Not now! Not now! 

Mrs. Varney. [c. r. — Low voice] More 
reason now than ever! 

Arrelsford. [c. l. — Low voice] We must 
go on! 

Edith, [c. — Turning desperately upon 
Arrelsford. — Low voice] Why are you 
doing this? 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] Because I 
please ! 

Edith. [Low voice — but with force] You- 
never pleased befo-.-e! Hundreds of sus- 
picious cases have come up — hundreds of 
men have been run down — but you pre- 
ferred to sit at your desk in the War 
Department ! 

Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Edith! 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] We won't dis- 
cuss that now! 

Edith. [Low voice] No — ^we'll end it! 
I '11 have nothing more to do with the 
aifair ! 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] You won't! 

Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Edith — ! 

Edith. [Low voice] Nothing at all! — 
Nothing ! — Nothing ! 

Arrelsford. [Low voice but with vehe- 
mence] At your own suggestion Miss 
Varney, I agreed to a plan by which we 
could criminate this friend of yours — 
or establish his innocence. At the criti- 
cal moment — when eveiything 's ready, 
you propose to withdraw — making it a 
failure and perhaps allowing him to es- 
cape altogether! 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



611 



Mrs. Yarxey. [Low voice] I can't al- 
low you to do this Edith! 
Edith. [Low voice — desperately] He 's 
there I — the man is there — at the further 
end of the veranda ! What more do you 
want of me! 
Arrelsford. [Low voice. Sharp. In- 
tense] Call him into this room! If 
anyone else should do it he 'd suspect — 
he 'd be on his guard ! 
Edith. [After pause. Low voice] Tery 
well— I '11 call him into this room. 
[Turning away as if to do so] 
Arrelsford. [Loiv voice] One thing 
more! [Edith turns hack to him] I 
want him to have this paper! [Holding 
out paper that was taken from Jonas in 
Act I] Tell him where it came from — 
tell him the old niggah got it from a pris- 
oner in Libby ! 
Edith. [Quietly. Low voice] Why am 

I to do this'? 
Arrelsford. [Low hut very strong] Why 
not? If he's innocent where 's the 
harm'? — If not — if he's what I think he 
is — the message on that paper will send 
him to the telegTaph office to-night and 
that 's just where we want him ! 
Edith. [Low voice] I never promised 

that ! 
Arrelsford. [Hard sharp voice though 
suhdued] Do you still believe him inno- 
cent? 

[Pause. — Edith sloicly raises her head 
erect. Looks Arrelsford full in the 
face] 
Edith. [Ahnost whisper] I still — ^believe 

him — innocent ! 
Arrelsford. Then why are you afraid to 
give him this? [Indicating paper] 
[Pause. — Edith turns to Arrelsford. 
Stretches out her hand for the paper. 
— Arrelsford puts the paper in 
Edith's hand. — Arrelsford and 
Mrs. Varney watch her. — She turns 
and moves up a few steps toward 
the window. Stops and stands lis- 
tening up l. c. — Noise of chair heing 
set hack on veranda outside r.] 
Edith. [Low voice] Captain Thome 's 

coming. 
Arrelsford. [Going to door up l. c. and 
holding curtains hack] This way Mrs. 
Varney ! — Quick ! — Quick ! [Arrelsford 
and Mrs. Varney hasten off at the door 
up L. closing portieres after them] 

[Edith moves across to down l. c. and 
stands near table. — Sound of 
Thorne's footsteps on veranda out- 



side windows r. — Edith slowly turns 
toward the window up r. and stands 
looking at it with a fascinated dread. 
— Thorne opens the window up R. 
and enters at once, coming a few 
steps into the room. He stops and 
stands an instant looking at Edith 
as she looks strangely at liim. Then 
he goes to her] 
Thorne. [Low voice — near Edith] Is 

anything the matter? 
Edith. [Slightly shakes her head hefore 
speaking. — Nearly a whisper] Oh no ! 
[Emphasize "no.'' — Stands looking up in 
his face] 
Thorne. [Low voice] You 've been away 

a long time! 
Edith. [Low voice] Only a few minutes ! 
Thorne. [Low voice] Only a few years. 
Edith. [Easier] Oh — if that's a few 
years — [Turning away front a little] 
what a lot of time there is! 
Thorne. [Low voice] There's only to- 
night ! 
Edith. [Turning to him. A breathless in- 
terrogation] What ! 
Thorne. [Taking her hands and drawing 
her into his arms] There 's only to-night 
and you in the world! — Oh — see what 
I 've been doing ! I came here deter- 
mined not to tell you that I love you — 
I love you — I love you — and for the last 
half hour I 've been telling you nothing 
else ! Ah, my darling — there 's only to- 
night and you! 
Edith. [A breathless whisper] No no — 
you mustn't! [A quick apprehensive 
glance around toward left and back] — 
not now! [Her head is turned a little 
ffway from him] 

[Thorne, still holding her, is m&tion- 
less an instant. Then he gives a 
lightning-quick glance about — to R. 
and up — and almost instantly his 
eyes are back to her. He slowly re- 
leases her and stands back a step] 
Thorne. [Loiu voice] Don't mind what 
I said Miss Varney — I must have forgot- 
ten myself. Believe me I came to make 
a friendly call and — and say good-bye. 
[Bowing slightly] Permit me to do so 
now. [Turns up at once making turn to 
L. and walks toward door up l. c] 
Edith. [Quickly across to c. as Thorne 
goes] Oh!— Cap'n Thorne! [This is 
timed to stop Thorne just before he 
reaches the closed portieres of door up 
l. c. — Thorne turns up l. c. and looks 
at Edith. — Calcium across from window 



612 



SECRET SERVICE 



R. on him. — Edith trying to he natural — 
hut her lightness somewhat forced^ Be- 
fore you go 1 — [Slight quiver in her 
voice] — I wanted to ask your advice 
about something! [She stands near c. 
turned a little to front] 

[Thorne looks at her motionless an 
instant. Then turns his head slowly 
toward the portieres on his left. 
Turns hack to Edith at c. again and 
at once moves down to her on her l.] 

Thorne. [As he comes down to Edith] 
Yes? 

Edith. What do you think— this means'? 
[Holds the piece of paper out toward 
Thorne hut avoids looking in his face] 

Thorne. [l. of Edith. Stepping quickly 
to her and taking the paper easily] 
Why, what is itt [A half-glance at the 
paper as he takes it] 

Edith. It's a — [Hesitates slightly. Re- 
covers at once and looks up at him 
h rightly] That 's what I w^ant you to 
tell me. 

Thorne. [Looking at the paper] Oh — 
you don't know ! 

Edith. [Shaking her head slightly] No. 
[Stands waiting — eyes averted. — Thorne 
glances quickly at her an instant on pe- 
culiar tone of ^'no"] 

Thorne. [Looking again at the paper] 
A note from someone? 

Edith. It might be. 

Thorne. [Glancing ahout] Well, it's 
pretty dark here! [Sees the low-turned 
lamp on desk down r. and crosses to it] 
If you '11 excuse me I '11 turn up this 
lamp a little — [Comes to desk] then we 
can see what it is. [Turns up lamp. — 
Lights on foot 1-2] There we are! 
[Looks at paper, holding it down in light 
from lamp. Heads as if with much dif- 
ficulty] "Attack .... to-night" .... 
There's something about "Attack to- 
night" — [Turns easily to Edith] Could 
you make out what it was? 

[Edith shakes head negatively. Her 
lips move, hut she cannot speak. 
She turns away] 

[Thorne looks at her a second — then a 
slow turn of head {turning it to his L, ) 
glancing up stage. — Then quickly turns 
to examine the paper again] "Attack 
.... to-night .... plan .... three." 
[Looks up to front as if considering. 
Repeats] Plan three! [Considering 
again. — Slight laugh] Well — this thing 
must be a puzzle of some kind. Miss Var- 
ney. [Turning to Edith] 



Edith. [Slowly. Strained voice, as if 
forcing herself to speak] It was taken 
from a Yankee prisoner! 

Thorne. [Instantly coming from former 
easy attitude into one showing interest 
and surprise. Looking at Edith] So! 
— Yankee prisoner eh? [While speaking 
he is holding paper in right hand as if to 
look at it again when he finishes speak- 
ing to Edith] 

Edith. Yes — down in Libby ! — He gave it 
to one of our servants — old Jonas! 

Thorne. [Turning quickly to paper] 
Why here — this might be something — 
[Looks again at the paper] "Attack to- 
night — plan three — use Telegraph — " 
[Second's pause. He looks up front] 
Use telegraph ! [Turns quickly to Edith 
and goes toward her] This might be 
something important Miss Varney! 
Looks like a plot on our Department 
TelegTaph Lines! Who did Jonas give 
it to? 

Edith. No one! 

Thorne. No one! — Well — how — how — 

Edith. We took it away from him! 

Thorne. Oh! [An "Oh!" meaning "What 
a pity!"] [Starting at once as if to 
cross ahove Edith to door up L. c] 
That was a mistake! 

Edith. [Detaining him. — Speaks rapidly 
— almost a whisper] What are you go- 
ing to do? 

Thorne. [Strong. Determined] Find 
that nigger and make him tell who this 
paper w^as for — he 's the man we want ! 
[Crossing hack of her — toward door up 
L. c] 

Edith. [Turning quickly to him] Cap'n 
Thorne — they 've lied about you ! 

Thorne. [Wheeling round like a flash iip 
L. c. and coming down quickly to her] 
Lied about me! What do you mean? 
[Seizing her hands and looking in her 
face to get the answer there] 

Edith. [Quick — hreathless — very low — al- 
most whisper] Don't be angry — I did n't 
think it would be like this! 

Thorne. [With great force] Yes — but 
what have you done? 

Edith. [Breaking loose from him and 
crossing to L.] No! 

Thorne. [As she crosses hefore him — try- 
ing to detain her] But I must 
know! 

[Sound of heavy door outside l. and of 
steps and voices in the hall — "Here! 
This way!" etc.] 

Corporal, [Speaking outside door up l. c. 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



613 



to h.] This way I Look out on that side 

will you^ 

[TiiORXE on hearing Corporal etc. 
backs away to R. C. keeping his eyes 
on door up L. c. and at same time 
snatching revolver from holster. 
Stands motionless down L. C. — eyes 
on door — revolver ready] 
Edith. Oh! [Going rapidly up L.] — I 

don't want to be here! [She exits door 

up L. and goes up stairs out of the way 

of the soldiers] 

[Enter at once on exit of Edith, Corporal 
tuith two men at door up L. c. from L. — 
They cross rapidly toward window up R., 
Corporal leading carrying a lighted lan- 
tern. — Thorxe, seeing Corporal, at once 
breaks position and moves across towards 
up c. as men cross, ivatching Corporal 
who is up R. c. directing his men] 

Corporal. [Near window up r.] Out 
here ! Look out now ! 

[The men exit at window up R.] 
Thorxe. [Quick on Corporal's speech so 
as to stop him at R. c] What is it Cor- 
poral? [Putting revolver back into hol- 
ster] 

[Thorxe stands up c. in light from 
window up R. facing Corporal] 
Corporal. [Turning at up r. c. and salut- 
ing] Prisoner sir — broke out o' Libby ! 
We 've run him down the street — he 
turned in here somewhere! If he comes 
in that way [Indicating the window down 
R.] would you be good enough to let us 
know! 
Thorxe. Go on, Corporal ! [Starts across 
to window down R.] I '11 look out for 
this window ! 

[Exit Corporal window up b..] 
[Thorxe strides rapidly to window 
down r. Pushes curtains back each 
side and stands within the window 
looking off. Right hand on revolver 
in holster. Left hand holding cur- 
tains back. — 2Ioonlight on through 
window down R. across stage and 
also from window up R. — Dead pause 
for an instant. — Suddenly the two 
men who crossed with Corporal ap- 
pear at window up R. holding Hexry 
DuMOXT. With a sudden movement 
they force him on through the win- 
dow into the room and disappear 
quickly outside off to R. — Dumoxt 
stands an instant where he landed up 
R. c. — Looks back through window up 



R., not comprehending ichat is going 
on. He gives a quick glance about 
the room. DuiioxT wears a worn and 
tattered uniform of a United States 
Cavalry private. He is pale as from 
lack of food — but not emaciated or 
ill. — Hold this Tableau : — Thorxe 
standing motionless just iitthin the 
window down R. his eyes sharply 
ivatching off to R., his hand on the 
butt of his revolver; — Dumoxt up 
R. C, holding position he came to on 
being forced into the room, with 
enough light through window up R. 
to show the blue of his uniform. — 
After a second's pause Dumoxt 
turns from the ivindow and looks 
sloivly about the room, taking in the 
■various points like a caged animal, 
turning his head very slowly as he 
looks one way and another. Soon he 
moves a few steps down toward c. 
and pauses. Turns and makes out a 
doorway up L. c. and after a glance 
round, he walks rapidly toward it. 
Just before he reaches the door the 
blades of four bayonets come down 
into position between the drawn cur- 
tain or portieres, barring his exit 
there. — Light from outside window R. 
to strike across on blades of bayonets. 
— Very slight steely click of bayonets 
striking together as they come down 
into position. — Dumox^t stops in- 
stantly and stands motionless. — 
Thorxe at ivindow down R. turns 
sharply on click of bayonets looking 
into room, and advancing a few steps 
in as he does so, coming to a stand 
with right hand on chair that is near, 
and trying to see who it is on the 
opposite side of the room. — Bayonets 
withdrawn at once after they are 
shown. — DuiioXT turn^ from the 
door and begins to move slowly down 
at L. along the wall. Just as he is 
coming around table down L. toward 
c. he sees Thorxe and stops dead. — 
Both men motionless, their eyes upon 
each other. — Hold it several seconds. 
— Dumoxt makes a start as if to 
escape through ivindow up R., mov- 
ing across toward it] 
Thorxe. [Quick and loud order as Du- 
moxt starts toward window] Halt! — 
You 're a prisoner ! 

[Dumoxt, after instant's hesitation on 
Thorxe's order, starts rapidly to- 
ward window up r. again. — Thornk 



614 • 



SECRET SERVICE 



heads him o/J', meeting him up R. c. 
and seizes him] 
Thorne. [As he heads Dumont off] 
Halt ! I say ! 

[Dumont grapples with Thorne and 
the two men struggle together, mov- 
ing quickly down stage to l. c, very 
close to front — getting as far as pos- 
sible from those who are watching 
them] 
Thorne. [Loud voice, as they struggle 
down stage] Here's your man Cor- 
poral! What are you waiting for! 
Here 's your man I say ! 
Dumont. [When they are down as far as 
possible — holding Thorne motionless an 
instant and hissing out between his teeth, 
without pause or infiectioyi on the words] 
ATTACK TO-NIGHT— PLAN THREE 
—TELEGRAPH— DO YOU GET IT? 
Thorne. [Quick on it] YES! 

[This dialogue in capitals shot at each 

other with great force and rapidity — 

and so low that people outside door 

up L. could not hear] 

Dumont. [Low voice — almost whisper] 

They're watching us! Shoot me in the 

Ipcr t 

Thorne. [Holding Dumont motionless] 

No no ! I can't do that ! 
Dumont. You must ! 

[They are struggling desperately — but 
with little movement] 
Thorne. [Quick on it] I can't shoot my 

own brother! 
Dumont. It's the only way to throw 'em 

off the scent ! 
Thorne. Well I won't do it anyhow ! 
Dumont. If you won't do it I will ! Give 
me that gun! [Pushing left arm out to 
get revolver] 
Thorne. [Holding Dumont's arm hack 
motionless] No no Harry ! You '11 hurt 
yourself ! 
Dumont. [Struggling to get revolver] 
Let me have it ! 

[They are now struggling in real des- 
peration, moving quickly up c. as 
they do so, coming into light from 
windows at r] 
Thorne. [Calling out as he struggles up c. 
ivith Dumoxt] Here 's your man Cor- 
poral ! What 's the matter with you ! 
[Dumont gets hold of Thorxe's re- 
voli-er and pulls it out of holster] 
Thorne. [.Is Dumoxt holds him up c. and 
is getting revolver] — [Loud — aspirated — 
sharp] Look out HaiTy! You'll hurt 
yourself! [Get$ hi§ B, hand on revolver 



to hold it] [Dumox'^t manages with his 
L. hand to wrench Thorxe's hand loose 
from the revolver and hold it up while he 
seizes the weapon with his r. hand and 
pulls it out of the holster. At the same 
time he shoves Thorne off toward down 
r.] 
Thorx^e. [As Dumont throws him off r.] 
Look out! [As Dumont throws 7'hornb 
off toward down R. he backs quickly — • 
with same motion — up c. the revolver in 
his right hand. — Before Thorx^e can re- 
cover and turn at right Dumont fires. — 
There is a quick sharp scream from ladies 
outside up L. c. behind portieres. — Du- 
mont staggers down c. and falls, holding 
the revolver in his hand until he is down 
and then releasing it, so that it lies on the 
floor near liim] 
Thorx^e. [Back against chair at R. — which 
he teas flung against] Harry — ^you 've 
shot yourself! [Instantly on this he 
dives for the revolver that Dumox^t has 
dropped and gets it, coming up on same 
motion with it in right hand and stands in 
careless attitude just over Dumox^t's 
body to R. of it. — Blends voices heard out- 
side up L. and outside windows r. and 
up R.] 

[Instantly on Thorne stooping to 
snatch up revolver, enter at up L. c. 
through the portieres Arrelsford 
and Men followed by Edith, Mrs. 
Varx^ey and Miss Kittridge, and 
from windows up r. and R. the Cor- 
poral and Men. — Arrelsford runs 
at once to table up c. and turns up 
the lamp. — Others stand on tableau — 
Mrs. Varney and Edith at left. 
Miss Kittridge up l. Men in door- 
way and up R. C. near window] 
[Lights full on instantly on Arrels- 
ford reaching the lamp] 
Arrelsford, Mrs. Yarx'ey, Edith, Miss 
Kittridge, Corporal, Men. [As they 
enter] Where is he! — What has he 
done ! — He 's shot the man ! — This way 
now! [These different exclamations 
from the different characters and nearly 
together as they rush into the room, but 
quieting down at once as they see Thorne 
standing over Dumoxt] 
Thorx'^e. [Instantly on people stopping 
quiet. — With easy swing of revolver 
crossing toward c. as he brings it up to 
put back into holster] There 's your 
prisoner Corporal — look out for him! 
[Stands at r. c, putting revolver back 
into hoUter] 



[CURTAIN] 



ACT III 

Scenes : — Tlie War Department Telegraph 
Office. 

Ten o'clock 

Plain and somewhat battered and grimy 
room on the second floor of a public 
building. Moldings and stucco-work 
broken and discolored. Stained and 
smoky walls. Large ivindows — the glass 
covered with grime and cobwebs. Plaster 
fallen or knocked from walls and ceiling 
in some places. All this from neglect 
— not from bombardment. The building 
was once a handsome one, but has been 
put to war purposes. Very large and 
high double doors up E. C. obliqued. 
These doors open to a corridor showing 
plain corridor-backing of a public build- 
ing. This door must lead off well to E. 
so that it shall not interfere with window 
showing street up L. C. Three wide 
French windows up l. and l. c. obliqued 
a little and opening down to floor, with 

- balcony outside extending e. and L. and 
showing several massive white columns, 
bases at balcony and extending up out of 
sight as if for several stories above. 
Part of the building with columns shown 
in perspective, as if a wing. Backing of 
windows showing night view of city roofs 
and buildings as from height of second 
floor. Large disused fireplace with elab- 
orate marble mantel in bad repair and 
very dirty on e. side behind telegraph 
tables. Door up c. opening to cupboard 
with shelves on which are battery jars and 
telegraph office truck of various kinds. 
Boom lighted by gas on e. above E. tele- 
graph table, several burners branching 
from a main pipe and all to turn on and 
off easily by means of one cock in main 
pipe, just above the telegraph table. 
Show evening through windows up L. — 
dark, with lights of buildings very faint 
and distant, keeping general effect outside 
window of darkness in order to avoid 
distracting attention from interior of 
room. Electric Calciums {moonlight) to 
throw on at windows up l. c. and L. on 
cues, and also to hold on the massive 
white columns and on the characters who 
go out on the balcony. Corridor outside 



615 



door up E. c. not strongly illuminated. 
In the room itself fair light but not bril- 
liant. Plain, solid table with telegraph 
instruments down e. c. Another plain 
plank table with instruments along wall 
at right side. Table down e. c. braced 
to look as if fastened securely to the floor. 
Also see that wire connections are prop- 
erly made from all the instruments in the 
room to wires running up the wall on 
right side, thence across along ceiling to 
up L. c. and out through broken lights in 
half circle windows above the French 
windows at up L. c. This large bunch 
of wires leading out, in plain sight, is 
most important. Large office clock over 
mantel set at 10 o'clock at opening and to 
run during the Act. 

Two instruments, A. and D., on table down 
E. c. — A. is at E. end of table and is the 
only one regularly used at that table, D. 
being for emergency. Two instruments, 
B. and C. on long table at E. against fire- 
place. B. is at lower end of table, c. at 
upper end. One chair at table down e. c. 
Two chairs at table E. One chair up c. 
No sound of cannonading in this Act. 

[At opening there are two Operators at 
work, one at table down e. c, one at table 
on E. side. They are in old gray uni- 
forms, but in shirt sleeves. Coats are 
hung up or thrown on chairs. Busy 
click-effect of instruments from an instant 
before curtain rises, and continues. 
After first continued clicking for a mo- 
ment there are occasional pauses. Mes- 
sengers A. and B. near door up e. c. Mes- 
senger No. 3 in front of door c. talking 
to messenger No. 4. Messenger No. 2 
looking out of middle window over L.] 

Second Opeeatoe. [Lieut. Allison] [At 
table E. — instrument b. — finishing writing 
a dispatch] Ready here! [Messenger a. 
steps quickly forward and takes dispatch] 
Department! The Secretary must have 
it to-night! [Messengee salutes and 
exits quickly at door up E. c. tvith dis- 
patch. — Short pause. — Other Messengers 
standing on attention] 

First Operator. [Lieut. Foray] [At 
table down R. c. — instrument A.] Ready 
here! [Messenger b,— steps quickly 



616 



SECRET SERVICE 



down and takes dispatch from First 
Operator] To the President — General 
Watson — marked private ! [Messenger 
B. salutes and exits quickly doors up R. c] 
[Business continues a short' time as be- 
fore. — Busy clicking of instruments. 
calls of sentries fat below in the 
square. — Second Operator at r. 
moves to another instrument when it 
begins to click and answers caW] 

[First Messenger enters hurriedly at doors 
up r. c. and comes down l. of table R. c. 
with dispatch^ 

First Messenger. Major Bridg-man ! 
First Operator. [Looking up from work'] 

Bridgman ! Where 's that "? 
Second Messenger. [Glances at dispatch] 

Longstreet's Corps. 
First Operator. That 's yours Allison. 
[Resumes loork at instrument a.] 

[Second Operator holds out hand for 
dispatch. — First Messenger crosses 
back of table R. c. gives it to him and 
exits at door up R. — Second Oper- 
ator sends message on instrument b. 
— Sound of band of music in distance 
increasing very gradually. — Messen- 
gers go to windows up L. c. and look 
out but glance now and then at 
Operators] 
Second Messenger. [Opening c. window 
and looking out ivhile music is coming on 
and still distant] What 's that going up 
Main Street? 
Third Messenger. [Looks out] Rich- 
mond Grays ! 
Second and Fourth Messengers. [To- 
gether] No ! 

[Messengers look out through middle 
window up l.] 
Second Messenger. That 's what they are, 

sure enoug'h ! 
Third Messenger. They're sending 'em 

down the river! 
Second Messenger. Not to-night ! 
Fourth Messenger. Seems like they was, 

though ! 
Third Messenger. I did n't reckon they 'd 
send the Grays out without there was 
something going on ! 
Fourth Messenger. How do you know 

but what there is"? 
Second Messenger. To-night ! Why good 

God ! It 's as quiet as a tomb ! 
Fourth Messenger. I reckon that 's 
what 's worrying 'em ! It 's so damned 
unusual! 

[Sound of band gradually dies away. 



Before music is quite off, First 
Operator finishes a dispatch from in- 
strument A. and calls] 
First Operator. Ready here! [Third 
Messenger comes down to him to l. of 
table R. c. and takes dispatch] Depart- 
ment — from General Lee — duplicate to 
the President! 

[Third Messenger salutes and exits 
quickly at doors up R. c. Business 
goes on. — Enter an Orderly, doors 
up R. c. Goes quickly down to First 
Operator. Second and Fourth 
Messengers stand talking near win- 
dows up L. c] 
Orderly, [l. of table r. c. salutes] The 
Secretary would like to know if there 's 
anything from General Lee come in since 
nine o'clock this evenmg. 
First Operator. Just sent one over an' a 

duplicate went out to the President. 
Orderly. The President 's with the Cabi- 
net yet — he did n't go home ! They want 
an operator right quick over there to take 
down a cipher. 
First Operator. [Calling out to Second 

Operator] Got anything on, Charlie? 
Second Operator. Not right now ! 
First Operator. Well go over to the De- 
partnaent^ — they want to take down a 
cipher. 

[Second Operator gets coat and exits 
doors up R. c. putting coat on as he 
goes, followed by the Orderly who 
came for him. — Business and click of 
instruments goes on. — Doors up R. C. 
are opened from the outside by a 
couple of young officers in showy and 
untarnished uniforms, who stand in 
most polite attitudes icaiting for a 
lady to pass in. — First Operator 
very busy ivriting at table R. C. taking 
message from instrument A.] 
First Young Officer. Right this way. 

Miss Mitford! 
Second Young Officer. Allow me. Miss 
Mitford! This is the Department TeJe- 
graph office ! 

[Enter at the doors up R. c. Caroline 

Mitford. — The young officers follow 

her in. — Martha enters after the 

officers, and waits near door well up 

stage] 

Caroline. [Coming down c. as she comes 

in. Speaks in rather subdued manner 

and without vivacity, as if her mind 

were upon what she came for] Thank 

you! 

First Young Officer. [On her l.] I 'm 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



617 



afraid you've gone back on the Army, 

Miss Mitf ord ! 

[Caroline looks at First Young 
Officer] 
Caroline. [c.J Gone where"? 
Second Young Officer. \^0n Caroline's 

r.] Seems like we ought to a' got a 

salute as you w^ent by ! 
Caroline. Oh yes! [Salutes in perfunc- 
tory and absent-minded manner and turns 

away glancing about room and moving 

down a step or two'] Good evening! 

[Nodding to one of the Messengers wait- 
ing up L. c] 
Second Messenger. [Touching cap and 

stepping quickly to Caroline to L. of 

First Young Officer] Good evening, 

Miss Mitf ord ! Could we do anything for 

you in the office to-night "? 

[First Messenger remains up near 
window] 
Caroline. I want to send a telegram ! 

[The three officers stand looking at 
Caroline quieted for a moment by 
her serious tone] 
Second Young Officer. I'm afraid 

you 've been havin' bad news, Miss Mit- 

ford? 
Caroline, [c] No — [Shaking her 

head] No! I mean — ^not specially. 
First Young Officer, [l. c] Maybe 

some friend o' yours has gone down to the 

front ! 
Caroline. [Beginning to be interested] 

Well supposing he had — would you call 

that bad news'? 
First Young Officer. Well I didn't 

know as you 'd exactly like to 

Caroline. Then let me tell you — as you 

did n't know — that all my friends go 

down to the front ! 
Second Young Officer. I hope not all 

Miss Mitf ord ! 
Caroline. Yes — all ! If they did n't they 

would n't be my friends! 
First Young Officer. But some of us are 

obliged to stay back here to take care of 

you. 
Caroline. Well there's altogether too 

many trying to take care of me ! You 're 

all discharged! [Goes across to down L.] 

[Third Messenger enters doors up r. c. 
and joins Fourth Messenger up l. c. 
near upper ivindow. — Officers fall back a 
little, looking rather foolish but entirely 
good-natured] 

Second Young Officer, [c] Well — if 



we 're reaHy discharged Miss Mitf ord, 
looks like we 'd have to go ! 

First Young Officer, [l. c] Yes — but 
we 're mighty sorry to see you in such bad 
spirits Miss Mitf ord ! 

Second Young Officer and Second Mes- 
senger, [l. c. and c. — Murmuring nearly 
together] Yes indeed we are. Miss Mit- 
ford! 

Caroline. [Turning on them at down l.] 
Would you like to put me in real good 
spirits'? 

First Young Officer. Would we ! 

Second Young Officer. You try us once ! 

Second Messenger. I reckon there ain't 
anything we 'd like bettah ! 

Caroline, [l.] Then I'll tell you just 
how to do it! [They listen eagerly] 
Start out this very night and never stop 
till you get to where my friends are — 
lying in trenches and ditches and earth- 
works between us and the Yankee 
guns ! 

Second Young Officer, First Young 
Officer, Second Messenger. [Remon- 
strating] But really. Miss — ^You don't 
mean — [etc.] 

Caroline. Fight Yankees a few days and 
lie in ditches a few nights till those uni- 
forms you 've got on look like they 'd been 
some use to somebody ! If you 're so 
mighty anxious to do something for me, 
that 's what you can do ! [Turning away 
to L.] It 's the only thing I want ! 

[The Young Officers stand rather dis- 
couraged an instant] 

First Operator. [Business] Ready here ! 
[Third Messenger steps quickly down to 
L. of table r. c] Department! Com- 
missary General's office! [Third Mes- 
senger salutes, takes dispatch and exits 
doors up R. c. — Second Messenger re- 
turns to Fourth Messenger during this, 
and stands with him near window up 
L. c] 

[Messenger a. enters quickly at doors 
up R. c. and comes down to First 
Operator l. of table r. c. handing 
him a dispatch and at once makes his 
exit again doors up R. c. — First and 
Second Young Officers exit deject- 
edly at doors up R. c. after this Mes- 
senger] 

Caroline. [Going across ivith determined 
air to R. c. near First Operator when she 
sees an opportunity] Oh Lieutenant 
Foray ! [Accent on "Oh"] 

First Operator. [Turns and rises quickly 
with half salute. — Caroline gives a little 



618 



SECRET SERVICE 



attempt at a military salute] Beg your 
pardon Miss! [Gets his coat which is on 
chair or table near at R. and hastily starts 
to put it on] I did n't know 

Caroline. [Up c. a little] No no — don't! 
I don't mind. You see — I came on busi- 
ness! 

First Operator. [Puts on coat] Want to 
send something- out 1 

Caroline. Yes! That's it. — I mean I 
do. 

First Operator. [Going to her, crossing 
back of table R. c] 'Fraid we can't do 
anything for you here ! This is the War 
Department Miss. 

Caroline. I know that — ^but it 's the on'y 
way to send, an' I — [Sudden loud click of 
instrument b. on table r. — First Oper- 
ator turns and listens] 

First Operator. [Crossing back of table 
R. c] Excuse me a minute, won't you'? 
[Going to lower instrument on table R. 
and answering. Writing down message, 
etc.] 

Caroline. Yes — I will. [A trifle discon- 
certed, stands uneasily near c] [Speaks 
absently while she watches him] I '11 — 
excuse you — of co'se. 

First Operator. Ready here! [Second 
Messenger down quickly to l. of First 
Operator at table r.] Department! 
Quick as you can — they 're waiting for 
it! [Second Messenger takes dispatch 
— salutes and exits at door up R. First 
Operator rises and crosses to Caroline 
who is up c. — To Caroline] Now what 
was it you wanted us to do Miss? 

Caroline, [c] Just to [Short gasp] to 
send a telegram. 

First Operator, [r. c] I reckon it 's 
private business'? 

Caroline. [Looking at him with wide open 
eyes] Ye — yes ! It 's — private ! — Oh yes 
— I should say so ! 

First Operator. Then you '11 have to get 
an order from some one in the depart- 
ment. [Goes to back of table R. c. and 
picks up papers] 

Caroline. That 's what I thought [taking 
out a paper] so I got it. [Hands it to 
Operator] 

First Operator. [Glancing at paper] 
Oh — Major Selwin! 

Caroline. Yes — he — he 's one of my 

First Operator. It 's all right then ! [In- 
strument B. calls. Quickly picks up a 
small sheet of paper and a pen and places 
them on table L. c. near Caroline and 
pushes chair up with almost the same 



movement] You can write it here Miss 
[This is on upper side of telegraph table 
down R. c] 
Caroline. Thank you. [Sits at table- 
looks at small sheet of paper — picks out 
large sheet — smooths it out. She starts 
writing] 

[First Operator returns to table at 
down R. and answers call and sits — ■ 
writes hurriedly, taking down dis- 
patch. — Caroline earnestly writing 
— pausing an instant to think once or 
twice and a nervous glance toward 
First Operator. — First Operator 
very busy. — Martha standing mo- 
tionless up stage, waiting — her eyes 
fixed on the telegraph instruments. — 
Caroline bus. of start and drawing 
away suspiciously on loud click of 
instrument A. near her. Moves over 
to L. side of table, looking suspi- 
ciously at the instrument. Puts pen 
in mouth — gets ink on tongue — makes 
wry face. After writing she care- 
fully folds up her despatch, and 
turns down a corner. — First Oper- 
ator when nearly through, motions 
to Fourth Messenger and speaks 
hurriedly] 
First Operator. [Still writing] Here! 
[Fourth Messenger comes down quickly 
L. of First Operator and business] De- 
partment! Try to get it in before the 
President goes! [Handing Fourth 
Messenger dispatch. — Fourth Messen- 
ger salutes and exits at doors up R, c. — 
First Operator rising, to Caroline] Is 
that ready yet Miss? 
Caroline. [Rising, hesitating, getting l. 
of and a little above table r. c] Yes, but 
I — [Finally starts to hand it up to IfiimJ 
Of course you've — [Hesitates] You've 
got to take it ! 
First Operator. [Near Caroline on her 
R. — A brief puzzled look at her] Yes of 
course. 

[She hands him the dispatch.^ — He at 

once opens it] 

Caroline. [Sharp scream] Oh! [Quickly 

seizes the paper out of his hand. They 

stand looking at one another a little l. of 

and aboie table R. c] Why I didn't tell 

you to read it ! 

First Operator. [After look at her] 

Well what did you want? 
Caroline. I want you to send it ! 
First Operator. How am I going to send 

it if I don't read it ? 
Caroline. [After looking at him in con- 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



619 



sternaiion] 
say 



Do — you — mean — to — 



First Operator. I 've got to spell out 

every word ! Did n't you know that "? 
Caroline. [Sadly, and shaking her head 
from side to side] Oh — I must have — 
but I — [Carolixe pauses trying to think 

ivhat to do] — you see 

First Operator. Would there be any 

harm in my 

Caroline. [Turning on him icith sudden 

vehemence] "Why I wouldn't have you 

see it for worlds! My gracious! [She 

soon opens the dispatch and looks at it] 

First Operator. [Good-naturedly] Is it 

as bad as all that! 
Caroline. Bad! It isn't bad at all! 
On'y — I only don't want it to get out all 
over the town — that 's all ! 
First Operator. It won't ever get out 
from this office Miss. [Caroline Zoo As 
steadfastly at First Operator] We 
would n't be allowed to mention anything 
outside ! 
Caroline. [A doubtful look at him] You 

would n't ! 
First Operator. Xo Miss. All sorts of 

private stuff goes through here. 
Caroline. [With new hope] Does if? 
First Operator. Every day! Now if 

that 's anything important 

Caroline. [Impulsively] yes — it 's 

[Recovering herself] — it is! 
First Operator. Then I reckon you 'd bet- 
ter trust it to me. 

[Caroline looks at Operator a mo- 
ment] 
Caroline. Ye — yes — I reckon I had! 
[She hesitatingly hands him her tele- 
gram] 

[First Operator takes the paper and 

at once turns to the- table k. as if to 

send it on instrument B.] 

Caroline. [Quickly] Oh stop! [First 

Operator turns and looks at her from 

table down R.] Wait till I — [Turns 

and goes up stage toward door hurriedly] 

I don't want to be here — while you spell 

out every word! Oh no — I couldn't 

stand that ! 

[First Operator stands good-naturedly 
icaiting. — Caroline takes hold of 
ISIartha to start out of door with 
her. — Enter Eddinger — a private in 
a gray uniform — at doors up r. c. — 
Caroline and Martha sfa^id back 
out of his way. — He glances at them 
and at once goes down to First 
Operator on his l., salutes and hands 



him a ivritten order and crosses in 
front of table R. c. to L. c, wheels 
and stands at attention facing r. — 
First Operator looks at the order, 
glances at Eddinger, then at Caro- 
line. — Caroline and IMartha move 
as if to go out at doors up r. c] 

First Operator. Wait a minute please! 
[Caroline and Martha stop and turn 
toward First Operator] Are you Miss 
Mitford? 

Caroline. Yes — I 'm Miss Mitf ord ! 

First Operator. I don't understand this! 
Here 's an order just come in to hold back 
any dispatch you give us. 

Caroline. [After looking speechless at 
First Operator a moment] Hold back 
any — hold back — 

First Operator. Yes Miss. And that 
ain't the worst of it I 

Caroline. Wh — what else is there? 
[Comes down c. a little way looking at 
First Operator with wide open eyes. — 
]\Iartha remains up near door up r.] 

First Operator, [r.] This man has 
orders to take it back with him. 

[There is a slight pause] 

Caroline, [c] [Rather weakly] Take 
it back with him? [Brief pause — then 
suddenly icith great anionation] Take 
what back with him? 

First Operator. [Near table down r.1 
Your dispatch Miss. [Caroline simply 
opens mouth and sloivly draws in her 
breath] There must be some mistakej but 
that 's what the order says. 

Caroline. [With unnatural calmness] 
And where does it say to take it back 
to? 

First Operator. [Looks at the order] 
The name is Arrelsf ord ! [Brief pause] 

Caroline. The order is for that man — 
[Indicating Eddinger l. c] to take my 
dispatch back to Mr. Arrelsf ord? 

First Operator. Yes Miss. 

Caroline. An' does it say in there what 
I 'm to be doin' in the meantime? 

First Operator. [Shakes head] No Miss. 

Caroline. That 's too bad ! 

First Operator. I 'm right sorry this has 
occurred Miss, and — 

Caroline. Oh — there is n't any occasion 
yet for your feeling sorry — because it 
hasn't occuiTed! And besides that it 
is n't goin' to occur ! [Becoming excited] 
When it does you can go aroun' bein' 
sorry all you like! Have you got the 
faintest idea that I 'm goin' to let him 
take my telegram away with him and 



620 



SECRET SERVICE 



show it to that man! 
pose- 



Do you sup- 



Martha. [Coming forward a step from 
up R. C. near the door. Breaking in, in 
a voice like a siren'\ No — sir! You 
ain't a goin' ter do it — you can be right 
sure you ain't ! 

First Operator, [r.] But what can I do 
Miss? 

Caroline. [c. — Advancing'\ It's per- 
fectly simple what you can do — you can 
either send it, or liand it back to me — 
that 's what you can do ! 

Martha. [Calling out from up R. c] 
Yes suh — that 's the very best thing you 
can do! An' the sooner you do it the 
quicker it '11 be done — I kin tell you that 
right now ! 

First Operator. But this man has come 
here with orders to 

Caroline. [Going defiantly to Eddinger 
ayid facing liim] Well this man can go 
straight back and report to Mr. An^els- 
ford that he was unable to carry out his 
ordei-s! [Defiant attitude toward Ed- 
dinger L. c] That 's what he can do ! 

Martha. [B'rom up r. c. — now thor- 
oughly roused and coming to a sense of 
her responsibility] Let 'im take it! 
Let 'im take it ef he wants to so pow'fle 
bad ! Just let tlie other one there give 
it to 'im — an' then see 'im try an' git 
out through this do' with it! [Standing 
solidly before door up r. C. ivith folded 
arms and ominously shaking head. 
Martha talks and mumbles on half to 
herself] 1 want to see him go by! I'm 
just a' waitin' fur a sight o' him git tin' 
past dis do' ! That 's what I 'm waitin' 
fur! [Goes on talking half to herself, 
quieting down gradually] I 'd like to 
know what they s'pose it was I come 
aroun' yere for anyway — these men with 
their orders an' fussin' an' 

First Operator. [When quiet is re- 
stored] Miss Mitford, if I was to give 
this dispatch back to you now it would 
get me into a heap o' trouble. 

Caroline. What kind of trouble "? 

First Operator, [r.] Might be prison — 
might be shot ! 

Caroline. You mean to say they 
might 

First Operator. Sure to do one or the 
other ! 

Caroline. Just for givin' me back mj^ 
own writin"? 

First Operator. That 's all. 

('akoline. [After looking silently at 



First Operator a moment] Then 
you '11 have to keep it ! 

First Operator. [After slight pause] 
Thank you Miss Mitford ! 

Caroline. [.4 siglt — reconciling herself to 
the situation] Very well — that 's under- 
stood! You don't give it back to me — 
an' you can't give it to him — so nobody 's 
disobeying any orders at all! [Turning 
up and getting a chair from up c. and 
bringing it forward] And that 's the 
way it stands! [Banging chair down 
close to Eddinger and directly between 
him and the First Operator. Then 
plumps herself down on the chair and 
facing R., looks entirely unconcerned] 
I reckon I can stay here as long as he 
can! [Hcdf to herself] I haven't got 
much to do! 

First Operator. But Miss Mitford 



Caroline. Now there ain't any good o' 
talkin'! If you've got any telegraphin' 
to do you better do it. I won't disturb 
you! 

[Rapid steps heard in corridor out- 
side up R. — Enter Mr. Arrelsford 
doors up R. c. coming in hurriedly, 
somewhat flushed and excited. He 
looks hastily about, and goes at once 
down R. c] 

Arrelsford. [r. c] What's this! Didn't 
he get here in time? 

First Operator, [r.] Are you Mr. Ar- 
relsford? 

Arrelsford. Yes. [Sharp glance at 
Caroline] Are you holding back a 
dispatch ? 

First Operator. Yes sir. 

Arrelsford. Why didn't he bring it? 

First Operator. Well — Miss Mitford— 
[Hesitates. A motion toward Caroline] 

Arrelsford. [Comprehending] Oh! 
[Crosses back of Caroline and Ed- 
dinger to L.] Eddinger! [Eddinger 
wheels to l. facing him] Report back 
to Corporal Matson. Tell him to send a 
surgeon to General Varney's house on 
Franklin Street. He 's to attend to a 
Yankee prisoner there who was shot — if 
he is n't dead by this time ! [Moves 
over to L. as Eddinger goes up. — Caro- 
line turns and looks at Arrelsford on 
hearing cue "prisoner," rising at same 
time and pushing chair back up c. — 
Eddinger salutes and exits quickly up r. 
c, going back of Caroline. — Arrels- 
ford turns and starts toward First Op- 
erator] Let me see what that dis- 
])atch — 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



621 



[First Operator stands r. ivith Caro- 
line's dispatch in his hand. — Caro- 
line steps quickly in front of Ar- 

RELSFORD. ArRELSFORD StopS in 

some surprise at Caroline's sudden 
move] 

Caroline. [Facing Arrelsford] I ex- 
pect you think you're going to get my 
telegram an' read it? 

Arrelsford, [l. c] I certainly intend 
to do so ! 

Caroline, [c] Well there's a great big 
disappointment loomin' up right in front 
of you! 

Arrelsford. [With suspicion] So! 
You 've been trying to send out some- 
thing you don't want us to see ! 

Caroline. What if I have? 

Arrelsford. Just this! You won't send 
it — and I'll see it! [About to pass 
Caroline] This is a case where — 
[Caroline steps in front of Arrelsford 
again so that he has to stop] 

Caroline. This is a case where you ain't 
goin' to read my private writin' — 
[Sta7ids looking at him with blazing 
eyes] 

Arrelsford. Lieutenant — I have an order 
here putting me in charge! Bring that 
dispatch to me! 

[First Operator about to move to- 
ward Arrelsford ivith the dispatch 
ichen Martha steps down in front 
of him ivith ponderous tread and 
stands facing him] 

Martha, [r. c. — Facing r. to First Op- 
erator] Mistah Lieutenant can stay 
juss about whar he is! [Brief pause] 

Arrelsford. [l. c. — To First Operator] 
Is that Miss Mitford's dispatch in your 
hand? 

First Operator, [r.] Yes sir! 

Arrelsford. Read it! [Caroline turns 
with a gasp of horror. — Martha turns 
in slow anger. — First Operator stands 
surprised for an instant] Read it out! 

Caroline. You shan't do such a thing! 
You have no right to read a private tele- 
gTam — [etc.] 

Martha. [Speaking with Caroline] No 
sah ! He ain't no business to read her 
letters — none whatsomever! [etc.] 

Arrelsford. [Angrdy] Silence! [Caro- 
line and Martha stop talking] If you 
interfere any further with the business 
of this office I '11 have you both put un- 
der arrest! [To First Operator] 
Read that dispatch! 

[Caroline gasps breathless at Arrels- 



ford — then turns and buries her 
face on Martha's shoulder sob- 
bing] 

First Operator. [Reads with some dif- 
ficulty] "Forgive me — Wilfred — dar- 
ling — please — forgive — me — and — 
I — will — help — ^you — all — I — can." 

Arrelsford. That dispatch can't go! 
[Turns and moves left a few steps] 

Caroline. [Turning and facing Arrels- 
ford] That dispatch can go ! An' that 
dispatch will go! [Arrelsford turns 
and looks at Caroline from l. — Martha 
moves up on right side ready to exit, 
standing well up c. and turning toward 
Arrelsford] I know someone whose 
orders even you are bound to respect and 
someone who '11 come here with me an' 
see that you do it! 

Arrelsford. [l.] I can show good and 
sufficient reasons for what I do ! 

Caroline, [c] Well you'll have to 
show good and sufficienter reasons than 
vou 've shown to me — I can tell you that 
Mr. Arrelsford! 

Arrelsford. I give my reasons to my su- 
periors Miss Mitford ! 

Caroline. Then you '11 have to go 'round 
givin' 'em to everybody in Richmond, 
Mr. Arrelsford! [Saying which Caro- 
line makes a deep courtesy and turns 
and sweeps out through doors up r. c. 
followed in the same spirit by Martha 
who turns at the door and also makes a 
profound courtesy to Arrelsford, going 
off haughtily] 

[First Operator sits down at table 
R. c. and begins to write. — Arrels- 
ford looks after Caroline an instant 
and then goes rapidly over to First 
Operator] 

Arrelsford. Let me see that dispatch! 

First Operator. [Slight doubt] You 
said you had an order sir? 

Arrelsford. [Impatiently] Yes — yes! 
[Throws order down on telegraph table] 
Don't waste time! 

[First Operator p/cAs up order and 
looks closely at it being careful to 
show no haste] 

First Operator. Department order sir? 

Arrelsford. [Assenting shortly] Yes — 
yes! 

First Operator. I suppose you 're Mr. 
Arrelsford all right? 

Arrelsford. Of course! 

First Operator. AVe have to be pretty 
careful here. [Hands him Caroline's 
telegram and goes on writing. — Arrels- 



622 



SECRET SERVICE 



FORD takes Caroline's telegram eagerly 
and reads it. Thinks an instant] 

Arrelsford. [c] Did she seem nervous 
or excited when she handed this inf 

First Operator. She certainly did! 

Arrelsford. Anxious not to have it seen*? 

First Operator. Anxious! I should say 
so! She didn't want me to see it! 

Arrelsford. We 've got a case on here 
and she 's mixed up in it ! 

First Operator. But that dispatch is to 
young Vamey — the General's son! 

Arrelsford. So much the worse if he 's 
mixed up in it. The lying scoundrel has 
made dupes of all of them — and this Mit- 
f ord girl too ! 

First Operator. Who 's that sir*? 

Arrelsford. Well — no matter now. You '11 
know before long ! It 's one of the 
ugliest affairs we ever had ! I had them 
put me on it and I 've got it down pretty 
close! [Going across to l. c] We'll 
end it right here in this office inside of 
thirty minutes ! 

[Enter a Private at doors up R. c. — He 
comes down at once to Arrelsford] 

Arrelsford. [l. c. — To Private] Well 
what is it? 

Private, [l. c. — R. of Arrelsford] The 
lady 's here sir ! 

Arrelsford. Where is she'? 

Private. Waiting down below — at the 
front entrance. 

Arrelsford. Did she come alone"? 

Private. Yes sir. 

Arrelsford. Show her the way up. 
[Private salutes and exits at door up r. 
— Arrelsford comes c. to First Oper- 
ator] I suppose you've got a revolver 
there? [First Operator brings up re- 
volver in matter-of-fact way from shelf 
beneath table with left hand and lays it 
on table at his left without looking up 
at Arrelsford — and scarcely interrupt- 
ing his writing] 1 'd rather handle this 
thing myself — but I might call on you. 
Be ready — that 's all ! 

First Operator. Yes sir. 

Arrelsford. Obey any orders you get an' 
send out all dispatches unless I stop you. 

First Operator. Very well sir. [Soon 
puts revolver back on shelf beneath table] 
[Doors up R. C. are opening by the 
Private last on, and Edith is shown 
in. — Arrelsford meets her. — The 
Private exits at doors up r. c. — 
Edith stops a little way down from 
doors and looks at Arrelsford. She 



is slightly breathless — not from exer- 
tion but owing to the situation] 
Edith. I — I accepted your invitation Mr. 

Arrelsford ! 
Arrelsford. [Up q.] I 'm greatly obliged 
Miss Varney ! As a matter of justice to 
me it was — 
Edith. [Interrupting] I did n't come 
here to oblige you! I came to see^ — I 
came to see that no more — [A slight 
break before she can speak the word] 
murders are committed in order to satisfy 
your singular curiosity. [After brief 
pause; moves down c] 

[Arrelsford waits until Edith is 
down c. and then goes down near 
her on her left] 
Arrelsford. [Low voice] Is the man 

dead? 
Edith. [Turning and looking at Arrels- 
ford steadily] The man is dead. 

[Arrelsford stands a few seconds 
looking at Edith — then turns front 
slowly. Turns to her again] 
Arrelsford. [With cutting emphasis but 
low voice] It 's a curious thing Miss 
Varney that a Yankee prisoner more or 
less should make so much difference to 
you ! They 're dying dovv^n in Libby by 
the hundreds! 
Edith. At least they're not killed in our 
houses — before our veiy eyes! [Turns 
and moves up c] 

[Enter an Orderly who is a Special Agent 
of the War Department, at doors up 
r. c. He comes quickly in and crosses 
to Arrelsford l. c. Glances round to- 
ward First Operator and quickly back 
to Arrelsford] 

Arrelsford. [l. c. — Low voice] Where 
is he? Have you kept track of him? 

Orderly, [l. c. — Low voice] He 's com- 
ing up Fourth Street sir! 

Arrelsford. [Loiv voice] Where has he 
been? 

Orderly. [Low voice] To his quarters 
on Cary Street. We got in the next 
room and watched him through a tran- 
som. 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] What was he 
doing? What was it? 

Orderly. [Low voice] Working at some 
pajDers or documents. 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] Could you see 
them? Could you see what it was? 

Orderly. [Low voice] Headings looked 
like orders from the War Department, 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



623 



Arrelspord. [Low voice] He's coming 
in here with forged orders! 

Orderly. [Low voice] Yes sir. 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] His game is to 
get control of these wires and then send 
out dispatches to the front that '11 take 
away a battery or division from some 
vital point! 

Orderly. [Low voice] Looks like it sir. 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] And that vital 
point is what the Yankees mean by "Plan 
Three!" That's where they'll hit us. 
[Glances round quickly considering. 
Goes up L. to above line of middle win- 
dow. Turns to Orderly] Is there a 
guard in this building'? 

Orderly. [Going up near Arrelsford on 
his R. — Low voice] Not inside — there 's 
a guard in front and sentries around the 
barracks over in the square. 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] They could 
hear me from this window, couldn't 
they? 

Orderly. [Low voice] The guard could 
hear you sir. [A glance toward doors 
R. c] He must be nearly here by this 
time — you'd better look out! 

Edith. [Up c. — Low voice] Where shall 
I go? 

Arrelsford. [Up l. — Low voice] Out- 
side here on the balcony — I '11 be with . 
you! 

Edith. [Low voice] But — if he comes to 
the wmidow! He may come here and 
look out! 

Arrelsford. [Low voice] We'll go 
along to the next window and step in 
there — out of sight. [To Orderly] 
See if the window of the Commissary- 
General's office is open. 

[Orderly crosses Arrelsford and 
steps quickly out of windows up l. 
through middle window, and goes 
off along balcony to l. He returns 
at once, re-entering through middle 
window] 

Orderly. The next tvindow 's open sir. 

Arrelsford. That's all I want of you — 
report back to Corporal Matson. Tell 
him to get the body of that prisoner out 
of the Varney house — he knows where 
it 's to go ! 

Orderly. Very well sir ! [Salutes, crosses 
and exits doors up r. c] 

Arrelsford. [To Edith] This way 
please. [Conducts Edith out through 
middle window to the balcony up l. — 
She exits to L. — Arrelsford is closing 
the window to follow when he sees a 



Messenger enter at doors up r. c, and 
thereupon he stops just in the window 
keeping out of sight of Messenger be- 
hind window frame] 

[Enter First Messenger at doors up e.g. — 
He takes his position up stage waiting 
for messages as before. — Arrelsford 
eyes him sharply an instant — then comes 
into the room a step or two] 

Arrelsford. ' [From near window up l,] 
Where did you come from? 

First Messenger. [Up c] War De- 
partment sir. 

Arrelsford. Carrying dispatches'? 

First Messenger. Yes sir. 

Arrelsford. You know me don't you? 

First Messenger. I 've seen you at the 
office sir. 

Arrelsford. I'm here on Department 
business. All you 've got to do is to keep 
quiet about it! [Exit Arrelsford at 
middle window up h., which he closes 
after him, and then disappears from view 
along balcony to l.] 

[Enter Second Messenger at door up r. c. 
— He takes his place at up l, c. with 
First Messenger. — First Operator 
busy at table r. c. — A moment's wait. — 
Enter Captain Thorne at doors up r. c. 
As he comes down he gives one quick 
glance about the room but almost in- 
stantly to front again, so that it would 
hardly be noticed. He wears cap and 
carries an order in his belt. Goes down 
at once to l. of table r. c. and faces 
First Operator] 

[First Operator on seeing Thorne 
rises with off hand salute] 

Thorne. [Saluting] Lieutenant! [Hands 
First Operator the order ivhich he car- 
ried in his belt] 

[First Operator takes the order, opens 
and looks at it] 

First Operator. Order from the Depart- 
ment. [Moves R. a little looking closely 
at the order] 

Thorne. [Motionless, facing to r.] I 
believe so. [A quick glance at doors up 
R. c. as Operator is looking at the order] 

First Operator. They want me to take a 
cipher dispatch ovah to the President's 
house. 

Thorne. [Moving to take First Oper- 
ator's place at table — pulls chair back a 
little and tosses cap over on table r.] 
Yes — I 'm ordered on here till you get 
back. [Goes to place back of table R. C, 



624 



SECRET SERVICE 



and stands arranging things on the table] 

First Operator. [At table r. looking 
front] That 's an odd thing. They told 
me the President was down here with the 
Cabinet! He must have just now gone 
home I reckon. 

Thorne. [Standing at table R. C. and ar- 
ranging papers, etc.] Looks like it. If 
he is n't there you 'd better wait. [Look- 
ing through a bunch of dispatches as he 
speaks] 

First Operator. [Gets his cap from table 
R. and puts it on. — At table R.] Yes — 
I '11 Avait ! [Pause] You '11 have to look 
out for Allison's wires, Cap'n — he was 
called ovah to the Department. 

[Thorne stops and eyes to front an 
instant on mention of Allison] 

Thorne. [Easy manner again] Ah ha — 
Allison. 

First Operator. Yes. 

Thorne. Be gone long? [Thorne busi- 
ness of throwing used sheets in waste- 
basket and arranging a couple of large 
envelopes ready for quick use] 

First Operator. Well, you know how it 
is — they generally whip around quite a 
while before they make up their minds 
what they want to do. I don't expect 
they '11 trouble you much ! It 's as quiet 
as a church down the river. [Starting 
up toward doors up R. c] 

Thorne. [Seeing a cigar on the table near 
instrument] See here — wait a minute — 
you 'd better not walk out and leave a — 
[First Operator stops and turns back 
to Thorne coming c. a little] well — 
no matter — it's none of my business! 
[Tapping with the end of a long envelope 
on table where the cigar is] Still, if you 
want some good advice, that 's a danger- 
ous thing to do ! 

First Operator. [Coming down nearer on 
L.] Why what is it Cap'n? 

Thorne. That! — [Striking at cigar with 
envelope] Leave a cigar lying around 
this office like that ! [Picks it up with L. 
hand and lights a match with r.] Any- 
body might walk in here any minute and 
take it away ! [About to light cigar] I 
can't watch your cigars all day — [Light- 
ing cigar] 

First Operator. [Grinning] Oh! — Help 
yourself Cap'n ! 

Thorne. [Suddenly snatching cigar out of 
mouth with l. hand and looking at il] 
What's the matter A\itli it?— Oii well— 
I '11 take a chance. [Puts it in his mouth 
and resumes lighting] 



[First Operator hesitates a moment, 
then goes nearer to Thorne on his 
. L., L. of table R. c] 

First Operator. [Low voice] Oh Cap'n 
— if there 's any trouble around here 
you '11 find a revolver under there. [In- 
dicating shelf under table. — Thorne 
stops lighting cigar an instant, letting 
match blaze in his hand — eyes motionless 
to front] 

Thorne. [At once resuming nonchalance 
— -finishing lighting cigar] What about 
that? What makes you think — [Pulling 
in to light cigar] there's going to be 
trouble? 

First Operator. Oh well, there might be ! 

Thorne. [Tossing match away] Been 
having a dream? 

First Operator. Oh no — ^but you never 
can tell! [Starts up toward doors up 
R. c] 

Thorne. [Cigar in mouth. — Going at 
papers again] That 's right ! You 
never can tell. [A thought] But see 
here — hold on a minute ! [Reaching down 
and getting revolver from shelf and toss- 
ing it on table near l. end] If you never 
can tell you 'd better take that along with 
you. I 've got one of my own. [Rather 
sotto voce] I can tell! 

[Click of instrument A. — Thorne an- 
swers on instrument A. at r. end of 
table R. c. and slides into chair] 

First Operator. Well, if you've got one 
here, I might as well. [Takes revolver] 
Look out for yourself Cap'n! [Goes up. 
— Instrument a. begins clicking off a mes- 
sage. — Tpiorne sits at table R. c. listening 
and ready to take down what comes] 

Thorne. [Listening to instrument at R.] 
Same to you old man — and many happy^ 
returns of the day! [Exit First Oper- 
ator doors up R. c. — Thorne ivrites mes- 
sage and briefly addresses a long envel- 
ope. — Instrument a. stops receiving as 
Thorne addresses envelope. — Thorne 
0. K.'s dispatch and puts it in envelope 
which he quickly seals] Ready here! 
[First Messenger down to Thorne and 
salutes L. of table R. c] Quartermaster- 
General. [Handing dispatch to Messen- 
ger] 

First Messenger. Not at his office sir! 

Thorne. Find him — he 's got to have it ! 

First Messenger. Very well sir! [Sa- 
lutes and exits quickly up R.] 

[Brief pause. Silence. No instru- 
ments clicking. — Thorne eyes front. 
After a moment he turm slowly l. 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



625 



looking to see if there is a Messen- 
ger there. Sees there is one without 
looking entirely around. — A second's 
wait. — Instrument c. at upper end of 
table R. begins to click. — Thorne 
rises and going to instrument c. an- 
swers call — drops into chair r. — 
writes message — puts it in envelope 
— and 0. K.'s call, etc.] 
Thorne. Ready here! [Second Messen- 
ger goes quickly across to L. of table R. C. 
and salutes] Secretary of the Treasury 
— marked private. — Take it to his house. 
[Begins to read a dispatch he twitched 
off from a file] 
Second Messenger. He 's down yere at 

the cabinet sir. 
Thorne. Take it to his house and wait till 
he comes! 

[Second Messenger salutes and exits 
doors up R. c. closing them after him. 
— On the slam of doors after exit of 
Messenger, Thorne crushes dis- 
patch in his right hand and throws 
it to floor — and wheels front — his 
eyes on the instrument down r. c. — 
all one quick movement. Then he 
rises and with cat-like swiftness 
springs to the doors up R. C. and lis- 
tens — opens one of the doors a little 
and looks off. He closes it quickly, 
turning and moving swiftly to c, 
and opens the door to cupboard up 
C. glancing in, then moves to the 
windows up l. c. Pushes the ivin- 
dow up L. open a little and looks of 
to balcony, beginning at same time 
to unbuckle belt and unbutton coat. 
Turns and moves down toward the 
telegraph table R. C. at same time 
throwing belt over to R. above R. 
table, and taking off coat. Glances 
back up L. — looks to see that a docu- 
ment is in breast pocket of coat — 
letting audience see that it is there — 
and lays coat over back of chair 
above table r. C. with document in 
sight so that he can get it without 
delay. Takes revolver from right 
hip pocket and quickly but quietly 
lays it on the table R. c. just to right 
of instrument A. and then seizes key 
of that instrument and gives a cer- 
tain call: ( — ) Waits. 

A glance rapidly to left. He is 
standing at table — cigar in mouth. 

Makes the call again :{ — ) 

Waits again. Gives the call third 
time: ( — ) Goes to lower 



end of- table r. and half sits on it, 
folding arms, eyes on instrument, 
chewing cigar, with a glance or two 
up stage, but his eyes back quickly 
to instrument. Slides off table — 
takes cigar out of his mouth with l. 
hand and gives the call again with 

right: ( — ) Puts cigar 

in mouth again and turning and 
walking toward up l. c. looking 
about. Soon he carelessly throws 
some scraps of torn paper — which 
he took from, r. pocket — off up stage. 
Just as he throws papers — facing to 
L. — the call is answered: ( — . ... 
. . . . ) Thorne is back at the 
table R. c. in an instant and tele- 
graphing rapidly — cigar in mouth. — 
When he has sent for about five sec- 
onds, steps are heard in corridor out- 
side up R. — Thorne quickly strikes 
a match — which is close at hand to 
R. of instrument — and sinks into the 
chair, appearing to be lazily lighting 
his cigar as a Messenger comes in at 
door up R. c] 

[Fourth Messenger enters as soon as he 
hears match strike, at doors up R, c. He 
goes down at once to l. of table r. c. 
ivith a dispatch, which he extends toward 
Thorne as he salutes] 

Fourth Messenger. Secretary of "War, 
Cap'n! Wants to go out right now! 
[Thorne tosses away match, takes dis- 
patch and opens it. Fourth Messenger 
salutes, turns and starts up toward doors 
up R. c] 
Thorne. Here ! Here ! What 's all this ! 
[Looking at the dispatch. — Fourth Mes- 
senger returns to Thorne — salutes] Is 
that the Secretary's signature'? [Indi- 
cating a place on the dispatch which he 
holds in his hand] 
Fourth Messenger. Yes sir — I saw him 
sigii it. 

[Thorne looks closely at the signature. 

Turns it so as to get gas light from 

R. Turns and looks sharply at the 

Messenger] 

Thorne. [Writing] Saw him sign it did 

you? 
Fourth Messenger. Yes sir. 

[Thorne turns and laying dispatch on 
table begins to 0. K. ii] 
Thorne. [Writing] Got to be a little 

careful to-night ! 
Fourth Messenger. I can swear to that 



626 



SECRET SERVICE 



one sir. [Salutes — turns and goes up 

and exits at doors up r. c] 

[Thorxe listens — faced front — for 
exit of Messenger, the dispatch in 
his left hand. Instantly on slam of 
doors up L. c. he puts cigar down at 
end of table, rises, laying the dis- 
patch down flat on table. Quickly 
folds and very dexterously and rap- 
idly cuts off the lower part of the 
paper — which lias the signature of 
the Secretary of War upon it — with 
a paper knife, and holds it between 
his teeth while he tears the rest of 
the order in pieces, which he is on 
the point of throwing into waste- 
basket at L. of table, when he stops 
and changes his mind, stuffing the 
torn-up dispatch into his R. hand 
trousers pocket. Picks up coat from 
back of chair and takes the docu- 
ment out of inside breast pocket. 
Opens it out on table and quickly 
pastes to it the piece of tlie real or- 
der bearing the signature, wipes 
quickly with handkerchief, puts 
handkerchief back into R. trousers 
pocket, picks up cigar which he laid 
down on table and puts it in mouth, 
at same time sitting and at once be- 
ginning to telegraph rapidly on in- 
strument A. — Thorne intent, yet 
vigilant. — During business of 
Thorne pasting dispatch, Arrels- 
FORD appears outside windows up l. 
on balcony at side of columns. He 
m,otions off toward L. — Edith comes 
into view there also. — Arrelsford 
points toward Thorxe, calling her 
attention to what he is doing. — They 
stand at the window watching 
Thorne — the strong moonlight 
bringing them out sharply. — After a 
few seconds Arrelsford accidentally 
makes a slight noise with latch of 
window. — Instantly on this faint 
click of latch Thorne stops tele- 
graphing and sits absolutely motion- 
less — his eyes front. — Arrelsford 
and Edith disappear instantly and 
noiselessly on balcony to L. — Dead 
silence. — After a motionless pause, 
Thorne begins to fumble among 
papers on the table with his left 
hand, soon after raising the dispatch 
or some other paper ivith that hand 
in such a way that it ivill screen his 
right hand and the telegraph instru- 
ment on the key of which it rests, 



from an observer on the left. While 
he appears to be scanning this paper 
or dispatch with the greatest atten- 
tion, his right hand slowly slips of 
the telegraph key and toward his re- 
volver which lies just to the right of 
the instrument. Reaching it, he very 
slowly moves it over the right edge 
of the table, and down against his 
right leg. He then begins to push 
things about on the table with his 
left hand as if looking for some- 
thing, and soon rises as if not able 
to find it, and looks still more care- 
fully, keeping the revolver close 
against his right leg, out of sight 
from windows up left. He looks 
about on table, glances over to table 
on right as if looking for what he 
wanted there, puts cigar down on 
table before him — after about to do 
so once and taking a final puff — and 
steps over to table at R. still looking 
for something and now — as he turns 
right — shifting revolver around in 
front of him. As he looks about 
among papers on table r. he raises 
L. hand carelessly to tlie cock of the 
gas bracket and suddenly shuts off 
light. — Stage dark. — Instantly on 
lights off, Thorne drops on one knee 
behind {that is to R. of) table R. c. — 
facing toward L. and revolver — with 
table for a rest — covering windows 
up L. — Light from windows up L. 
gauged to strike across to Thorne 
at table with revolver. — After hold- 
ing it a short time, he begins slowly 
to edge up stage first seizing chair 
with his coat on it, and crouching 
behind it — then moving up frorn^ 
that crouched with revolver ready 
and eyes on windows up L. until 
within reach of doors up L. c. 
Beaching behind him — without tak- 
ing eyes or revolver off windows up 
L. he finds big heavy bolt and sud- 
denly slides it thus locking the doors 
on the inside. From doors up R. c. 
Thorne glides with a dash — throw- 
ing aside the chair in the way — at 
the door of cupboard up c. which 
opens down stage and hinges on its 
L. side. With motion of reaching it 
he has it open — if not already open 
— and pushes it along before him as 
he moves left toward window. — 
When moving slowly behind this 
door with his eyes and revolver on 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



62T 



window, the telegraph instrument 
down R. C. suddenly gives two or 
three sharp clicks. — THOR^'E makes 
an instantaneous turn front covering 
the instrument with revolver. See- 
ing what it was he turns left again. 
Just as he gets door nearly wide 
open against wall at hack he dashes 
at the upper window up left and 
hangs it open with his left hand 
covering all outside with revolver in 
his right. In an instant he sees that 
no one is there, and straightens up — 
looking. He makes a quick spring 
past first window stopping close he- 
hind the upright hetween first and 
second windows, and at same time 
hanging these windows open and 
covering with revolver. Sees no one. 
Looks this way and that. Makes 
quick dash outside and covers over 
halustrade — as if someone might he 
helow. In again quick. Looks 
about with one or two quick glances. 
Concludes he must have heen mis- 
taken, and starts down toward table 
R. c. Stops after going two or three 
steps and looks hack. Turns and 
goes rapidly down to table. Picks 
up cigar with left hand. Puts re- 
volver at right end of table with 
right hand, and gets a match with 
that hand. Stands an instant look- 
ing left. Strikes match and is about 
to relight cigar. Pause — eyes front. 
Match burning. Listening. Looks 
L. Lights cigar. As he is lighting 
cigar thinks of gas being out, and 
stepping to right, turns it on and 
lights it with match he used for 
cigar. — Lights full on. — Thorne 
turns quickly, looking left as lights 
on. Then steps at once — after 
glancing quickly about room — to 
telegraph table, puts down cigar 
near upper R. corner of table with L. 
hand and begins to telegraph with l. 
hand, facing front. — Sudden sharp 
report of revolver outside through 
lower window, up l. with crash of 
glass, and on it Arrelsford springs 
on at middle window L. with revolver 
in his hand. Thorne does not move 
on shot except quick recoil from in- 
strument, leaning back a little, ex- 
pression of pain an instant. His L. 
hand — with which he was telegraph- 
ing — is covered with blood. He 
stands motionless an instant. Eyes 



then down toward his own revolver. 
Slight pause. He makes a sudden 
plunge for it getting it in his r. 
hand. At same instant quick turn 
on Arrelsford but before he can 
raise the weapon Arrelsford covers 
him with revolver and Thorne stops 
ivhere he is, holding position] 

Arrelsford. [l. c. — Covering Thorne] 
Drop it! [Pause] Drop that gun or 
you 're a dead man ! Drop it I say ! 
[A moment's pause. — Thorne gradually 
recovers to erect position, looking easily 
front, and puts revolver on the table, 
picking up cigar with same hand and 
putting it casually into his mouth as if he 
thought he 'd have a smoke after all, in- 
stead of killing a man. He then gets 
handkerchief out of pocket with r. hand 
and gets hold of a corner of it not using 
his l. — Arrelsford advances a step or 
two, lowering revolver, but holding it 
ready] Do you know why I did n't kill 
you like a dog just now? 

Thorne. [Low voice — as he twists hand- 
kerchief around his wounded hand] Be- 
cause you're such a damn bad shot. 

Arrelsford. Maybe you'll change your 
mind about that! 

Thorne. [Speaks easily and pleasantly] 
Well I hope so I 'm sure. It is n't pleas- 
ant to be riddled up this way you know ! 

Arrelsford. Next time you'll be riddled 
somewhere else besides the hand! 
There 's only one reason why you 're not 
lying there now with a bullet through 
your head! 

Thorne. Only one eh? 

Arrelsford. Only one! 

Thorne. [Still fixing hand and sleeve] 
Do I hear it? 

Arrelsford. Simply because I gave my 
word of honor to someone outside there 
that I wouldn't kill you now! 

[Thorne on hearing ^'Someone outside 
there'' turns and looks at Arrels- 
ford with interest] 

Thorne. [Taking cigar out of mouth and 
holding it in R. hand as he moves toward 
Arrelsford] Ah ! Then it is n't a 
pleasant little tete-a-tete between our- 
selves! You have someone with you! 
[Stopping near c. coolly facing Arrels- 
ford] 

Arrelsford. [Sarcastically] I have some- 
one with me Captain Thorne! Someone 
who takes quite an interest in what 
you 're doing to-night ! 

Thorne. Quite an interest, eh! That's 



1^28 



SECRET SERVICE 



kind I 'm sure. [Knocking the ashes 
from his cigar with a finger of right 
hand] Is the geutleman going to stay 
out there all alone on the cold balcony, or 
shall I have the pleasure [Enter Edith 
from balcony up l. through the upper 
window, 'where she stands supporting her- 
self by the sides. She is looking toward 
R. as if intending to go, but not able for 
a moment, to move. Avoids looking at 
Thorne] of inviting him in here and 
having a charming little three-handed — 
[Glancing toward l. he sees Edith and 
stops motionless with eyes toward left. 
After a moment he turns front and holds 
position] 

Edith. [Does not speak until after 
Thorne looks front. — Low voice] I '11 
go, Mr. Arrelsford ! 

Arrelsford. Not yet Miss Varney! 

Edith. [Coming blindly into the room a 
few steps as if to get across to the doors 
up r. c] I don't wish to stay — any 
longer! [Moves toward R.] 

Arrelsford. [Down l. c] One moment 
please! We need you! 

Edith. [Stopping up c] For what"? 

Arrelsford. A witness. 

Edith. You can send for me. I '11 be at 
home. [About to start toward door] 

Arrelsford. [Sharply] I '11 have to de- 
tain you till I turn him over to the guard 
— it won't take a moment ! [Steps to the 
middle windovj up l. still keeping an eye 
on Thorxe, and calls off in loud voice] 
Corporal o' the guard! Corporal o' the 
guard ! Send up the guard will you? 
[Edith shrinks back up C. not knowing 
what to do] 

Voice. [Outside l. in distance — as if down 
below in the street] What 's the matter 
up there ! Who 's calling the guard ! 

Arrelsford. [At window] Up here! 
Department Telegraph! Send 'em up 
quick ! 

Voices. [Outside l. in distance as before] 
Corporal of the Guard Post Four ! [Re- 
peated more distant] Corporal of the 
Guard Post Four! [Repeated again al- 
most inaudible] Corporal of the Guard 
Post Four ! Fall in the guard ! Fall in ! 
[These orders gruff — indistinct — distant. 
Give effect of quick gruff shouts of or- 
ders barely audible. If Voices seem 
close at hand it will be disastrous] 

Edith. [Up C. — Turning suddenly upon 
Arrelsford] I 'm going Mr. AiTels- 
ford — I don't wish to be a witness ! 

Arrelsford. [l. c. — After an instant's 



look at Edith — suspecting the reason for 
her refusal] Whatever your feelings 
may be Miss Varney, we can't permit 
you to refuse! 
Edith. [With determination] I do re- 
fuse ! If you won't take me down to the 
street I'll find the way out myself! 
[Stops as she is turning to go, on hearing 
the Guard outside] 

[Sound of Guard outside running 

through lower corridors. Tramp of 

men coming up stairway and along 

hallways outside up r. — Thorne 

holds position looking steadily front, 

cigar in right hand] 

Arrelsford. [Loud voice to stop Edith] 

You can't get out — the guard is here! 

[Steps down l. c. with revolver, his eyes 

on Thorne] 

[Edith stands an instant and then as 
the Guard is heard nearer in the cor- 
ridor outside up r, she moves up to 
window up l. and remains there un- 
til sound of Guard breaking in the 
door. Then she makes her exit of 
to l. on balcony, disappearing so as 
to attract no attention] 
Arrelsford. [Shouting across to Thorne 
above noise of Guard] I've got you 
about where I want you at last! 
[Thorne motionless. — Sound of hurried 
tread of men outside up R. as if coming 
on double quick toward the doors on the 
bare floor of corridor] You thought you 
was almighty smart — but you '11 find we 
can match your tricks eveiy time ! 

[Sound of the Guard coming outside 
up R. suddenly ceases close to the 
doors up R. c] 
Sergeant of the Guard. [Close outside 
door up R.] What's the matter here! 
Let us in! 
Thorne. [Loud, incisive voice. Still fac- 
ing front] Break down the door Ser- 
geant ! Break it down ! [As he calls 
he begins to back up stage toward up R.] 
[Officers and men outside at once begin 
to smash in the door with the butts 
of their muskets] 
Arrelsford. [l. c. — Surprised] What 

are you saying about it! 
Thorne. [Up r. c] You want 'im in 
here don't you ! 

[Arrelsford moves up a little as 

Thorne does, and covers him with 

revolver] 

Arrelsford. [l. c. — Through noise of 

smashing door] Stand where you are! 

[Thorne has backed up r. c. until 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



629 



nearly hetiveen Arrelsford and the 
door, so that tlte latter cannot fire on 
him without hitting others. But he 
must stand a trifle to right of line 
the men ivill take in rushing across 
to Arrelsford] 
Thorne. [Up R. c. facing Arrelsford] 
Smash in the door ! What are you wait- 
ing for ! Smash it in Sergeant ! [Keeps 
up this call till doors break down and 
men rush in. — Doors are quickly battered 
in and Sergeant and men dash through 
and into the room. — Thorxe, coyitinuing 
without break from last speech, above all 
the noise, pointing to Arrelsford with l. 
hand] Arrest that man! [Sergeant of 
THE Guard and six men spring foriuard 
past Thorne and seize Arrelsford be- 
fore he can recover from his ■ astonish- 
ment, throwing him backward to L. and 
nearly down in the first struggle, but 
pulling him to his feet and holding him 
fast. — As soon as quiet Thorne moves 
down c] He 's got in here with a re- 
volver and he 's playing Hell with it ! 
Arrelsford. [l. c] Sergeant — my orders 

are — 
Thorne. [At c. facing Arrelsford] 
Damn your orders! You haven't got 
orders to shoot everybody you see in this 
office ! [Arrelsford makes a sudden ef- 
fort to break loose] Get his gun away — 
he'll hurt himself! [Turns e. at once 
and goes to table R. c. putting his coat in 
better position on back of chair, and then 
getting things in shape on the table, at 
same time putting cigar back in mouth 
and smoking. — Sergeaxt and men twist 
the revolver out of Arrelsford's hands] 
Arrelsford. [l. c. — Continuing to strug- 
gle and protest] Listen to me! Arrest 

him ! He 's sending out a false 

Sergeaa^t of the Guard, [l. c] Now 
that '11 do ! [Silencing Arrelsford 
roughly by hand across his mouth. — To 
Thorxe] WTiat 's it all about, Cap'n*? 
Thorne. [Standing at table R.C. arrang- 
ing things] All about! I haven't got 
the slightest — [Sudden snatch of cigar 
out of mouth with r. hand and then 
to Sergeant as if remembering some- 
thing] He says he came out of some 
office! Sending out dispatches here he 
began letting off his gun at me. [Turns 
back arranging things on table] Crazy 
lunatic ! 
Arrelsford. [Struggling to speak] It 's 
a lie ! Let me speak — I 'm from the — 
Sergeant op the Guard. [Quietly to 



avoid laugh] Here! That'll do now! 

[Silencing Arrelsford. To Thoene] 

What shall we do with him? 
Thorxe. [Tossing things into place on 

table with one hand] I don't care a 

damn — get him out o' here — that's all 

I want! 
Sergeant of the Guard. Much hurt 

Cap'n? 
Thorne. [Carelessly] Oh no — did one 

hand up a little — I can get along with 

the other all right. [Sits at table and 

begins telegraphing] 
Arrelsford. [Struggling desperately] 

Stop him! He's sending a — Wait! 

Ask Miss Varney! She saw him! Ask 

her! Ask Miss Varney! [Speaks 

wildly — losing all control of himself] 
Sergeant of the Guard. [Breaking in on 

Arrelsford] Here! Fall in there! 

We'll get him out. [The guard quickly 

falls in behind Arrelsford, who is still 

struggling] Forward 

[Enter an Officer striding in quickly at 
doors up r.] 

Officer. [Loud voice — above the noise] 
Halt! The General! [Officer remains 
up stage standing l. of doors up R.] 

Sergeant of the Guard. [To Men] 
Halt! [Men on motion from Sergeant 
stand back, forming a double rank' behind 
Arrelsford, two men holding him in 
front rank. — All facing to center. Ser- 
geant up L. c] 

[Enter Major General Harrison Ran- 
dolph striding in at doors up R. C. — 
Caroline comes to doors after the Gen- 
eral, and stands just within, up R. c. — 
Arrelsford has been so astonished and 
indignant at his treatment that he can't 
find his voice at first. — Officers salute as 
General Randolph comes in. — Thorne 
goes on working instrument at table down 
r. C. cigar between his teeth. He has the 
dispatch with signature pasted on it, 
spread on table before him] 

General Randolph. [Comes down c. and 
stops] What 's all this about refusing 
to send Miss Mitford's telegram! Is it 
some of your work, Arrelsford? 

Arrelsford. [Breathless, violent, excited] 
General ! — They 've arrested me ! — A con- 
spiracy! — A — [Sees Thorne working at 
telegraph instrument] Stop that man — 
for God's sake stop him before it 's too 
late! 

[Caroline edging gradually up R. c. 



G30 



SECRET SERVICE 



quietly slips out at doors up R. c. 
Make this exit unnoticed if possible] 

General Randolph, [c] Stop him! 
What do you mean? 

TiiORNE. [Rising quickly with salute — 
timed to speak on cue] He means me 
sir ! He 's got an idea some dispatch I 'm 
sending- out is a trick of the Yankees ! 

Arrelsford. [Excitedly] It 's a con- 
spiracy. He 's an impostor — a — a. 

Thorn E. [Subdued voice] Why the man 
must have gone crazy General! [Thorne 
stands facing L. motionless] 

Arrelsford. I came here on a case 
for 

General Randolph. [Sharply] Wait! — 
I '11 get at this ! [To Sergeant — without 
turning to him] What was he doing? 

Sergeant of the Guard. [Up l. c. salut- 
ing] He was firing on the Cap'n sir. 

Arrelsford. He was sending out a false 
order to weaken our lines at Cemetery 
Hill and I — Ah! [Suddenly recollect- 
ing] Miss Varney! [Looking excitedly 
about] She was here — she saw it all! 

General Randolph. [Gruffly] Miss 
Varney ! 

Arrelsford. Yes sir! 

General Randolph. The General's daugh- 
ter? 

Arrelsford. [Nodding afirmatively with 
excited eagerness] Yes sir! 

General Randolph. What was she doing 
here? 

Arrelsford. She came to see for herself 
whether he was gTiilty or not ! 

General Randolph. Is this some personal 
matter of yours? 

Arrelsford. He was a visitor at their 
house — I wanted her to know ! 

General Randolph. Where is she now? 
Where is Miss Varney? 

Arrensford. [Looking about excitedly] 
She must be out there on the balcony! 
Send for her ! Send for her ! 

General Randolph. [After looking at 
Arrelsford in silence for a few seconds] 
Sergeant! [Sergeant steps down l. of 
General Randolph and salutes] Step 
out there on the balcony. Present my 
compliments to Miss Varney and ask her 
to come in ! 

[Sergeant salutes and steps quickly 
out on the balcony through middle 
window up l. Walks off along bal- 
cony disappearing at L. Re-appears 
walking back as far as balcony goes. 
Turns and re-enters room, coming 
down L. c. and saluting] 



Sergeant of the Guard. [Saluting] No 
one there sir! 

[Thorne tur^is quietly and opening in- 
strument A. begins to send dispatch, 
picking up the forged order with l. 
hand as if sending from that copy 
and telegraphing luith r.] 
Arrelsford. She must be there! She's 
in the next office! The other window. 
Tell him to — [Sees Thorne working at 
instrument A.] Ah! [Almost a scream] 
StojD him ! He 's sending it now ! 
General Randolph. [To Thorne] One 
moment Cap'n! [Thorne stops. Sa- 
lutes. Drops dispatch in left hand to 
table. — Pause for an instant — all holding 
their positions. — General Randolph 
after above pause — to Arrelsford] 
What have you got to do with this? 
Arrelsford. It 's a Department Case ! 
They assigned it to me! 

[Thorne picks up the forged dispatch 
and examines it] 
General Randolph. What's a Depart- 
ment Case? 
Arrelsford. The whole plot — to send the 
order — it 's the Yankee Secret Service ! 
His brother brought in the signal to- 
night ! 

[General Randolph looks sharply at 
Arrelsford] 
Thorne. [Very quiet and matter-of-fact] 
This ought to go out sir — it 's very im- 
portant. 
General Randolph. Go ahead with it ! 
[Thorne salutes and quickly turns to 
instrument a. dropping dispatch on 
table and begins sending rapidly as 
he stands before the table, glancing 
at the dispatch as he does so as if 
sending from it] 
Arrelsford. [Seeing what is going on] 

No no ! It 's a 

Gi^NERAL Randolph. Silence! 
Arrelsford. [Excitedly] Do you know 

what he 's telling them ! 
General Randolph. No ! — Do you ? 

Areelsford. Yes! If you '11 

General Randolph. [To Thorne] Wait! 
[Thorne stops telegraphing, coming at 
once to salute, military position a step 
back from table facing front] Where 's 
that dispatch? [Thorne goes to Gen- 
eral Randolph and hands him the dis- 
patch with salute, then hack a step. — 
General Randolph takes the dispatch. 
To Arrelsford] What was it? What 
has he been telling them? [Looks at dis- 
patch in his hand] 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



631 



Arrelsford. [Excitedly] He began to 
give an order to withdraw Marston's 
Division from its present position ! 
General Randolph. That is perfectly 

correct. 
Arrelsford. Yes — by that dispatch — but 
that dispatch is a forgery ! [Thorne 
with a look of surprise turns sharply to- 
ward Arrelsford] It 's an order to 
withdraw a whole division from a vital 
point ! A false order ! He wrote it him- 
self ! [Thor-ne stands as if astounded] 
General Randolph. Why should he write 
it? If he wanted to send out a false 
order he could do it without setting it 
down on paper could n't he *? 
Arrelsford. Yes — but if any of the oper- 
ators came back they 'd catch him doing 
it ! With that order and the Secretary's 
signature he could go right on! He 
• could even order one of them to send 
it! 
Gfneral Randolph. How did he get the 

Secretary's signature? 
Arrelsford. He tore it off from a genu- 
ine dispatch! — Why General — look at 
that dispatch in your hand! The Secre- 
tary's signature is pasted on! I saw him 
do it! 
Thorne. [r. c] Why — they often come 
that way! [Turns away toward front] 
Arrelsford. [l. c] He's a liar! They 
never do! 

[Thorne turns on '^liar" and the two 

men glare at each other a moment] 

Thorne. [r. c. — Recovering himself] 

General, if you have any doubts about 

that dispatch send it back to the War 

Office and have it verified! 

[Arrelsford is so thunderstruck that 
he starts hack a little unable to speak. 
Stands with his eyes riveted on 
Thorne until cue of telegraph click 
helow] 
General Randolph. [Speaks slowly, his 
eyes on Thorne] Quite a good idea! 
[Brief pause] Sergeant ! [Holding out 
the dispatch. — Sergeant of the Guard 
salutes and waits for orders] Take this 
dispatch over to the Secretary's office 
and — [Sudden loud click of telegraph in- 
strument A. on table r. c. — General 
Randolph stops — listening. To Thorne] 
What's that? 

[Arrelsford looking at the instrument. 
Thorne stands motionless excepting 
that he took his eyes of Arrelsford 
and looked across to down h. listen- 
ing] 



Thorne. [After slight wait] Adjutant- 
General Chesney. 
General Randolph. From the front? 
Thorne. Yes sir. 

General Randolph. What does he say? 
[Thorne turns and steps to the table 
and gives quick signal on instrument 
A. closing circuit to receive, and then 
stands erect listening — eyes toward 
front] 
Thorne. His compliments sir — [Pause — 
Continued click of instrument] He 
asks — [Pause. — Continued click of in- 
strument] for the vest— [Pause — con- 
tinued click of instrument] of that dis- 
patch — [Pause — continued click of in- 
strument which then stops] It 's of vital 
importance. [Thorne stands motion- 
less] 
General Randolph. [After very slight 
pause abruptly turns and hands the dis- 
patch back to Thorne] Let him have it ! 
[Thorne hurried salute, takes dispatch — 
sits at table and begins sending] 

Arrelsford. General — if you 

General Randolph. [Sharply to Arrels- 
ford] That 's enough ! We '11 have you 
examined at headquarters! [Hurried 
steps in corridor outside up r. and enter 
quickly at doors up R. the First Oper- 
ator. He is breathless and excited] 
Arrelsford. [Catching sight of First 
Operator as he comes in] Ah! Thank 
God! There's a witness! He was sent 
away on a forged order! Ask him! 
Ask him! [Pause. — First Operator 
standing up stage R. C. looking at others 
surprised — Thorne telegraphing grimly 
and desperately] 
General Randolph. [After instant's 
pause during which click of instrument 
is heard] Wait a moment, Cap'n! 

[Thorne stops telegraphing, sits mo- 
tionless, hand on the key, eyes 
straight front. — An instant of dead 
silence. — ^General Randolph moves 
up c. a little to speak to First 
Operator] 
General Randolph. [Up c. to First 
Operator. Gruffly] Where did you 
come from? 
First Operator. [Up r. c. — Not under- 
standing what is going on. — Salutes] 
There was some mistake sir ! 

[Arrelsford gives gasp of triumph 
quick on cue. — Brief pause of dead 
silence] 
General Randolph. Mistake eh? — Who 
made it? 



G32 



SECRET SERVICE 



First Operator. I got an order to go to 
the President's house, and when I got 
there the President ! 

TiiORXE. [Rising at telegraph table, on 
cue '^President's house"] This delay will 
be disastrous sir! Permit me to go on — 
if there 's any mistake we can rectify it 
afterwards! [Turns to instrument and 
begins sending as he stands before it] 

Arrelsford. [Crij of remonstrance] No! 

General Raxdolpii. [Who has not given 
heed to Thorxe's speech — to First 
Operator] Where did you get the 
order? 

Arrelsford. He's at it again sir! 

General Randolph. [Suddenlij sees what 
Thorne is doing] Halt there! 
[Thorne stops telegraphing] What are 
you doing! [Stepping down c] I 
ordered you to wait ! 

Thorne. [Turns L. to General Ran- 
dolph] I was sent here to attend to the 
business of this office and that business 
is going on! [Turning again as if to 
telegraph] 

General Randolph. [His temper rising] 
It is not going on sir, until I 'm ready for 
it! 

Thorne. [Turning back to the General] 
My orders come from the War Depart- 
ment — not from you! This dispatch 
came in half an hour ago — they 're call- 
ing for it — and it 's my business to send 
it out! [Turning at end of speech and 
seizing the keg endeavors to rush off the 
rest of the dispatch] 

General Randolph. Halt ! [Thorne 
goes on telegraphing. — To Sergeant of 
the Guard] Sergeant! [Sergeant 
salutes] Hold that machine there! 
[Pointing at telegraph instrument. — 
Sergeant of the Guard and two men 
spring quicklg across to right. Sergeant 
rushes against Thorne with arm across 
his breast forcing him over to R. against 
chair and table on right — chair a little 
awag from table to emphasize with crash 
as Thorne is flung against it — and holds 
him there. — The two men cross bayonets 
over instrument and stand motionless. 
All done quickly, business-like and with 
as little disturbance as possible. Gen- 
eral Randolph strides down c. and 
speaks across to Thorne] I '11 have you 
court-martialed for this ! 

Thorne. [Breaking loose from Sergeant 
and coming down R.] You'll answer 
yourself sir, for delaying a dispatch of 
vital importance! 



General Randolph. [Sharply] Do you 

mean that! 
Thorne. I mean that! And I demand 
that you let me proceed with the business 
of this office! 
General Randolph. By what authority 

do you send that dispatch'? 
Thorne. I refer you to the Department ! 
General Randolph. Show me your order 

for taking charge of this office! 

Thorne. I refer you to the Department ! 

[Stands motiotdess facing across to l.] 

[Edith appears at upper window up 

L. coming on from balcony left, and 

moves a little into room up L. c. — 

Sergeant of the Guard remains at 

R. above table when Thorne breaks 

away from him] 

General Randolph. By God then I '11 go 

to the Department ! [Swings round and 

strides up c. a little way] . Sergeant! 

[Sergeant op the Guard salutes] 

Leave your men on guard there and go 

over to the War Office — my compliments 

to the Secretary and will he be so good 

as to 

Arrelsford. [Suddenly breaking out on 
seeing Edith up l. c] Ah! General! 
[Pointing to Edith] Another witness! 
Miss Varney! She was here! She saw 
it all ! 

[Thorne on Arrelsford's mention of 

another witness glances quickly up 

L. toward Edith, and at once turns 

front and stands motionless, waiting. 

— General Randolph turns left and 

sees Edith] 

General Randolph. [Up c. on r. bluffly 

touching hat] Miss Vaniey! [Edith 

comes forward a little l. of c] Do you 

know anything about this? 

Edith. [Speaks in low voice] About 

what sir? 
General Randolph. Mr. Arrelsford here 
claims that Captain Thorne is acting 
without authority in this office and that 
you can testify to that effect. 
Edith. [Very quietly, in low voice] Mr. 
Arrelsford is mistaken — he has the high- 
est authority. 

[Arrelsford aghast. — General Ran- 
dolph surprised. — Thorne facing l. 
listening — motionless] 
General Randolph. [After an instant's 

pause] What authority has he? 
Edith. [Drawing the Commission used in 
Act I from her dress. While her voice 
is low and controlled it trembles slightly 
and she has to pause a little twice] The 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



633 



authoi-ity — of the President — of the Con- 
federate States of America! [Handing 
the Commission to General Randolph. — 
General Randolph takes the Commis- 
sion and at once opens and examines it. 
— Edith stands a moment where she was, 
looking neither at Arrelsford nor 
Thorne, then slowly retires up and 
stands back of others out of the way] 
General Randolph, [c. — Looking at the 
Commission] What's this! Major's 
Commission! Assigned to duty on the 
Signal Corps! In command of the 
Telegraph Department ! 
Arrelsford. [l. c. — Breaking out] That 

commission — let me explain how she 

I beg you to 

General Randolph. That '11 do ! — I sup- 
pose this is a forgery too"? 

Arrelsford. Let me tell you sir 

General Randolph. You 've told me 
enough! Sergeant — take him to head- 
quarters ! 
Sergeant of the Guard. [Quick salute] 
Fall in there! [Motioning men at in- 
strument. Men at instrument hurry 
across to L. and fall into rank] Forward 
march ! 

[Sergeant and Guard quickly rush 
Arrelsford across to doors up r. c. 
and off — the Sergeant shouting to 
him to keep quiet, and continuing to 
until out of hearing outside up R.] 
Arrelsford. [Resisting and protesting as 
he is forced across and off at doors up 
R. c. No! — For God's sake General — 
listen to me ! It 's the Yankee Secret 
Service ! Never mind me, but don't let 
that dispatch go out ! He 's a damned 
Yankee Secret Agent ! His brother 
brought in the signal to-night ! [Etc.] 
[Sou72ds of footsteps of the Guard 
and voices of Arrelsford and Ser- 
geant dying away down the corridor 
outside up r. — Short pause. — 
Thorne motionless through above 
looking front. — General Randolph, 
who crossed to up L. c. on men forc- 
ing Arrelsford off^ goes down c. 
and looks across at Thorne] 
General Randolph. [Gruffly] Cap'n 
Thorne! [Thorne comes to erect mili- 
tary position. Turns L. and goes to the 
General at c. saluting] It 's your own 
fault Cap'n ! If you 'd had the sense to 
mention this before we 'd have been saved 
a damned lot o' trouble ! — There 's your 
Commission ! [Handing Commission to 
Thorne. — Thorne takes it saluting. — 



General turns to go] I can't under- 
stand why they have to be so cursed shy 
about their Secret Service Orders! 
[Goes up toward door up r. c. Stops 
and speaks to First Operator who is 
standing at R. of door] Lieutenant ! 
[First Operator salutes] Take your 
orders from Major Thorne. [Turns and 
goes heavily off at doors up R. c. very 
much out of temper] [Note. — General 
must on no account emphasize "Major"] 
[First Operator goes down r. and 
sits at telegraph table on extreme R. 
going to work on papers. — No noise. 
— Thorne stands facing l., Commis- 
sion in his R. hand, until the General 
is of. Turns head slowly around to 
front and looks across to r. watching 
to see when the General is gone — at 
the same time crushing the Commis- 
sion in his right hand. After exit 
of General he instantly glides to 
telegraph instrument a. and begins 
sending ivith r. hand — still holding 
commission in it. — Edith comes 
quickly down to Thorne on his left 
and very near him] 
Edith. [Speaks breathlessly in a half 
whisper] Cap'n Thorne! [Thorne 
stops telegraphing — hand still on key — 
but does not look: at her. — She goes on 
in low voice, hurried — breathless] That 
Commission — gives you authority — long 
enough to escape from Richmond ! 
Thorne. Escape! After all this! Im- 
possible! [Seizes key and begins to 
send] 
Edith. Oh! — You wouldn't do it — now! 
[Thorne instantly stops telegraphing 
and looks at her] 
Edith. I brought it — to save your life! 
I didn't think you'd use it — for any- 
thing else! Oh — ^you would n't ! 

[Thorne stands looking at her. — Sud- 
den sharp call from instrument a. — 
He instantly turns back to it. His 
hand moves to grasp it — hovers un- 
certainly over it as he hesitates. — 
Edith sees his hand at the key again 
— covers her face and moans, at the 
same time turning away L. She 
moves up to the doors up R. c. and 
goes out. — Thorne stands in a des- 
perate struggle with himself as in- 
strument A. is clicking off the same 
signal that he made when calling up 
the front. He almost seizes the key 
— then resists — and finally, with a 
bang of right fist on the table, turns 



G34 



SECRET SERVICE 



and strides acroiis to up L. C. — the 
Commission crushed in his R. hand] 
First Operator, [ir/fo has been listening 
to calls of instrument A. on table r. c.^ 
rising at R. as Tiiorxe comes to a stand 
up L. c] They're calling: for that dis- 
patch sir! What shall I do? 
Thorxe. [Turning quicJdij] Send it! 
[First Operator drops into seat at 
table R. C. and begins sending at 
same time spreading out the dispatch 
which he is sending from near left 
end of table] 
[Thorxe stands motionless an instant. 
As Operator begins to send he turns 
round a little up to R. slowly and 
painfully, R. arm up across eyes in a 
struggle with himself. Suddenly he 
breaks away and dashes toward table 

R. C] 



Thorxe. No no — stop! [Seizes the dis- 
patch from the table in his R. hand which 
still has the Commission crumpled in it] 
I can't do it! I can't do it! [First 
Operator rises in surprise on Thorxe 
seizing the dispatch, and stands facing 
him. — Thorxe points at instrument un- 
steadily] Revoke the order! It was a 
mistake ! — I refuse to act under this Com- 
mission ! [Throwing the papers in his R. 
hand down on the floor — tit en turning 
away to L. and walking uncertainly up 
toward L. c. — turning there and after 
slight hesitation walking across to doors 
up R. c. — pausing an instant as he sup- 
ports himself with hand on the upper 
door as it stands open — then exits un- 
steadily at doors up r. c. and passes out 
of sight down the corridor to R.] 

[CURTAIN] 



ACT IV 

Eleven o'clock 

[Scene: — Drawing room at General Var- 
ney's. This is the same set as in Acts 
I and II. — The furniture is somewhat dis- 
ordered as if left as it was after the dis- 
turbances at the close of the Second Act. 
— Couch up R. where Arrelsford put it 
end of Act II. Nothing is broken or up- 
set. Half light in room. Lamps lighted 
but not strong on. See that portieres on 
ivindows down R. are closed. — Thunder of 
distant cannonading and sounds of vol- 
leys of musketry and exploding shells on 
very strong at times during this act. 
Quivering and rather subdued flashes of 
light — {the artillery is some miles dis- 
tant) — shown at windows R. on cues. 
Violent and hurried ringing of church 
bells in distant parts of the city — deep, 
low tones booming out like fire bells. 
Sounds of hurried passing in the street 
outside of bodies of soldiers — artillery — 
cavalry, etc. on cues, with many horse- 
hoof and rattling gun carriage and chain 
effects — shouting to horses — orders, 
bugle calls, etc.] 

[Note : — This thunder of cannonading, 
shelling fortifications, musketry, flashes, 
etc., mMst be kept up during the act, 
coming in now and then where it will not 
interfere ivith dialogue, and so arranged 
that the idea of a desperate attack will 
not be lost. Possible places for this effect 
will be marked thus in the manuscript — 
[XXX] 

\_At rise of curtain, thunder of artillery and 
flashes of light note and then. Ringing 
of church and fire bells in distance] 

[Caroline is discovered in window up r. 
shrinking back against curtains and look- 
ing out through the windoiu in a terified 
way] 

[XXX] 

[Enter Mrs. Yarney coming hurriedly 
down the stairway from up L. and enter- 
ing through door or arch up l. c] 

Mrs. Yarney. Caroline! [Caroline goes 
to her. — She takes Caroline forward a 
little] Tell me what happened'? She 



It was at the 



What 



won't speak! Where has she been"? 
AVhere was if? 
Caroline. [Frightened] 

telegraph office! 
Mrs. Yarney. What did she do 
happened there ? Do tiy to tell ! 

[Flashes — cannonading — bells, etc., 
kept up strong. Effect of passing 
artillery begins in the distance very 
faint] 
Caroline. Oh I don't know! How can I 
tell? I was afraid and ran out! [Alarm 
bell very strong] It's the alarm bell, 
Mrs. Yarney — to call out the reserves! — 
That 's to call out the reserves ! 
Mrs. Yarney. Yes^ — yes, I know it dear! 
[A glance of anxiety toward windows 
right] They 're making- a terrible attack 
to-night. Lieutenant Maxwell was right ! 
That quiet spell was the signal! [Ar- 
tillery effect louder] 

Caroline crosses timidly to tvindow 
up r.] 
Caroline [Turning to Mrs. Yarney and 
speaking above the noise, which is not yet 
on full] It 's another regiment of artil- 
terj^ goin' by! They're sendin' 'em all 
over to Cemetery Hill ! That 's where the 
fighting is! Cemetery Hill! [Effect on 
loud] 

[Caroline watches from window. — 
Mrs. Yarney crosses over left and 
rings bell. — As artillery effect dies 
away Martha enters door up L. c. 
from R.] 
Mrs. Yarney. [To Martha] Go up and 
stay with Miss Edith till I come. Don't 
leave her a moment Martha — not a mo- 
ment! 
Martha. No 'm — I won't. [She turns 
and hastens off at door up L. c. and up 
the stairway] 

[Alarm bell and cannon on strong] 
Mrs. Yarney. Do close the curtains Caro- 
line! [Moves toward up c] 

[Caroline closes the window curtains 
at right] 
Caroline. I 'm afraid they 're goin' to 
have a right bad time to-night! [Going 
to Mrs. Yarney] 
Mrs. Yarney. Indeed I'm afraid so! — 
Now try to think dear, who was at the 
telegraph office ■? Can't you tell me some- 
thing? 



635 



()3G 



SECRET SERVICE 



Caholixe. [Shaking her licad] No — only 

— lliey arrested Mr. Arrelsford ! 
Mrs. Varney. Mr. Arrelsford ! Why you 
don't mean that he was — that he was 
actually arrested ! 
Caroline. Yes I do — an' I was glad of 
it! — An' General Randolph — he came — 
I went an' brought him there — an' Oh — 
he was in a frightful temper! 
Mrs. , Varxey. And Edith — now you can 

tell me — what did slie do*? 
Caroline. I can't Mrs. Varney — I don't 
know! I just waited for her outside — 
an' when she came out she could n't speak 
— an' then we hurried home ! That 's all 
I know Mrs. Varney — truly! 

[Loud ringing of door hell in another 
part of the house. — Caroline and 
Mrs. Varney turn toward door up 
L. c. — Noise of heavy steps outside 
left and Arrelsford almost immedi- 
ately strides into the room, folloiced 
hy two privates, who stand at tlie 
door^ 
[Caroline steps hack up stage a little 
as Arrelsford enters, and Mrs. Var- 
ney faces him] 

[XXX] 

Arrelsford. [l. c. — Roughly] Is your 
daughter in the house*? 

Mrs. Varney. [After a second's pai^se] 
Certainly ! 

[XXX] 

Arrelsford. I '11 see her if you please ! 

Mrs. Varney. I don't know that she'll 
care to receive you at present. 

Arrelsford. What she cares to do at pres- 
ent is of small consequence! Shall I go 
up to her room with these men or will 
you have her come down here to me*? 

Mrs. Varney. Neither one nor the other 
until I know your business. 

[Effect of passing cavalry and artil- 
lery] 

Arrelsford. [Excitedly] My business! 
You '11 know mighty quick ! It 's a very 
simple matter Mrs. Varney! Got a few 
questions to ask! — Listen to that! [Can- 
nonading becomes heavy] Now you 
know what "Attack To-night Plan Three" 
means ! Now you know ! 

;Mrs. Varney. Is that — Is that the attack 
they meant ! 

Arrelsford. That's the attack Madam ! 
They 're breaking through our lines at 
Cemetery Hill! That was PLAN 
THREE! We're rushing over the re- 
serves but they may not get there in time ! 



— Now if you please I '11 see Miss ^'ar- 
nev! 
[XXX] 

[Caroline 7ms crossed at back to door 

up L. c. as if going out, but turns 

near door to hear what Arrelsford 

is saying] 

Mrs. Varney, What has my daughter to 

do with this? 
Arrelsford. Do with it ! She did it ! 
Mrs. Varney. [Astonished] What! 
Arrelsford. Do you hear what I say — 
she did it! 

[Noise of passing Cavalry Officers go- 
ing by singly] 
Mrs. Varney. Impossible! 
Arrelsford. Impossible or not as you 
choose! — We had him there — in his own 
trap — under arrest — under arrest you un- 
derstand — when she brought in that Com- 
mission ! 
Mrs. Varney. [Horrified] You don't 

mean she — 
Arrelsford. I mean she put the game in 
his hands! He got the w^ires! His 
cursed dispatch went through! As soon 
as I got to headquarters they saw the 
trick! They rushed the guard back — 
the scoundrel had got away ! But we 're 
after him hot, an' if she knows where he 
is — [About to turn toward door up l. c] 
I '11 get it out of her ! 
[XXX] 
Mrs. Varney. You don't suppose my 

daughter would — 
Arrelsford. I suppose anything! 
Mrs. Varney. I '11 not believe it ! 
Arrelsford. We can't stop for what you 
believe! [Turns to go up l. c] 

[Alarm bells gradually cease'] 
Mrs. Varney. Let me speak to her ! 

[Passing cavalry effect has died away 
by this time] 
Arrelsford. I'll see her myself! [Going 
up L.] 

[Caroline has stepped quietly down so 
that as Arrelsford turns to go to- 
ward stairway she confronts him just 
luitliin the door or arch up L. c] 
Caroline. [Up l. c. between Arrelsford 
and the door. — Almost on cue of his last 
speech] Where is your order for this? 
Arrelsford. [Stopped by Caroline up 
L. c. — After an instant's surprise] I 've 
got a word or two to say to you — after 
I 've been upstairs! 
Caroline. Show me your order for going 

upstairs! 
Arrelsford, Department business — I don't 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



637 



require an order! [Moves as if to pass 
her] 
Caroline. [Stepping in his way again] 
Ob, yoLi 've made a great mistake about 
tbat ! Tbis is a piivate bouse ! It is n't 
tbe telegrapb office! If you want to go 
up any stairs or see anybody about any- 
thing you'll have to bring an order! I 
don't know mueb — but I know something 
— an' tbat 's it ! [She turns and exits 
door up L. c. and runs up the stairway] 
[XXX light] 

Arrelsford. [Turns sharply to Mrs. 
Varney] Am I to understand Madam, 
that you — 

[Loud ringing of door hell in distant 
part of house, followed almost im- 
mediately by the sound of heavy door 
outside L. and tramp of many feet 
in the hallway] 
[The sound of cavalry begins again] 
[Arrelsford and Mrs. Varney turn] 

[Enter at door or arch up l. c. from l. a 
Sergeant a7id four men. Men are halted 
up L. — Officer advances . to Mrs. Var- 
ney. — Arrelsford steps back a little 
up c] 

Sergeant. [Touching his cap roughly] 
Are you tbe lady tbat lives here ma'am *? 

Mrs. Varney. [r. c] I am Mrs. Varney ! 

Sergeant, [c] I've got an order to 
search the house! [Shoiving Mrs. Var- 
ney the order] 

Arrelsford. [Coming quickly down l. c] 
Just in time ! — I '11 go through the house 
if you please! 

Sergeant. [Roughly] You can't go 
through on this order — it was issued to 
me. 

Mrs. Varney. You were sent here to- 



Sergeant. Yes ma'am! SoiTy to trouble 
you but we '11 have to be quick about it ! 
If we don't get him here w^e 've got to 
follovv' down Franklin Street — he 's over 
this way somewhere ! [Turns l. about to 
give orders to men] 

Mrs. Varney. Who"? Who is it you 

Sergeant. [Turning hurriedly at l. c] 
Man named Thome — Cap'n of Artillery — 
that's what he went by! [Turns to his 
men] Here — this way ! That room in 
there! [Indicating room up c] Two of 
you outside ! [Pointing to windows] 
Cut off those windows, 

[Two men run into room up c. and 
two off at windows R. as indicated, 
throwing open curtains and windows 
as they do so. — Mrs. Varney stands 



aside R. c. — Sergeant glances 
quickly round the room — pushing 
desk out and looking behind it, etc. — 
Keep cavalry effects on and flashes 
intermittently during this business. 
— Also occasional low thunder of 
distant artillery. Cavalry effects 
distant — as if going down a street 
several blocks away. — During bus. 
Arrelsford goes to door l. and gives 
an order to his men. Then he exits 
door left. — Men who came with Ar- 
relsford exit after him] 
[As the cannonading begins again, the 
two men who went off at door up C. 
to search, re-enter shoving the old 
negro Jonas roughly into the room. 
— Re is torn and dirty and shows 
signs of rough handling. — They force 
him down c. a little way and he 
stands crouching] 
Sergeant, [r. c. — To men] Where did 

you get that? 
Private, [c] Hiding in a closet sir. 
Sergeant. [Going c. — To Jonas] What 
are you doing in there *? If you don't 
answer me we '11 kick the life out of you ! 
[Short pause. — To Mrs. Varney] Be- 
longs to you I reckon*? 
Mrs. Varney. [r. c] Yes — but they 

want him for carrying a message — — 
Sergeant. [Interrupting] Well if they 
want him they can come an' get him — 
we 're looking for someone else ! [Mo- 
tions to men] Throw him back in there! 
[Men shove Jonas off at door up c. — 
Other men re-enter from windows at 
right] Here — this room! Be quick 
now! Cover that door! [Two men have 
quick business of searching down R. and 
.L — The other two men stand on guard 
door up L. c] Sorry to disturb you 
ma'am! [Bell rings in distant part of 
house] 
Mrs. Varney. Do what you please — I 
have nothing to conceal! [Sound of 
heavy door outside up L.] 
[XXX] 

[Voice of Orderly calling outside 
up L.] 
Orderly. [Outside up l.] Here! Lend 
a hand will you ! 

[Two men at door up left exit at left 
to help someone outside] [Enter 
the Orderly who took Wilfred away 
in Act II. coming on hurriedly at 
door up L. c. from l. — Stands just 
below door — a few steps into room. 
He is splashed ivith foam and mud 



638 



SECRET SERVICE 



from hard riding. He sees Ser- 
geant and salutes. — Sergeant sa- 
lutes Orderly and goes over, look- 
ing out of icindow up R. — Mrs. 
Varney upon seeing the Orderly 
utters a low cry of alarm] 
Orderly. I 've brought back the boy 



ma am 



Mrs. Varney. [r. c- 
Oh ! What do you- 



-Starting forward] 
What 



Orderly. We never got out there at all! 
The Yankees made a raid down at Me- 
ehanicsville not three miles out ! The 
Home Guard was goin' by on the dead 
run to head 'em off, an' before I knew it 
he was in with 'em riding like mad! 
There was a bit of a skinnish an' he got 
a clip across the neck — nothing at all 
ma'am — he rode back all the way an' — 
[Cavalry effects die away gradually] 

Mrs, Varxey. [Moving toward c] Oh — 
Wilfred ! He 's— he 's hurt ! 

Orderly. Nothing bad ma'am — don't up- 
set yourself ! 

Mrs. Varney. {Starts toward the door] 
Where did you — [Stops on seeing Wil- 
fred] [Enter Wilfred at door left sup- 
ported by the two Men. — He is pale and 
has a bandage about his neck. — Mrs. 
Varney, after the sliglit pause on his en- 
trance goes to him at once] 

Mrs. Varney. [Going to Wilfred] Wil- 
fred ! 

Wilfred. [Weak voice — motioning Mrs. 
Varney away] It's all right — it's all 
right — you don't understand! [Tries to 
free himself from the men icho are sup- 
porting him] What do you want to hold 
me like that for*? [Frees himself and 
walks toward c. a little unsteadily] — You 
see — I can walk all right! [Mrs. Var- 
ney comes down anxiously on his right 
and holds him] [Wilfred turns and 
sees his mother and takes her hand with 
an effort to do it in as casual a manner 
as possible] How-dy-do Mother! — 
Did n't expect me back so soon, did you'? 
— Tell you how it was — [Turns and sees 
Orderly. To Orderly] Don't you go 
away now — I 'm going back w^ith you — 
just wait till I rest up about a minute. — 
See here ! They 're ringing the bells to 
call out the reserves! [Starting iveakly 
toward door l.] That settles it — I '11 go 
right now! 

[XXX] 

Mrs. Varney. [Gently holding him back] 
No no Wilfred — not now ! 

[Note: Wilfred must get well over 



to R. c. when he speaks to Mrs. 

Varney, and not move back to left 

more than a step or two, in order to 

be near the couch] 

[The cannonading sounds more loudly] 

Wilfred. [Weakly] Not now! — You 

hear that — you hear those bells — and tell 

me — not nowM — I — [Sways a little] I — 

[Mrs. Varney supports him tenderly] 

Sergeant. [Quick undertone to Men] 

Stand by there! [Wilfred faints. — 

Mrs. Varney supports him, but almost 

immediately the Two Men come to her 

assistance. — Sergeant and Two Men 

2DUsh the couch forward down R. c. and 

they quickly lay him on it with his head 

on the right. — Mrs. Varney goes to head 

of couch and holds Wilfred's head as 

they lay him down] 

[Cannonading and other effects gradu- 
ally cease] 
Sergeant. [To one of the men] Find 
some water will you*? [To Mrs. Var- 
ney] Put his head down ma'am — put 
his head down an' he '11 be all right in a 
minute. 

[A Private hurries off at door up l. c. 
to R. on order to get water. — Ser- 
geant gets chair from up c. and puts 
it back of couch. — Mrs. Varney 
goes back of couch attending to Wil- 
fred. — Private re-enters with basin 
of icater and gives it to Mrs. Var- 
ney] 
Officer. [To IMen] This way now! 

[Men move quickly to door or arch up 
L. c. — Officer gives quick directions 
to Men at door. All exit at door up 
L. c. — 07ie or two going r. and Ser- 
geant with most of men going up 
the stairway. — Orderly is left stand- 
ing L. a little below door, exactly as 
he was. — Mrs. Varney kneeling back 
of Wilfred and bathing his head 
tenderly — using her handkerchief] 
Orderly. [After brief pause] If there 
ain't anything else ma'am, I 'd better re- 
port back. 
Mrs. Varney. Yes — don't wait! — The 

wound is dressed is n't it ? 
Orderly. Yes ma'am — I took him to the 
Winder Hospital — they said he 'd be on 
his feet in a day or two — he only wants 
to keep quiet a bit. 
Mrs. Varney. Tell the General just how it 

happened ! 
Orderly. [Touching cap] I sure will 
ma'am. [He turns and hurries off at 
door up L. c. to l.] 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



639 



[Short pause. — Mrs. Varney gently 
bathing Wilfred's head and wrists] 
[Sound of alarm hells dies away ex- 
cepting that from a very distant one 
which continues to ring in muffled 
tones] [Caroline appears coming 
down the stairway up L. absent- 
mindedly, stopping when part way 
down because site sees someone on 
couch with Mrs. Yarney bathing 
his head. She looks more intently. 
Then suddenly starts and runs down 
the rest of the way and into the room 
at door up l. c. stopping dead when 
a little way in and looking across at 
what is going on. — Mrs. Varney 
does not see her at first. — Caroline 
stands motionless — face very white. 
— Mrs. Varney after a moment's 
pause sees Caroline] 
Mrs. Varney. [Rising quickly] Caro- 
line dear! [Goes to Caroline c] It's 
nothing! [Holds Caroline, though the 
girl seems not to know it, her face ex- 
pressionless and her eyes fixed on Wil- 
fred] He 's hardly hurt at all ! There 
— there — don't you famt too, dear! 
Caroline. [Very low voice] I'm not go- 
ing to faint! [Sees the handkerchief in 
Mrs. Varney's hand] Let me — [Takes 
the handkerchief and goes across, to- 
ward front of couch. Turns to Mrs. 
Varney] — I can take care of him — I 
don't need anybody here at all! [Goes 
toward Wilfred] 

Mrs. Varney. But Caroline 

Caroline. [Still with a strange quiet. — 
Looks calmly at Mrs. Varney] Mrs. 
Varney — there 's a heap o' soldiers goin' 
round upstairs — lookin' in all the rooms. 
I reckon you 'd better go an' attend to 
'em. 
Mrs. Varney. Upstairs ! Why I did n't 

know they 

Caroline. Well they did. — I was keepin' 

'em quiet as long as I could. 
Mrs. Varney. I — I must go up and see to 
it! [Turns and moves up l. c. — Turns 
hack] You know what to do dear ! 
Caroline. Oh yes! [Dropping down on 
the floor beside Wilfred in front of 
couch] 
Mrs. Varney. Bathe his forehead — he 
is n't badly hurt ! — I won't be long ! 
[Exit hurriedly door up l. c. closing the 
portieres or curtains together after her] 
[Caroline on her knees close to Wil- 
fred, tenderly bathing his forehead 
and smoothing his hair] [Wilfred 



soon begins to show signs of re- 
viving] 

Caroline. [Speaking to Wilfred in low 
tone as he revives. — Not a continued 
speech, but with pauses — ] Wilfred 
dear ! — Wilfred ! You 're not hurt much 
are you*? — Oh no — you're not! There 
there! — You'll feel better in just a 
minute! — Yes — just a minute! 

Wilfred [Weakly. — Before he realizes 
what has happened] Is there — are 
you — [Looks round with wide open eyes] 

Caroline. Oh Wilfred — don't you know 
me? 

Wilfred. [Looks at her for a moment be- 
fore speaking. — Voice weak — but clear 
and audible throughout this scene with 
Caroline] What are you talking about ? 
Of course I know you ! — Say — what am I 
doing anyhow — taking a bath? 

Caroline. No no! — You see Wilfred — 
you just fainted a little an' 

Wilfred. Fainted! [Caroline wo^s] I 
fainted! [A weak attempt to rise. — Be- 
gins to remember] Oh — [Sinks back 
tceakly] — Yes of course! — I was in a 
fight with the Yanks — an' got knocked — 
[Begins to remember that he was 
wounded. — He thinks about it a moment, 
then looks strangely at Caroline] 

Caroline. [After looking at Wilfred in 
silence] Oh — what is it? 

Wilfred. I '11 tell you one thing right 
yere ! I 'm not going to load you up w4th 
a cripple! Not much! 

Caroline. Cripple ! 

Wilfred. I reckon I 've got an ami 
knocked off haven't I? 

Caroline. [Quickly] No no! You have n't 
Wilfred! [Shaking head emphatically] 
They 're both on all right ! 

Wilfred. [After thinking a moment. 
Weak voice] Maybe I had a hand shot 
away? 

Caroline. Oh no — not a single one! 

Wilfred. Are my — are my ears on all 
right? 

Caroline. [Looks on both sides of his 
head] Yes — they 're all right Wilfred — 
you need n't trouble about them a min- 
ute! [Wilfred thinks a moment. Then 
turns his eyes slowly upon her] 

Wilfred. How many legs have I got left? 

Caroline. [Looks to see] All of 'em — 
Every one ! 

[Last alarm hell ceases] 

Wilfred. [After pause] Then — if there 's 
enough of me left to — to amount to any- 
thing — [Looks in Caroline's face a mo- 



640 



SECRET SERVICE 



meiit] you '11 take charge of it just the 
same? — How about that? 

Caroline. [After pause] That 's all 
right too! [Caroline suddenly buries 
her face on his shoulder. — Wilfred gets 
hold of her hand and kisses it. — Caroline 
suddenlji raises her head and looks at 
him] I tried to send you a telegram — 
an' they would n't let me ! 

Wilfred. Did vou? [Caroline nods] 
What did you say in it? [Pause] Tell 
me what you said! 

Caroline. It was something nice ! [Looks 
away] 

Wilfred. It was, eli? [Caroline nods 
with her head turned away from him. — 
Wilfred reaches up and turns her head 
toward him again] You're sure it was 
something nice ! 

Caroline. Well I would n't have gone to 
work an' telegraphed if it was something 
had would I? 

Wilfred. Well if it was good, wliy did n't 
you send it? 

Caroline. Goodness gracious! How 

could I when they would n't let me ! 

Wilfred. Would n't let you ! 

Caroline. I should think not! [Moves 
back a little for Wilfred's business of 
getting up] Oh they had a terrible time 
at the telegraph office ! 

Wilfred. Telegraph office. [Tries to 
recollect] Telegr — were you there 
wiien — [Raising himself] 

[Alarm bell begins to ring again in 
distant part of the town] 

[XXX] 

[Caroline moves back a little fright- 
ened — without getting up — watching 
him. — Wilfred suddenly tries to get 
up] That was it ! — They told me at 
the hospital! [Attempts to rise] 
[The cannonading becomes louder] 

Caroline. [Rising] Oh, — you mustn't! 
[Slie tries to prevent him from rising] 

Wilfred. [Gets partly on his feet and 
pushes Caroline away with one hand, 
holding to the chair near the desk R. for 
support with the other] He gets hold of 
our Department Telegraph — sends out a 
false order — weakens our defense at 
Cemetery Hill — an' they 're down on us 
in a minute! An' she gave it to him! — 
My sister Edith ! She gave him the Com- 
mission that allowed him to do it ! 

Caroline, [l. of Wilfred] But you 
don't know how the 

Wilfred. [Imperiously] I know this — 
if the General was here he'd see her! 



The General is n't here — I '11 attend to it ! 
[Sounds of cannon] 
[Wilfred begins lo feel a dizziness and 
holds to the desk or chair near it for 
support. — Caroline starts toward 
him in alarm. — He braces himself 
erect again with an effort and mo- 
tions her off. — She stops] 
Wilfred. [Weakly but witlt clear voice, 
and commandingly] Send her to me! 
[Caroline stands almost frightened with 
her eyes upon him] 

[Enter Mrs. Varney coming down the 
stairway and in at door up L-. c. — Caro- 
line hurries toward her in a frightened 
way — with a glance back at Wilfred] 

Caroline. He wants to see Edith ! 
Mrs. Varney. [Going toward Wilfred] 
Not now Wilfred— you 're too weak and 
ill! 

[Caroline remains up c] 
Wilfred, [r.] Tell her to come here! 
Mrs. Varney. [l. of Wilfred] It won't 

do any good — she won't speak! 
Wilfred. I don't want her to speak — I 'm 

going to speak to her! 
Mrs. Varney. Some other time ! 
Wilfred. [Leaves the desk or chair that 
he held to and moves toward door up l. c. 
as if to pass his mother and Caroline] 
Very well — if you won't send her to me 

—I '11 

Mrs. Varney. [Stopping him] There 

there ! If you insist I '11 call her ! 
Wilfred. I insist! 

[Cannonading] 
Mrs. Varney. [Turns toward door and 
goes a few steps, crossing Caroline. 
Stops. Turns back to Caroline] Stay 
with him dear! 
Wilfred. [Weak voice but command- 
ingly] No ! — I '11 see her alone ! 

[Mrs. Varney looks at him an instant. 
Sees that he means what he says. 
Motions Caroline to come. — Caro- 
line looks at Wilfred a moment, 
then turns and slowly goes to door 
up L. where Mrs. Varney is waiting 
for her. Looks sadly back at Wil- 
fred again, and then goes out with 
Mrs. Varney at door up l. c. and 
up the stairway] 
[XXX] 

[Wilfred stands motionless an instant 
down R. c. as he was when the two 
ladies left the room. — Noise of ap- 
proaching men — low shouts — steps 
on gravel, etc., outside up r., begins 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



G41 



in distance. — On this Wilfred turns 
and moves up C. looking off to right. 
Then moves up into the doorway 
opening up c. but does not open the 
door] 
[XXX] 

[Alarm bell ceases. — Low sound of dis- 
tant voices and the tramp of hurry- 
ing feet quicklij growing louder and 
louder outside right. — When it is on 
strong, Thorxe appears springing 
over balustrade of veranda above 
window up R. and instantly runs for- 
ward into the room backing close 
against right wall below window and 
holding curtain or hanging between 
him and the window as he does so. 
A stand with vase is thrown over 
with this movement and crashes down 
in front of lower window. He 
stands there panting — face pale — 
eyes hunted atid desperate and re- 
volver clutched in right hand held 
at ready. His left hand is bandaged 
roughly. He has no hat, or coat, 
hair is disheveled, shoes dusty, trous- 
ers and shirt torn and soiled. As 
the noise of his pursuers dies away 
he turns into the room and makes a 
rapid start across toward L. looking 
quickly about as if searching for 
someone] 
[Wilfred — who has been watching 
him from up c. in the doorway — 
turns quickly down c. as Thorxe 
crosses, coming right of him and 
seizing him by right arm and shoul- 
der] 
Wilfred. [Seizing hold of Thorne's 
right arm and shoulder as Thorne 
crosses] Halt ! You 're under ar- 
rest ! 
Thorne. [With a quick glance back at 
Wilfred] Wait a minute! [Shaking 
loose from Wilfred] Wait a minute an' 
I'll go with you! [Going up l. c. look- 
ing this luay and that] 
Wilfred. [A step toward Thorne as if 
to follow] Halt I say! You're my 
prisoner ! 
Thorne. [Turning and going quickly to 
Wilfred] All right — prisoner — any- 
thing" you like! [Pushing his revolver 
into Wilfred's hands] Here — take this! 
Shoot the life out of me — but let me see 
my brother first ! 
Wilfred. [Taking the revolver] Your 

brother ! 
Thorne. [Nods — breathless] One look 



in his face — one look — that 's all I ask ! 
Wilfred. Where is he? 
Thorne. [Breathless] I don't .know! 
[Quick glance about. Points toward the 
door up c] Maybe they took him in 
there! [Striding up c. toward door as 
he speaks] 
Wilfred. [Springing up between Thorne 
and the door and covering him with re- 
volver] What is he doing'? 
Thorne. [Facing Wilfred half way up 

c] What! 
Wilfred. [Still covering Thorne] 

What 's he doing in there ? 
Thorne. Nothing ! . . . He 's dead ! 

[Wilfred looks at Thorne a moment. 

Then begins to back slowly up to 

door up c, keeping eyes on Thorne 

and revolver ready but not aimed. — 

Opens door up c. Quick look into 

the room. Faces Thorne again] 

Wilfred. It 's a lie ! — There 's no one 

there ! — It 's another trick of yours ! 

[Starts toward window up R. — half 

backing so that he can still cover Thorne 

with revolver] Call in the Guard! Call 

the Guard! Captain Thorne is here in 

the house! 

[Wilfred exits at window r. calling 
the Guard. His voice is heard out- 
side R. growing fainter and fainter 
in the distance] 
[Thorne stands an instant after Wil- 
fred disappears — then springs to the 
door up c. Opens it and looks into 
the room, going part ivay off at the 
door. He glances this way and that 
within the room, then attitude of 
despair — left hand dropping from 
frame of door to his side as he comes 
to erect position — right hand retain- 
ing hold of knob of door] 
[On Thorne standing erect Edith en- 
ters through the portieres of the door 
up L. c. — expecting to find Wilfred. 
She stands just within the doorway 
to the L. of it] 
[Thorne turns and comes out of room 
up c, closing the door as he does so. 
Turning away from the door — right 
hand still on the knob — he sees 
Edith and stops motionless facing 
her] 
[A pause for an instant] 
Thorne. [Going toward Edith a step or 
two] You wouldn't tell me would you! 
He was shot in this room — an hour ago 
— my brother Harry ! — I 'd like one look 
in his dead face before they send me the 



042 



SECRET SERVICE 



same way ! Can't you tell me that much 
Miss Varney? Where is he? If you 
won't speak to me perhaps you '11 make 
some sign so 1 '11 know ? It 's my brother 
Miss Varney! [Edith looks in his face 
an instant motionless — then turns and 
moves slowly cloven L. c. and stands near 
the table tliere] 

[As Edith stops near table l. c. 
Thorne turns away and goes toward 
icindow up R. — Before he reaches it 
there is a sudden hurst of shouts and 
yells outside up R. — sliort and sav- 
age. — Thorxe stops up R. c. on the 
shouts and stands supporting him- 
self a little by the upper wall or a 
door frame. He turns front with a 
grim smile — a flash from distant ar- 
tillery action lighting liis face for an 
instant from window R.] 
Thorne. Ha ! — They 're on the scent at 
last! [Muttering it to himself] They'll 
get me now — and then it won't take long 
to finish me off! [Turns toward Edith] 
And as that '11 be the last of me — [Moves 
toward her] As that '11 be the last of me 
Miss Varney — [Comes down l. c. near 
her] maybe you'll listen to one thing! 
We can't all die a soldier's death — in the 
roar of battle — our friends around us — 
under the flag we love! — No — not all! 
Some of us have orders for another kind 
of work — desperate — dare-devil work — 
the hazardous schemes of the Secret 
Service. We fight our battles alone — no 
comrades to cheer us on — ten thousand 
to one against us — death at every turn ! 
If we Avin we escape wdth our lives — if we 
lose — dragged out and butchered lil^e 
dogs — no soldier's gTave — not even a 
trench with the rest of the boys — alone — 
despised — forgotten ! These were my 
orders Miss Varney — this is the death I 
die to-night — and I don't want you to 
think for one minute that I 'm ashamed 
of it. 

[Sudden shouts and noise of many men 
running outside up r. and also out- 
side up L. — Thorne swings round 
and walks up C. in usual nonchalant 
manner, and stands up C. waiting 
and faced a little to R. of front, 
leaning on side of door ivith out- 
stretched right arm. He simply 
waits — his face utterly atonic — no 
attitude or expression of bravado 
martyrdom] 
[Edith moves to left and stands near 
mantel] 



[The shouts and stamping of running 
feet grow quickly louder on both r. 
and L. gauged so that as Thorne 
stands motionless up c. squads of 
Confederate soldiers rush in from 
both windows R. and from door up 
L. c. from L. — those on right headed 
by the Sergeant who searched the 
house early in tliis act, and those on 
left by Corporal. — Wilfred Var- 
ney with revolver still in his hand, 
enters at window down r. in lead of 
others, coming to r. c. and letting 
men pass him. — The men from both 
sides run savagely toward Thorne 
and stand each side of him with 
bayonets charged hoping for the or- 
der to run him tlirouglt] 
Sergeant. Halt! Halt! [The Men stand 

motionless] 
Wilfred, [r. c. — To Sergeant] There 's 

your man Sergeant — I hand him over to 

you! 
Sergeant. [Up r. c. — Advancing to 

Thorne and putting hand roughly on his 

shoulder] Prisoner ! 
[XXX] 

[Enter Arrelsford hurriedly at door up 
L, c. from L.] 

Arrelsford. [Breaking through between 
men at L.] AYhere is he? [Sees 
Thorne] Ah! We've got him have 



w^e 



[Stands l. c. looking at Thorne] 



Sergeant. Young Varney here captured 
him sir! 

[Enter Mrs. Varney door up l. c from 
stairway. She goes down left side] 

Arrelsford. So! — Run down at last! 
[Thorne pays no attention to Arrei:s- 
FORD. — He merely waits for the end of 
the disturbance] Now you '11 find out 
what it costs to play your little game 
with our Government Telegxaph Lines! 
[Turns to Sergeant] Don't waste any 
time! Take him down the street and 
shoot him full of lead! — Out with him! 
[Turns and goes down L. c] 

[Low shouts of approval from men, 
and genercd movement as if to start, 
the Sergeant at same time shoving 
Thorne a little to swing him around 
toward left] 
Sergeant. [Willi other shouts] Come 

along here ! 
Wilfred. [A step toward c. — Revolver 
still in hand. Speaking with all his 
force] No! [Men and officers stand 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



643 



motionless] Wliatever he is — whatever 
he's dune — he has a right to a trial! 
[Thorxe turns and looks at Wilfred] 
Arkelsford. [Down l. c] General Tarle- 
toii said to me, "If you find him shoot 
him on sight !" 
Wilfred. [Down r. c] I don't care 
what General Tarleton said — I captured 
the man — he 's in this house — and he 's 
not going out without he 's treated fair ! 
[Wilfred looks up toward Tiiorne. — 
Their eyes meet. — After an instant 
Tiiorne turns away up stage, resting left 
hand against L. side of door frame] 
Arrelsford. [Suddenly. Angrily] Well 
— let him have it !— We '11 give him a 
drum-head, boys — but it'll be the quick- 
est drum-head ever held on earth! [To 
Sergeant] Stack muskets here an' run 
'em in for the court! 
Sergeant. [Stepping a little down c. and 
facing about — back to audience] Fall in 
here! [Men break positions each side 
and run up stage, falling quickly into a 
double rank just above Sergeant. — 
Thorne is up c. above this double rank] 
Fall in the Prisoner! [Men separate R. 
and L. leaving space at c. — Thorne steps 
down into position and stands] Stack 
— arms! [Front rank men stack. — Rear 
rank men pass pieces forward. — Front 
rank men lay them on stacks. — Sergeant 
turns right to Mrs. Yarney and touches 
cap] Where shall we find a vacant 
room ma'am? 
Mrs. Yarney. At the head of the stairs — 

there 's none on this floor. 
Sergeant. [Turning to mr.en] Escort — 
left face! [Men left /ace— Thorne 
obeying the order with them] Forward 
— march! — File left! 

[Soldiers witlt Thorne march rapidly 
out of the room at door up L. c. and 
disappear up the stairway outside 
up L. — TJie Sergeant exits door up 
L. c. and up stairway after men] 
[Arrelsford exits after men door up 
L. C. following them closely up the 
stairway and o^f to L. — Wilfred fol- 
lows off at door up l. c. and up the 
stairway with some effort. — Mrs. 
Yarney exits at door up l. c. and 
off to left] 
[Edith turns and crosses slowly to 
window at right. Pauses a moment 
there, flashes of light from distant 
cannonading on her face. She 
stands in windoiv right — partly hid- 
den by curtains — looking off] 



[The door^up c. slowly opens a little 
way and the old negro Jonas looks 
cautiously through from outside. 
Soon he opens the door and comes 
in almost crawling, and looking fear- 
fully this ivay and that. After a 
momen't his eyes light on the stacks 
of muskets. He goes to the one up 
L. c. — Looks about fearfully — ap- 
prehensively. Hesitates an instant. 
— During his next movements — artil- 
lery and cavalry effects on strong. 
Cannon and musketry fire in dis- 
tance — alarm bells on strong — begin 
as men go upstairs] 

[Jonas makes up his mind. He drops 
down on knees by stack of muskets 
tip L. c. — snaps the breech lock of 
one without moving it from the stack 
— gets out the cartridge, looks at it, 
bites it with his teeth and looks at it 
again. Bites again and makes mo- 
tions of getting the ball off and put- 
ting it in his pocket. Puts cartridge 
back in the musket, snaps the lock 
shut, and moves on to the next. Ee- 
peats the movement of taking the 
cartridge out, but is much quicker, 
biting off the ball at once. Repeats 
more rapidly and quickly with an- 
other musket, crawling quickly round 
the stack. Moves over to stack at 
R. c. Make scene as rapid as the 
action will permit] 

[As Jonas gets ivell to work on mus- 
kets Edith turns at window up R. 
and sees him. She stands a moment 
motionless — then comes down on 
right, and stands looking at him 
without moving. — Jonas, who began 
after leaving stack l. c. at upper 
side of stack r. c. — has worked 
around down stage on the stack, and 
has come to the lower side. — Edith 
stands near the desk at r. and drops 
a book upon it, after the last mus- 
ket but one, to make Jonas look up. 
— Jonas looks up and sees Edith. 
He stops] 

[Effects of cannonading have gradually 

been dying down to a low distant 

rumble, and passing artillery and 

cavalry discontinued. Alarm bells 

in distance, however, are still heard] 

Jonas. [After pause. Very low voice] 

Dhey 's a-goin' ter shoot 'im — shoot 'im 

down like a dog. Missy — an' I could n't 

b'ar to see 'em do dat ! I w^ould n't like 

to see 'im killed — I wouldn't like it no- 



644 



SECRET SERVICE 



ways! You won't say nuffin' 'bout dis — 
fer de sake of ole Jonas what was always 
so fond o' you — ebber sense ye was a lit- 
tle chile! [He sees i^iat Edith does not 
appear angrij, and goes on with his work 
of getting the hidlet out of the last 
cartridge] Ye see — I jiss take away dis 
yer — an' den dar won't be no barm to 
'im what-some-ebber — less 'n day loads 
'em up agin ! [Sloivhj hobbles to his feet 
as he speaks] When dey sliQots — an' he 
jiss draps down, dey '11 roll 'im over inter 
de gutter an' be off like dey was mad! 
Den I can be near by — an' — [Suddenly 
thinks of something. A look of blank 
consternation comes over his face. He 
speaks in almost ichisper] How's he 
goin' ter know! Ef he don't drap down 
dey '11 shoot him a^in — an' dey '11 hab 
bullets in 'em nex time ! [Anxiously 
glances around an instant] Dey '11 hab 
bullets in 'em next time! [Looks about. 
Suddenly to Edith] You tell 'im! 
You tell him Missy — it 's de ony-est way ! 
Tell 'im to drap down ! [Supplicatingly] 
Do dis fur ole Jonas honey — do it fur 
me — an' I '11 be a slabe to ye ez long ez 
I lib! [Slight pause. — Sudden yell out- 
side up left from a dozen men shut inside 
a room on the floor above. — Joxas starts 
and turns. Half ivhisper] Dey 's 
a-goin' ter kill 'im ! 

[Noise of heavy tramp of feet outside 
up L. above — doors opening, etc. — 
An indistinct order or two before 
regular order heard. — Jonas goes 
limping hurriedly to door up c] 
Sergeant. [Outside up l. — Above] Fall 

in ! — Right face ! — Forward — March ! 
Jonas. [At door up c] Oh — tell 'im 
Missy ! Tell 'im to drap doAvn for God's 
sake! [Exit Jonas at door up c. care- 
fully closing it after him] 
[Cannonading stronger] 
[After an instant's pause Edith 
crosses to l. c. and stands waiting 
near the table there, her face quite 
expressionless] 
[XXX] 

[Wilfred enters from l. at top of stair- 
way, comes down the stairs and into the 
room at door up l. c. — Enter Caroline 
at door up L. c. from l. as Wilfred goes 
down C. She hurries after him with an 
anxious glance up stairway and entering 
at door up L. c] 
Caroline. [Overtaking Wilfred — on his 
L. — Loio voice] What are they — going 
to do? 



Wilfred, [c] Shoot him! 
Caroline. When"? 
Wilfred. Now. 

Caroline. [Low exclamation of pitu] 
Oh! 

[Wilfred goes r. c. beloiv lounge. — 
Caroline follows and stands near 
him on his l. looking on as Soldiers 
and others enter] 

[Enter, coming down stairway up left at 
back the Sergeant, followed by escort of 
Soldiers. Tltey enter room at door or 
archway up L. c. and turn r, marching 
to position they were formerly in above 
the stacks of muskets] 

[Enter Arrelsford up l. from above fol- 
lowing down the stairway after the escort 
of Men. He comes in through door or 
arch up l. c. and goes across to up r. c. — 
Mrs. Varney enters at door up l. c. from 
l. and goes down left side] 

Sergeant. [TT7io is at c. facing up] 
Halt! [Men halt] Left face! [Men 
face front] 

[Thorne enters at top of stairway up L. 
and comes down unconcernedly and a 
trifle absently — for his thoughts of cer- 
tain persons far away. He is followed 
by Corporal ivith his carbine. — Thorne 
comes into position at l. of front line of 
men. — Corporal stands at l. of Thorne] 

Sergeant. [After Thorne is in position 
at l. of Men] Take— arms! [Men at 
once take muskets. All . very quick] 
Carry — arms! [Bus. — Men stand i)i line 
ivaiting] Fall in the Prisoner! [Thorne 
walks in front of Men to c. and falls into 
position] Left — face! [Thorne and 
Men face to left on order] Forward — ^ 

Edith. Wait! — [Motion of hand to stop 
them without looking round. She con- 
trols her voice with difficulty] Who is 
the officer in command? 

Sergeant. [Turning to Edith and touch- 
ing cap awkwardly] I 'm in command, 
Miss ! 

Edith. I 'd like to — speak to the prisoner ! 

Sergeant. Sorry Miss, but we have n't got 
time! [Turns back to give order to 
Mex] 

Edith. [Sudden turn on him and hand 
out] Oh — Wait! [Sergeant stops and 
turns slowly toward her again] Only a 
word! [Whispers it over to herself] 
Only a word ! 

[Sergeant hesitates an instant — turns 
to Men and steps up l. c. a little] 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



645 



Sergeant. Right face! [Men face to 
front again on order. — Thorne obeying 
order with others^ Fall out the prisoner! 
[Thorne moves forward one step out of 
rank and stands motionless] Now Miss! 
Wilfred, [r. c. — Starting indignantly to- 
ward c] No! 

[Sergeant turns in surprise] 

Caroline. [Holding to Wilfred and 

speaking in a low voice] Oh Wilfred — 

why can't she speak to him? She only 

wants to say good-bye! 

[Wilfred looks at Caroline. Then 

with gesture to Sergeant indicates 

that he may go on, and turns away 

R. ivith Caroline] 

Sergeant. [Turning to Thorne] The 

lady! 

[Thorne looking front as before. 
Then he turns slowly and looks at 
Sergeant. — Sergeant motions with 
his head indicating Edith. — Thorne 
walks down to her, stopping close on 
her right, standing in military po- 
sition, faced in same direction he 
walked, a little to l. of front] 
[Arrelsford up R. c. looking at Edith 
and Thorne. — Caroline with Wil- 
fred down R. c. gives an occasional 
awed and frightened glance at 
Thorne and Edith. — No movement 
after the Sergeant's order to "fall 
out the prisoner^' and Thorne's walk 
to Edith] 
[Edith, after slight pause, speaks 
slowly, in almost a whisper and as 
if with an effort, but without ap- 
parent feeling, and without turning 
to Thorne] 
Edith. [Voice for Thorne alone to hear. 
Slowly. Distinctly. Without inflection. 
A slight occasional tremor. Pauses as 
indicated] One of the servants — ^lias 
taken the musket balls^ — out of the guns ! 
If you care to fall on the gTound when 
they tire — you may escape with your life ! 
Thorne. [After motionless pause. — To 
Edith. — Low voice] Do you wish me to 
do this'? 
Edith. [Low voice — without turning] 
It's nothing to me. 

[Thorne, with slight movement at the 
cue, turns slowly away. — Brief 
pause. — He turns toward Edith 
again] 
Thorne. [Very low voice] Were you re- 
sponsible in any way for — [Edith shakes 
her head slightly without looking at him. 
— Thorne turns and walks right to c. — 



Makes turn there and walks up c. and 
turns to L. facing the Sergeant a little 
R. of c. and out of the way of bayonets 
in coming business] Sergeant — [As 
if making an ordinary military report] 
You 'd better take a look at your mus- 
kets — they 've been tampered with. 

Sergeant , [Snatching musket from man 
nearest him] What the — [Quickly 
snaps it open. Cartridge drops to floor. 
Sergeant picks it up and looks at it] 
Here! — [Handing musket hack to mam 
— Turns to squad and gives orders 
quickly as follows: Business on these 
orders very effective if carried out 
promptly and with precision] Squad — 
ready ! [Men come in one movement 
from "carry'' to position for loading] 
Draw — cartridge! [Men draw car- 
tridges, the click and snap of locks and 
levers ringing out simultaneously along 
the line] With ball cartridge — reload! 
[Men quickly reload. Same bus. of 
rapid click of locks and levers down the 
line] Carry — arms! [Men come to 
carry on the instant. Motionless. Eyes 
front. — To Thorne — with off-hand sa- 
lute] Much obliged sir! 

Thorne. [Low voice. Off-hand — as if of 
no consequence] That 's all right. 
[Stands facing l. waiting for order to 
fall in. — Wilfred, after Thorne's warn- 
ing to officer about muskets, watches him 
with open admiration] 

Wilfred. [Suddenly walking up to 
Thorne] I'd like to shake hands with 
you! 

[Thorne turns and looks at Wilfred, 
who is just below him a little to his 
right. A smile breaks gradually 
over his face] 

Thorne. [Smiling] Is this for yourself 
— or your father"? 

Wilfred. [Earnestly] For both of us 
sir! [Putting out his hand a little way. 
— Thorne grasps his hand. They look 
into each other's faces a moment. — Wil- 
fred turns away to down R. c. and goes 
up back of couch to Caroline. — Thorne 
looks after Wilfred to front an instant — 
then turns l.] That's all. Sergeant! 

Sergeant. [Lower voice than before] 
Fall in the Prisoner! [Thorne steps to 
place in the line and turns front] Es- 
cort — left face ! [Men and Thorne left 
face] Forward ma — [Sharp cry of 
"Halt! Halt!" outside up l., followed 
by bang of heavy door outside L.] 

Sergeant. Halt! [Men stand motionless 



646 



SECRET SERVICE 



at left face. On seeing the Orderly ap- 
proaching — just before he is on] Right 
face ! 

[Men and Thorne face to front] 

[Enter quickly at door up- L. c. from L. an 
Aid — wearing Lieutenant's uniform. — 
Sergeant, faced front up l. c. just for- 
ward of his men, salutes. — Aid salutes] 

[XXX] 

Aid. [Standing up l. c] General Ran- 
dolph's compliments sir, and he 's on the 
way with orders! 
Arrelsford. [Up R. c] What orders, 
Lieutenant? — Anything to do with this 
case ? 
Aid. [No salute to Arrelsford] I don't 
know what the orders are, sir. He 's 
been with the President. 
Arrelsford. I sent word to the Depart- 
ment we 'd got the man and were going 
to drum-head him on the spot. 

[Wilfred and Caroline move unob- 
trusively to the upper side of couch] 
Aid. Then this must be the ease sir. I 
believe the General wishes to be present. 
Arrelsford. Impossible ! We 've held the 
court and I 've sent the finding to the 
Secretary! The messenger is to get his 
approval and meet us at the corner of 
Copley Street. 
Aid. I have no further orders sir! [Re- 
tires up with quick military movement 
and turns facing front. Stands motion- 
less] 

[The cannonading becomes louder] 
[Sound of heavy door outside up L. 
and the tread of the General as he 
strides across the hall] 
Sergeant. [Low voice to Men] Present 
— arms! [Men present] 

[Sergeant, Orderly, etc., on salute] 

[Enter General Randolph at door up l. c. 
from L, striding on hurriedly — returning 
salutes as he goes down c. glancing about] 

[Lieut. Foray, the First Telegraph Op- 
erator, follows General Randolph in 
at door up l. c. from l. He stands wait- 
ing up L. c. near door, faced front, mili- 
tary position] 

Sergeant. [Low order to Men] Carry — 
arms! [Men come to carry again] 

General Randolph. Ah Sergeant! — [Go- 
ing down and across to n.] Got the pris- 
oner in here have you? 

Bergeant, [Saluting] Just taking bim 
out sir. 



General Randolph, [c] Prison? 

Sergeant. No sir — to execute the sen- 
tence of the Court. 

General Randolph. Had his trial then? 

Arrelsford. [Stepping down r. c. with a 
salute] All done according to regula- 
tions, sir — the finding has gone to the 
Secretary. 

General Randolph, [r. to Arrelsford] 
Found guilty I judge? 

Arrelsford. Found guilty sir. — No time 
now for hanging — the court ordered him 
shot. 

General Randolph. What were the 
grounds for this ? 

Arrelsford. Conspiracy against our gov- 
ernment and the success of our arms by 
sending a false and misleading dispatch 
containing forged orders. 

General Randolph. Court's been misin- 
formed — that dispatch was never sent. 
[Edith looks up with sudden breath- 
less exclamation. — Wilfred turns 
with surprise. — Others are greatly 
astonished] 

Arrelsford. [Coming down on right of 
General] Why General — the dispatch 
— I saw him 

General Randolph. I say the dispatch 
was n't sent ! I expected to arrive in 
time for the trial and brought Foray 
here to testify. [Calls to Lieutenant 
Foray without looking round] Lieuten- 
ant! 

[Lieutenant Foray comes quickly 
down L. o. facing General Ran- 
dolph. — Salutes] 
Did Captain Thorne send out any dis- 
patches after we left you with him in the 
office an hour ago? 

Lieutenant Foray. No sir. I was just 
going to send one under his order, but he 
countermanded it. 

General Randolph. What were his words 
at the time? 

Lieutenant Foray. He said he refused 
to act under that commission. 

[Edith turns toward Thorne and her 
eyes are upon him for a moment] 

General Randolph. That will do. Lieu- 
tenant ! [Lieutenant Foray salutes 
and retires tip l.] In addition we learn 
from General Chesney that no complete 
order was received over the wire — that 
Marston's Division was not withdrawn — 
that our position was not weakened in 
any way and the attack at that point has 
been repulsed. It 's plain, therefore, 
that the Court has been acting vinder 



WILLIAM GILLETTE 



647 



error. The President for this reason 
finds himself compelled to disapprove the 
finding and it is set aside. 

Arrelsford. [With great indignation] 
General Randolph, this case was put in 
my hands and I 

General Randolph. [Interrupting hlufjiy, 
hut without temper] Well I take it out 
of your hands ! Report back to the War 
Office with my compliments! [Crossing 
to R. c] 

[Arrelsford turns and starts toward 
the door up L. c. but after proceed- 
ing a few steps stops and turns] 

Arrelsford. Hadn't I better wait and 
see — 

General Randolph. No — don't wait to 
see anything. [Arrelsford looks at 
General Randolph an instant^ then 
turns and after raising his hat to the 
ladies down left, walks with dignity out 
at door up l. c. and exits to Jj.— Sound 
of heavy door outside up L. closed with 
force. — General Randolph in front of 
couch R. c] Sergeant! [Sergeant 
quickly down to General Randolph on 
salute] Hold your men back there. I '11 
see the prisoner. [Sergeant salutes, 
turns, marches straight up from where 
he is to the left division of the escort so 
that he is a little to left of Thorne, and 
turns front] 

Sergeant. Order — arms! [Squad obeys 
with precision] Parade — rest! [Squad 
obeys order] Fall out the Prisoner! 
[Thorne steps forward one step out of 
the rank and stands] The General! 
[Thorne starts down c. to General 
Randolph. — As Thorne steps forward 
on order — ^'The General" — Edith moves 
quickly toward c. and intercepts him 
about two-thirds of the way down, on his 
left. — Thorne stopped by Edith shows 
slight surprise for an instant, but quickly 
recovers and looks straight front] 

Edith. [To Thorne as she meets him. — 
Impulsively. Low voice] Oh — why 
did n't you tell me ! — I thought you sent 
it ! I thought you — 

General Randolph. [Surprised] Miss 
Varney ! 

Edith. [Crossing Thorne to the Gen- 
eral] There 's nothing against him 
General Randolph ! — He did n't send it 
so there 's nothing to try him for 
now! 

General Randolph. You're very much 
mistaken Miss Varney. The fact of his 
being caught in our line§ witbput his uni- 



form is enough to swing him off in ten 

minutes. 

[Edith moans a little, at same time 
moving back from General a step] 
General Randolph. Cap'n Thorne — 
[Thorne steps down and faces the Gen- 
eral] or whatever your name may be — 
the President is fully informed regarding 
the circumstances of your case, and I 
need n't say that we look on you as a 
cursed dangerous character ! There is n't 
any doubt whatever that you 'd ought to 
be extei-minated right now! — But consid- 
ering the damned peculiarity of your be- 
havior — and that you refused — for some 
reason — to send that dispatch when you 
might have done so, we 've decided to 
keep you out of mischief some other way. 
The Sergeant will turn you over to Major 
Whitfield sir! [Sergeant up r. c. sa- 
lutes] You '11 be held as a prisoner of 
war! [Turns and goes R. a few steps] 
[Edith turns suddenly to Thorne, 
coming down before him as he faces 
R.] 
Edith. [Looking in his face. — Speaks in 
low voice] Oh — that isn't nearly so 
bad! 

[Thorne holds her hand in his right] 
Thorne. No—? 

Edith. No ! — Because — sometime — 
Thorne. [Low voice] Ah — if it's some- 
time, there 's nothing else in the w^orld. 
[Slight pause. — Edith sees Mrs. Var- 
ney at L. and crosses to her, Thorne 
retaining her hand as she crosses — 
releasing it only when he has to] 
Edith. Mamma, won't you speak to him'? 
[Mrs. Varney and Edith l. talk 
quietly] 
Wilfred. [Suddenly leaving Caroline r. 
C, striding down from behind couch to 
Thorne, and extending hand] I 'd like 
to shake hands with you! 
Thorne. [Turning to Wilfred] What — 
again? [Taking Wilfred's hand] 

[Wilfred, shaking hands with Thorne 

and crossing him to l. as he does so 

— back to audience, laughing and 

very jovial about it] 

Caroline. [Coming quickly down on right 

of Thorne] So would I! [Holding 

out her hand] 

[Thorne lets go Wilfred's hand — 
now on his left — and takes Caro- 
line's] 
Wilfred. Don't you be afraid now — it '11 
be all right! They'll give you a parole 
and 



648 



SECRET SERVICE 



Caroline. [Breaking in enthusiastically] 
A parole! Goodness gracious— they '11 
i^ive you hundreds of 'em! [Turning 
away ivith funny little comprehensive 
gesture of both hands] 
General Randolph. [Gruffly] One mo- 
ment if you please! [Thorne turns at 
once, facing General Randolph near c. 
—Caroline and Wilfred go up R. c. to 
above couch. — Edith stands l. c. — Mrs. 
Varney near table l. c] There 's only 
one reason on earth why the President 
has set aside a certain verdict of death. 
You held up that false order and made a 
turn in our favor. We expect you to 
make the turn complete and enter our 
service. 
Thorne. [After an instant's pause. — 
Quietly] Why General— that 's impossi- 
ble! 
General Randolph. You can give us 

your answer later! 
Thorne. You have it now sir. 
General Randolph. You'll very much 
regret that decision sir. It means you '11 
be held a prisoner here and kept in close 
confinement until the Confederate Army 
marches into Washington! 
Thorne. Why General, you 're making me 

a prisoner for life! 
General Randolph. Nothing of the kind 
sir ! You '11 see it in another light before 
many days. And it wouldn't surprise 
me if Miss Varney had something to do 
with your change of views! 
Edith. [Coming a little way toward c] 



You're mistaken General Randolph — I 
think he 's perfectly right ! 

[Thorne turns to Edith] 
General Randolph. [Gruffly] Oh you 
do eh ! Very well — we '11 see what a lit- 
tle prison life will do. [A sharp order] 
Sergeant! [Sergeant comes down r. c. 
and salutes] Report with the prisoner 
to Major Whitfield! [Turns away to 
front] 

[Sergeant turns at once to Thorne. — 
Thorne and Edith are looking into 
each other's eyes. — Thorne takes 
her hand and presses it against his 
breast] 
Thorne. [Low voice to Edith] What is 

it — love and good-bye? 
Edith. [Almost a whisper] No no — 
only the first — and that one every day — 
every hour — every minute — until we meet 
again ! 
Thorne. Until we meet again! 
Sergeant, [r. c] Fall in the Prisoner! 
[Thorne turns and walks up, quickly 
taking his place in the Squad. — 
Edith follows him up a step or two 
as he goes, stopping a little l. of c] 
Sergeant. Attention! [Squad comes to 
attention] Carry — arms! [Squad comes 
to carry] Escort— left— face ! [Squad 
with Thorne— Ze/i face on the order] 
Foi^ard— march ! 

[Escort with Thorne marches out at 
door up L. c. and off to L.] 

[CURTAIN] 



MADAME BUTTERFLY 
A TRAGEDY OF JAPAN 

DRAMATIZED BY 

David Belasco 
From the Story by John Luther Long 



COFTEIGHT, 1897, BY THE CeNTUEY Co. 

All Rights Reserved 

Printed by permission of Mr. David Belasco and Mr. Jolin 
Luther Long. 



MADAME BUTTERFLY 

Madame Butterfly represents the spirit of romance which has never been 
entirely absent from our stage and which seems to be in process of revival. It 
represents also the dramatic ability of Mr. David Belasco working with the 
material furnished by the imagination of Mr. John Luther Long. 

David Belasco was born in San Francisco, July 25, 1853. Even before 
he left school in the early seventies his mind was on the theatre, and 
during the next few years he was callboy, actor, stage manager, adaptor, and 
writer of plays. Mr. Belasco wrote or adapted twenty-two plays during his 
career in California, beginning with A Christmas Night, in which he acted in 
the Geary Street Hall, San Francisco, and including his share in The Moon- 
light Marriage and Hearts of Oak, in which he collaborated with James A. 
Heme. La Belle Busse, which he put on first at the Baldwin Theatre, San 
Francisco, of which he Avas stage manager, attracted the attention of Eastern 
managers and was produced by Lester AVallack at his theatre, May 8, 1882. 
Shortly afterward Mr. Belasco became stage manager of the Madison Square 
Theatre in -New York where his play. May Blossom, was produced April 12, 
1884. After assisting Bronson Howard in Baron Rudolph in 1887, he became 
associated with Henry C. DeMille in the writing of a number of plays, all. well 
constructed and entertaining, if at times verging on the sentimental and melo- 
dramatic. Of these The Wife was produced November 1, 1887, Lord Chum- 
ley, in which Mr. E. H. Sothern starred, on August 21, 1888, and The Charity 
Ball, November 19, 1889, all at the Lyceum Theatre, and all associated with the 
sterling group of players then gathered together there. Men and Women, also 
with DeMille, was produced at Proctor's Theatre, October 21, 1890. His next 
significant play was The Girl I Left Behind Me, with Mr. Franklin Fyles, pro- 
duced at the Empire Theatre, January 25, 1893, and having its initial per- 
formance at the Sadler's Wells Theatre, London, January 6, 1893. The Heart 
of Maryland, in which Mrs. Leslie Carter starred at the Herald Square Theatre 
on October 22, 1895, represents the emotional melodrama of a popular kind, 
and DuBarry, played at the National Theatre in Washington, December 12, 
1901, the melodrama based on historical material. 

The next period of his work, and probably the most artistic, was that in 
which he was associated with ]\Ir. John Luther Long in the field of exotic ro- 
mance. On ]\Iarch 5, 1900, at the Herald Square Theatre, Mr. Belasco pro- 
duced his dramatization of Mr. Long's story of Madame Butterfly, in a com- 
bination bill with his farce of Naughty Anthony, originally performed on 

651 



652 INTRODUCTION 



January 8th. After a month's run in New York, it was produced at the Duke 
of York's Theatre, London, April 28, 1900, and ran for over two months. 
During the next season, it was taken on tour throughout the United States. 
It was eventually put into the form of grand opera by Signor Giacomo Puc- 
cini. The play follows the language of the story almost entirely but there are 
certain changes in the plot. In the book, "Pinkerton" does not return to the 
house but leaves money with the consul for "Madame Butterfly," which she re- 
fuses. The interview betv/een her and "Mrs. Pinkerton" takes place in the con- 
sul's office; and "Madame Butterfly" lets her mother love conquer and after at- 
tempting suicide decides to live. 

Mr. Belasco and Mr. Long next collaborated in the writing of Adrea, a 
romantic tragedy laid in the fifth century, a.d., produced January 11, 1905, 
with a company headed by Mrs. Carter. On December 3, 1902, The Darling 
of the Gods, by Mr. Belasco and Mr. Long, was produced. This is the roman- 
tic tragedy of a Japanese princess, played by Blanche Bates, in which the 
themes of love, loyalty, and patriotism were artistically blended. 

The Girl of the Golden West, played first, November 14, 1905, and The 
Rose of the Rancho, written with Mr. Richard Watson Tully, and played No- 
vember 27, 1906, reflect Mr. Belasco 's knowledge of the West. The supernatural 
romance was illustrated by The Return of Peter Grimm, played January 2, 1911. 
His last play, Van Der Decken, was first played at Wilmington, Delaware, De- 
cember 12, 1915. A complete list of IMr. Belasco 's plays since he came to New 
York would number twenty-five, including adaptations from the French, such 
as Valerie, from Sardou's Fernande (1886), Miss Helyett (1891), Zaza (1899), 
The Lily (1909), The Secret (1913), one from the German, The Younger Son 
(1893), and, to complete the list, Naughty Anthony (1900), Siveet Kitty Belairs 
(1903), A Grand Army Man, with Miss Pauline Phelps and Miss Marion Short 
(1907), and The Son-Daughter, with George Scarborough (1919). 

Mr. Belasco 's career as a manager can only be alluded to here. He was a 
pioneer in the movement toward natural methods in the theatre. Since 1905 
he has produced his plays at his own theatre, where he has set a standard for 
perfection of detail, especially for interesting effects of stage lighting. He 
was the first to do away with footlights, and the "bridge of light" used in 
Peter Grimm was unheralded and unseen, but the effect was true to nature. 

Mr. John Luther Long was born in Pennsylvania in 1861. He read law 
and was admitted to the bar, engaging in practice in Philadelphia. In addi- 
tion to the plays noted above, he was one of the authors of The Dragon Fly, 
produced in Philadelphia in 1905. Mr. Long has published also a number of 
volumes of short stories. 

The only play of Mr. Belasco 's now published is May Blossom, by the Sam- 
uel French Company. For criticism of Adrea and The Darling of the Gods see 



\ 



i 



INTRODUCTIOlSr 653 



William Winter, The Wallet of Time, Vol. 2, pp. 252-7 and pp. 328-32. Plays 
of the Present, by J. B. Clapp and E. V. Edgett, will be found very useful for 
individual plays. See also, David Belasco, My Life's Story 2v. N. Y., 1915; 
W. P. Eaton, The American Stage of To-day, pp. 203-14. 

The story of Madame Butterfly, printed originally in the Century Magazi/ne 
in 1897, has also been issued in book form. The play is now published for the 
first time through the courtesy of Mr. Belasco and Mr. Long from a manuscript 
prepared especially for this collection. For the information concerning the 
plays the editor is indebted to Mr. Belasco and to Mr. Thomas A. Curry of the 
Belasco Theatre. 

Note to Revised Edition. 

An authoritative life of David Belasco in two volumes was published in 
1918 prepared by the late William Winter. Of especial interest is also The 
Theatre Through the Stage Door, by David Belasco, edited by L. V. Defoe, 
New York, 1919. 



THE ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTEKS 

Herald Square Theatre, New York, March 5, 1900. 

Cho-Cho-San (Madame Butterfly) Miss Blanche Bates 

Suzuki, her servant Miss Marie Bates 

Mr. Sharpless, the American Consul Mr. Claude Gillingwater 

Lieutenant B. F. Pinkerton, of the war ship Connecticut . .Mr. Frank Worthing 

Yamadori, a citizen of New York Mr. Albert Bruning 

The Nakodo, a marriage broker Mr. E. P. Wilks 

Ka.te, Pinkerton 's wife Miss Katherine Black 

'^Trouble" Little Kittie 

Attendant Mr. William Lamp 

Attendant Mr. Westropp Saunders 

Note: During the scene in which Madame Butterfly waits at the shoji 
for her lover, a night is supposed to pass and the story is resumed on the morn- 
ing of the following day. 



MADAME BUTTERFLY 



The play takes place in Japan in Madame 
BuTTERFLY^s little house at the foot of 
Higashi Hill, facing the harbor. Every- 
thing in the room is Japanese save the 
American locks and holts on the doors 
and windows and an American flag fast- 
ened to a tobacco jar. Cherry blossoms 
are abloom outside, and inside. A sword 
rack, a shrine on which lie a sword and 
a pair of men's slippers, a chest of 
drawers on top of which is a tray con- 
taining two red poppies, rouge, powder 
and hair ornaments, a stand for the to- 
bacco jar and tea, are the only pieces of 
furniture in the room. As the curtain 
rises, Madame Butterfly is spraying 
the growing flowers with a small water- 
ing pot. She snips off two little bunches, 
lays them on a plate of rice which she 
sets reverently on the shrine, then kneels, 
putting her hands on the floor, her fore- 
head on them. 



Madame Butterfly. Oh, Shaka! Hail! 
Hail! Also perceive! Look down! I 
have brought a sacrifice of flowers and 
new rice. Also, I am quite clean. I am 
shivering with cleanness. Therefore 
grant that Lef -ten-ant B. F. Pik-ker-ton 
may come back soon. 

{She rises, clasps her hands, comes 
dow/b to a floor cushion, and sits, 
fanning herself.) 

SuzUKL {Entering with a low bow.) 
Madame Butterfly's wish? 

Madame Butterfly. Suzuki, inform me, 
if it please you, how much more nearer 
beggary we are today than yesterday? 

SuzuKL Aye. {She takes some coins 
from a small box in her sleeve, and lays 
them in three piles on her palm, touch- 
ing them as she speaks.) Rin, yen, 
sen. . . . 

Madame Butterfly. {Reprovingly.) Su- 
zuki, how many time I tellin' you — no 
one shall speak anythin' but those Unite' 
State' languages in these Lef-ten-ant 
Pik-ker-ton's house? {She pronounces 
his name with much difficulty.) Once 
more — an' I put you outside shoji! . . . 



That 's one thin' aeverbody got recomlec' 
account it's 'Merican house — his wife, 
his maid. 

Suzuki. {Mouthing to herself, making no 
sound, counting on her fingers.) Two 
dollar. 

{She drops the money into the box, 
giving it to Madame Butterfly.) 

Madame Butterfly. 0, how we waste 
my husban's be-autif ul moaneys ! Tha 's 
shame! Mos' gone. 

Suzuki. This moaney hav' kep' us two 
year . . . Wha 's happen to us now, if 
he don' come back? 

Madame Butterfly. {Scoffing,^ putting 
the money in her sleeve.) 0, if he don' 
come back! . . . Course he come back! 
He 's gone so long aceoun' he 's got busi- 
ness in those his large country. If he 's 
not come back to his house, why he sign 
Japanese lease for nine hundred and 
ninety nine year for me to live? Why 
he put 'Merican lock to bolt it door, to 
shut it window? Answer me those ques- 
tion. 

SuzuKL {Doubtfully.) I dunno. 

Madame Butterfly. Of course you 
dunno! You don' know whichaever. 
Wael I goin' tell you: to keep out those 
which are out, and in, those which are in. 
Tha's me. 

{She rises, goes to the window and 
looks out.) 

Suzuki. But he don't writin' no ledder. 

Madame Butterfly. 'Merican men don' 
naever write ledder — no time. 

Suzuki. {Cynically.) Aye ... I don' 
naever know 'Merica navy man with 
Japanese wive come back. 

Madame Butterfly. {Impassively, her 
eyes narrowing.) Speak concerning 
marriage once more, you die ! {She fans 
herself. Suzuki salaams a^id backs 
quickly towards the door. Madame But- 
terfly claps her hands and Suzuki 
pauses.) Don' come back! Lef-ten-ant 
B. F. Pik-ker-ton don' come back ! Ha ! 
Me! I know w'en he comes back — he 
told me. Wen he goin' 'way, he say in 
tha's doors: "Madame Butterfly, I have 
had ver' nice times with my Japanese 



655 



656 



MADAME BUTTERFLY 



sweets heart, so now I goin' back to my 
own country and here 's moaney — an' 
don' worry 'bout me — I come back w'en 
'Robins nes' again!'" Ha-ha! Tha's 
w'en he come back — w'en robins nes' 
again. 

{She sways her head triumphantly 
from side to side, fanning herself.) 

Suzuki. {Not impressed.) Yaes, I did n't 
like ways he said it — like those . . . 

{She imitates a flippant gesture of 
farewell.) 

Madame Butterfly. {Laughing.) Aha, 
that 's 'Merican way sayin' good-bye to 
girl. Yaes, he come back w'en robins 
nes' again. Shu'h! Shu'h! {She claps 
her hands with delight. Suzuki, with a 
look of unbelief starts to go.) Sa-ey! 
Why no "shu'h" on you face for? Such 
a fools! {Looking towards the win- 
dow.) look! Suzuki — a robins. The 
firs' these Spring ! Go, see if he 's stay 
for nes'. 

Suzuki. {Looking.) It is a robins, 
Cho-Cho-San! 

Madame Butterfly. {Running to the 
window.) 0! 0! 

Suzuki. But he 's fly away. 

Madame Butterfly. ! How they are 
slow this year! Sa-ey, see if you don' 
fin' one tha 's more in-dus-trial an' do- 
mestics. 

Suzuki. {Looking out.) There are none 
yet. 

Madame Butterfly. But soon they nes' 
now. Suzuki, w'en we see that ship 
comin' in — sa-ey — then we goin' put 
flowers aevery where, an' if it 's night, 
we goin' hang up mos' one thousan' lan- 
terns — eh-ha ? 

Suzuki. No got moaney for thousan'. 

Madame Butterfly. Wael, twenty, 
mebby; an' sa-ey, w'en we see him comin' 
quick up path — {imitates) so — so — so — 
{lifts her kimono and strides in a 
masculine fashion) to look for liddle 
wive — me — me jus' goin' hide behind 
shoji {making two holes with her wet 
finger in the low paper shoji and peeking 
through) an' watch an' make believe me 
gone 'way; leave liddle note — sayin': 
"Goon-bye, sayonara. Butterfly." . . . 
Now he come in. . . . {Hides.) Ah! 
An' then he get angery! An' he say 
all kinds of 'Merican languages — debbils 
— hells! But before he get too angery, 
me run out an' flew aroun' his neck! 
{She illustrates with Suzuki, who is 
carried away and embraces her with fer- 



vor.) Sa-ey! You no flew roun' his 
neck — jus' me. {They laugh in each 
other's arms.) Then he'll sit down an' 
sing tha 's liddle 'Merican song — 0, how 
he '11 laugh. . . . {She sings as though 
not understanding a word of it.) 

"I call her the belle of Japan — of Japan 
Her name it is O Cho-Cho-San, Cho-Cho-San! 
Such tenderness lies in her soft almond eyes, 
I tell you, she 's just 'ichi ban.' " 

{Laughs.) Then I'll dance like w'en I 
was Geisha girl. 

{She dances as Sharpless, the Ameri- 
can consul, appears in the doorway, 
followed by the Nakodo.) 
Nakodo. This is the house, your Excel- 
lency. 
Sharpless. {Removing his clogs outside.) 
You may wait. 

(Nakodo bows and Sharpless enters.) 

1 beg pardon. ... 

(Madame Butterfly still dancing, 
begins the song again. Sharpless 
goes to the door and knocks to at- 
tract her attention.) 

Madame Butterfly. Ah! 

(Suzuki, bowing low, leaves the room.) 

Sharpless. This is Madame Cho-Cho-San f 

Madame Butterfly. No, I am Mrs. Lef- 
ten-ant B. F. Pik-ker-ton. 

Sharpless. I see. . . . Pardon my inter- 
ruption. ... I am Mr. Sharpless, the 
American consul. 

Madame Butterfly. {Once more salaam- 
ing to the ground, drawing in her breath 
between her teeth to express pleasure.^ 
0, your honorable excellency, goon night, 
— no, not night yaet : aexcuse me, I 'm 
liddle raddle', — I mean goon mornin', 
goon evenin'. Welcome to 'Merican 
house, mos' welcome to 'Merican girl! 
{Pointing to herself. They both bow.) 
Be seat. (Sharpless sits on a cushion on 
the, floor, and Madame Butterfly sits at 
a little distance. There is a slight 
pause.) How are those health? You 
sleepin' good? How are that honorable 
ancestors — are they well ? And those par- 
ens'? That grandmother — how are she? 

Sharpless. Thanks. They're all doing 
well, I hope. 

Madame Butterfly. {She claps her 
hands; Suzuki enters and puts the little 
stand between them and leaves the room.) 
Accept pipe, your excellency. 0, I for- 



I 



DAVID BELASCO, JOHN LUTHER LONG 



657 



gettin' — I have still of those large Amer- 
ican cigarette. 

(Madame Butterfly gestures towards 
Pinkerton's tobacco jar decorated 
with the flag of his country.) 

Sharpless. {Accepting a cigarette while 
she fills her pipe.) Thanks. I 'm on a 
little visit of inquiry, Madame Butter- 
fly, — your name, I believe in our lan- 
guage. Lieutenant Pinkerton wrote to 
me to find out — 

Madame Butterfly. {Almost breathless.) 
Ah, you have hear from him ? He is well ? 

Sharpless. 0, he 's all right. 

Madame Butterfly. (Believed.) Ah! 
Tha 's mak' me mos' bes' happy female 
woman in Japan — mebby in that whole 
worl' — w'at you thing? 

Sharpless. Ha — ha! {Puffing at the 
cigarette.) Sawdust. Pinkerton must 
have left these ! 

Madame Butterfly. 0! I so glad you 
came. ... I goin' as' you a liddle ques- 
tion. 

Sharpless. Well ? 

Madame Butterfly. You know 'bout 
birds in those your country? 

Sharpless. Something. 

Madame Butterfly. Tha's what I thing 
— you know aeverything. Tha's why 
your country sen' you here. 

Sharpless. You flatter me. 

Madame Butterfly. 0, no, you got big 
head. 

Sharpless. Pinkerton again — I can hear 
him! 

Madame Butterfly. 0, aexcuse me: I 
forgettin' my manners. I got liddle 
more raddle. {She offers him her pipe 
which he gravely touches, returning it. 
She touches it again, then puts it down.) 
Now, what you know 'bout jus' robins? 

Sharpless. What ? 

Madame Butterfly. 'Bout when do they 
nes' again? Me, I thing it mus' be mor' 
early in Japan as in America, accoun' 
they nestin' here now. 

Sharpless. 0, at the same time I fancy. 

Madame Butterfly. {Disappointed.) 

Yaes? . . . then they 's nestin' there. 
{Then taking hope again.) Sa-ey, I tell 
you — perhaps some time sooner, some 
time later, jus' how they feel like. 

Sharpless. Possibly. Why do you ask? 

Madame Butterfly. Because Lef -ten-ant 
B. F. Pik-ker-ton say he will come back 
to me w'en the robins nes' again. 

Sharpless. {To himself.) Poor devil! 
One of his infernal jokes. 



Madame Butterfly. {Clapping her 
hands.) Me, I thing it 's time. . . . I 've 
wait so long. 

(Suzuki enters with a tea-pot. Ma- 
dame Butterfly gives Sharpless a 
cup of tea.) 

Nakodo. {Appearing at the door.) Tea, 
most illustrious? 

Madame Butterfly. Ah! Enter, Na- 
kodo. Your presence lights up my en- 
tire house. {She gives him a cup. Ac- 
cepting it, he goes up to a cushion and 
sits.) Tha's bad man. W'en my hus- 
ban 's gone 'way, he try for get me marry 
again. 

Nakodo. The rich Yamadori. Madame 
Cho-Cho-San is very poor. 

Madame Butterfly. {Bowing politely.) 
0, liddle ol' frien'; those are my busi- 
ness. 

Nakodo. Rejected advice makes the heart 
sad. 

Madame Butterfly. We-el, if those heart 
hurt you so much, you better not arrive 
here no more. 

Sharpless. Madame Butterfly; may I 
ask — er — where are your people? 

Nakodo. They have outcasted her ! 

Madame Butterfly. Sa-ey, tha 's f oanny ! 
My people make me marry when I don' 
want; now I am marry, they don' want. 
Before I many Lef-ten-ant B. F. Pik- 
ker-ton, my honorable Father — {she 
bows low — Nakodo bows — Sharpless 
bows) die — he's officer. These are his 
sword . . . [pointing to an inscription) 
't is written. . . . 

{She holds out the sword that the in- 
scription may be read.) 

Nakodo. {Beading.) "To die with honor, 
when one can no longer live with honor." 
{He bows, then turns and bows to- 
wards the shrine and goes back to 
his cushion wliere he sits.) 

Madame Butterfly. He's kill' himself 
accoun' he soldier of Emporer an' defeat 
in battle. Then we get — — ver' poor. 
Me? I go dance liddle. Also I thing 
if some rich man wish me, I gettin' 
marry for while, accoun' my grand- 
mother, {she bows respectfully — Nakodo 
bows — Sharpless politely nods) don' got 
no food, no obi. Then ol' Nakodo, he 
say a (Nakodo picks up his cushion and 
moves down to join in the conversation) 
man 's jus' as' him for nice wive for 
three monse. Nakodo tell him he don' 
know none more nizer as me. 



658 



MADAME BUTTERFLY 



Nakodo. {Salaaming.) Nizer as you. 

Madame Butterfly. {Salaaming.) Nizer 
as me. 

Sharpless. {Looking from one to the 
other.) Couldn't be nicer! . . . 

{He salaams profoundly — Vaen all 
salaam.) 

Madame Butterfly. Then Nakodo say — 

Nakodo. I say — I don' lig him account he 
'Merica — jin. 

Madame Butterfly. He also remark with 
me tliat he is barbarian an' beas'. But 
aeverj^one say: "Yaes, take him — take 
him beas' — he 's got moaneys." So I say 
for jus' liddle while, perhaps I can stan'. 
So Nakodo bring him. . . . 

Nakodo. . . . For look-at meeting. 

Madame Butterfly. {Laughing.) Me? 
Well, I thing that day Lef-ten-ant B. 
F. Pik-ker-ton is jus' a god! Gold but- 
ton — lace on his unicorn. At firs', I 
frightened — he hoi' my hans' so close — 
like — {she illustrates by giving hath 
hands to Sharpless) and kizz. Japan- 
ese girl no lig' kizz; but when Lef-ten- 
ant B. F. Pik-ker-ton kizz me, I like ver' 
much. . . . What's use lie? It's not 
inside of me. {Noticing that her hands 
are still in Sharpless'.) 0, I beg your 
honorable pardon. {She tucks her hands 
in her sleeves.) So we 's gettin' marry 
and then his ship order away an' me — I 
am jus' waitin' — sometimes cryin', some- 
times watchin', but always waitin'. 

Nakodo. {In the doorway — bowing with 
servility.) My client, the prosperous 
Yamadori, approaches for the third time 
today. 

Madame Butterfly. Now I have my lid- 
dle joke again. You wat;ch, he comes all 
time to make smash with me. 

Sharpless. Pinkerton's slang. 

(Yamadori enters attended by two serv- 
ants. Sharpless rises and bows cere- 
moniously. Madame Butterfly does 
not rise, but bends her head and fans 
herself coquettishly. The two servants 
squat.) 

Yamadori. Mr. Shaipless : always a pleas- 
ure to meet you here or in New York. 

Sharpless. Thanks, Mr. Yamadori. 

Madame Butterfly. {Coquettishly.) 

You have somethin' nize say to me again 
today? 

Yamadori. Perseverance shall be the relig- 
ion of my life until the capricious But- 
terfly deigns to believe me. 

Madame Butterfly. You goin' tell me 



'gain you kill yourself I don' make kizz 
with you? 

Yamadori. {Very much embarrassed — 
looking at consul.) 0! 

Madame Butterfly. You can speak — 
consul know — I been tellin' him 'bout 
your liddle foolishness. 

Yamadori. Such treatment, Mr. Sharp- 
less, is one of the penalties we incur 
when madly in love with a charming 
woman. 

Madame Butterfly. Tha 's ver' nize. Ha- 
ha! 

{Winks behind her fan at Sharpless.) 

Sharpless. Heavens! Pinkerton's very 
wink. 

(Madame Butterfly gives a cup of 
tea to Yamadori who drinks it and 
rolls a cigarette.) 

Yamadori. {To Sharpless.) I am in 
Japan for two months — a pleasure trip. 
Do you blame me? 

{Pointing to Madame Butterfly.) 

Madame Butterfly. Aevery time he 
come home, get 'nother woman: must 
have mor'en eight now. 

Yamadori, But I married them all. . . . 

Madame Butterfly. he! He jus' 
marry whenaever he thing 'bout it. 

Yamadori. You shall be different. I will 
bury you with my ancestors. {To 
Sharpless.) I offered her a thousand 
servants. 

Nakodo. {Stunned.) Thousan'! 

Madame Butterfly. Ha! {Fans.) 

Yamadori. And a palace to live in. 

{The Nakodo is overcome by such gen- 
erosity. ) 1 

Madame Butterfly. He! I 

Yamadori. Everything her heart can 
wish. 

Madame Butterfly. Ha! Ha! 

Yamadori. Is that not enough? {She 
shakes her head.) Then in the presence 
of this statesman of integrity, I will give 
you a solemn writing. (Sharpless 
gives him a quizzical glance.) Is that 
enough ? 

Madame Butterfly. Wha 's good of that 
to married womans? 

{Pointing to herself.)' 

Yamadori. According to the laws of 
Japan, when a woman is deserted, she is 
divorced. (Madame Butterfly stops 
fanning and listens.) Though I have 
travelled much abroad, I know the laws 
of my own country. 

Madame Butterfly. An' I know laws of 
my husban's country. 



DAVID BELASOO, JOHN LUTHER LONG 



659 



Y'amadori. (To Sharpless.) She still 
fancies herself married to the young of- 
ficer. If your excellency would ex- 
plain. . . . 

Madame Butterfly. {To Sharpless.) 
Sa-ey, when some one gettin' married in 
America, don' he stay marry? 

Sharpless. Usually — yes. 

Madame Butterfly. Well, tha 's all right. 
I 'm marry to Lef -ten-ant B. F. Pik-ker- 
ton. 

Yamadori. Yes, but a Japanese marriage ! 

Sharpless. Matrimony is a serious thing 
in America, not a temporary affair as it 
often is here. 

Madame Butterfly. Yaes, an' you can't 
like 'Merican mans. Japanese got too 
many wive, eh? 

Sharpless. {Laughing.) We are not al- 
lowed more than one at a time. 

Madame Butterfly. Yaes, an' you can't 
divorce wive like here, by sayin': "walk 
it back to parent"— eh?? 

Sharpless. 0, no. 

Madame Butterfly. Tha's right, aex- 
actly. When I as' Lef -ten-ant B. F. 
Pik-ker-ton, he explain those law to me 
of gettin' divorce in those Unite' State'. 
He say no one can get aexcept he stan' 
up before Judge 2 — 3 — I — 7 — year. 
Ver' tiresome. Firs' the man he got tell 
those Judge all he know 'bout womans; 
then womans, she got tell ; then some law- 
yer quarrel with those Judge; the Judge 
get jury an' as' wha' they thing — an' if 
they don' know, they '11 all get put in 
jails. Tha's all right! {Folds hands.) 

Yamadori. Your friend has told her 
everything she wanted him to tell her. 

Madame Butterfly. {Wlio has paid no 
attention.) Tha's ver' nize, too, that 
'Merican God. 

Sharpless. I beg your pardon? 

Madame Butterfly. Once times, Lef -ten- 
ant B. F. Pik-ker-ton— 

Yamadorl {Aside to Sharpless.) Pink- 
erton again ! 

Madame Butterfly. He 's in great 
troubles, an' he said "God he'p me"; an' 
sunshine came right out — and God he 
did ! Tha 's ver' quick — Japanese gods 
take more time. Aeverj^thing quick in 
America. Ha — me — sometime I thing I 
pray large American God to get him back 
soon; but no use, — he don' know me 
where I live. {Attracted by a sound.) 
Wha's that? . . . You hear? 

Sharpless. No. (Madame Butterfly 
runs to the window and listens; then 



takes up the glasses while Sharpless 
speaks in a low voice to Yamadori.) 
Lieutenant Pinkerton's ship was due 
yesterday. His young wife from Amer- 
ica is waiting here to meet him. {At the 
word ^'wife/' Yamadori smiles — takes 
his fan from his sleeve and fans himself. 
The Nakodo, who is listening, is struck 
by an idea and departs in such haste that 
he tumbles over one of Yamadori's at- 
tendants who jabbers at him,) I'm 
devilish sorry for that girl. 

Yamadori. Then tell her the truth. 

Madame Butterfly. Aexcuse me; but I 
always hearin' soun' like ship gun — ha — 
ha — tha 's naturels. 

Yamadori. {Preparing to go.) Good 
morning, Mr. Sharpless. {Shaking 
hands. Turning to Madame Butter- 
fly.) I leave you today. Tomorrow 
the gods may prompt you to listen to 
me! {He bows.) 

Madame Butterfly. {Bowing.) Mebby. 
(Yamadori and attendants go off, bow- 
ing. She turns to Sharpless.) Mebby 
not. Sa-ey, somehow could n't you let 
that Lef-ten-ant B. F. Pik-ker-ton know 
they 's other all crazy 'bout me ? 

Sharpless. Madame Butterfly, sit down. 
{While she, struck by his solemn man- 
ner, looks at him and obeys, he removes 
the tea-pot and sits on the stand, to the 
astonishment of Madame Butterfly.) 
I am going to read you part of a letter 
I have received from Pinkerton. 

{He takes a letter from his pocket.) 

Madame Butterfly. 0, jus' let me look 
at those ledder! {She slips it under her 
kimono on her heart and with an indrawn 
breath, hands it back.) Now read quick, 
you mos-' bes' nize man in all the whole 
worl'. 

Sharpless. {Beads.) "Find out about 
that little Jap girl. What has become of 
her? It might be awkward now. If 
little Butterfly still remembers me, per- 
haps you can help me out and make her 
understand. Let her down gently. You 
won't believe it, but for two weeks after 
I sailed, I was dotty in love with her." 
(Sharpless is amazed to see Madame 
Butterfly convulsed with silent 
joy.) 

Madame Butterfly. Oh, all the gods how 
it was sweet! 

Sharpless. Why really — 

Madame Butterfly. Tha's what I'm 
afraid : that he loave' me so much he 's 
goin' desert his country an' get in trouble 



660 



MADAME BUTTERFLY 



with American eagle — what you thing? 
Oh, it 's more bedder I wait than those ! 

Sharpless. {Folding the letter.) No use 
— you can't understand. Madame But- 
terfly, suppose this waiting should never 
end; what would become of you? 

Madame Butterfly. Me? I could dance, 
mebby, or — die? 

Sharpless. Don't be foolish. I advise 
you to consider the rich Yamadori's offer. 

Madame Butterfly. (Astonished.) You 
say those? You, 'Merican consul? — 
when you know that me, I am marry? 

Sharpless. You heard Yamadori: it is 
not binding. 

Madame Butterfly. Yamadori lies! 

Sharpless. His offer is an unusual op- 
portunity for a girl who — for any Jap- 
anese girl in your circumstances. 

Madame Butterfly. (Enraged — she claps 
her hands.) Suzuki! The excellent 
gentleman — (bowing sarcastically) who 
have done us the honor to call — he wish 
to go huiriedly. His shoes — hasten 
them ! 

(Suzuki, who has entered carrying a 
jar, gets Sharpless^ clogs and gives 
them to him — then passes off with 
her jar.) 

Sharpless. (Holding the clogs awk- 
wardly. ) I 'm really very sorry. 

Madame Butterfly. No, no, don' be an- 
gery. But jus' now you tol' me — 0, 
gods! You mean — (Looks at him pit- 
ifully.) I not Lef -ten-ant B. F. Pik-ker- 
ton's wive — Me? 

Sharpless. Hardly. 

Madame Butterfly. 0, I — (She sways 
slightly. Sharpless goes to her assist- 
ance, but she recovers and fans her- 
self.) Tha's all right. I got liddle 
heart illness. I can't ... I can't some- 
ways give up thingin' he'll come back 
to me. You thing tha's all over? All 
finish? (Dropping her - fan. Sharp- 
less nods assent.) Oh, no! Loave don' 
forget some thin's or wha 's use* of loave? 
(She claps her hands — beckoning off.) 
Loave 's got remember . . . (pointing) 
some thin's! 

(A child enters.) 

Sptarpless. a child. . , . Pinkerton's? . . . 

Madame Butterfly. (Showing a picture 
o/ Pinkerton's.) Look! Look! (Hold- 
ing it up beside the child's face.) Tha 's 
jus' his face, same hair, same blue 
eye. . . . 



Sharpless. Does Lieutenant Pinkerton 
know? 

Madame Butterfly. No, he come after 
he goe. (Looking at the child with 
pride.) You thing fath-er naever comes 
back — tha's v/hat you thing? He do! 
You write him ledder; tell him 'bout one 
bes' mos' nize bebby aever seen. . . . 
Ha — ha! I bed all moaneys he goin' 
come mos' one million mile for see those 
chil'. Surely this is tie — bebby. Sa-ey, 
you didn' mean what you said 'bout me 
not bein' marry? You make liddle joke? 
(Moved, Sharpless nods his head in as- 
sent, to the great relief of Madame But- 
terfly.) Ha! (She lays the baby's 
hand in Sharpless'.) Shake hand con- 
sul 'Merican way. 

Sharpless. (Shaking hands with the 
child.) Hm . . . hm . . . what's your 
name ? 

Madame Butterfly. Trouble. Japanese 
bebby always change it name. I was 
thinkin' some day w'en he come back, 
change it to Joy. 

Sharpless. Yes . . . yes ... I '11 let him 
know. 

(Glad to escape, he takes an abrupt 
departure.) 

Suzuki. (In the distance, wailing.) Ay 
... ay ... ay .. . 

Madame Butterfly. Tha 's wail . . . 

Suzukl (Nearer.) 0, Cho-Cho-San! 

(Madame Butterfly goes to the door to 
meet Suzuki.) Cho-Cho-San! 

Madame Butterfly. Speak! 

Suzuki. We are shamed through the 
town. The Nakodo — 

Nakodo. (Appearing.) I but said the 
child — (he points to the baby, whom 
Madame Butterfly instinctively shel- 
ters in her arms) was a badge of shame 
to his father. In his country, there are 
homes for such unfortunates and they 
never rise above the stigma of their class. 
They are shunned and cursed from birth. 

Madame Butterfly. (Who has listened 
stolidly — now with a savage cry, pushing 
him away from her until he loses his bal- 
ance and falls to the floor. ) You lie ! 

Nakodo. (On the floor.) But Yama- 
dori — 

Madame Butterfly. (Touching her 
father's sword.) Lies! Lies! Lies! 
Say again, I kill! Go . . . (The Na- 
kodo goes quickly.) Bebby, he lies. . . . 
Yaes, it 's lie. . . . When your fath-er 
knows how they speak, he will take us 
'way from bad people to his own country.. 



DAVID BELASCO, JOHN LUTHER LONG 



661 



I am finish liere. {Taking the American 
flag from the tobacco jar and giving it 
to the child.) Tlia 's your country — your 
flag. Now wave like fath-er say w'en 
excite — wave like "hell!" {Waves the 
child's hand.) Ha'rh! Ha'rh! {A ship's 
gun is heard.) Ah! (Madame But- 
terfly and Suzuki start for the balcony. 
Madame Butterfly runs back for the 
child as the gun is heard again; then 
returning to the shoji, looks through 
the glasses.) Look! Look! Warship! 
Wait . . . can't see name. . . . 

Suzuki. Let me — 

Madame Butterfly. No! Ah! Name is 
"Con-nec-ti-cut" ! His ship ! He 's come 
back! He's come back! {Laughing^ 
she embraces Suzuki — then sinks to the 
floor.) He's come back! Those robins 
nes' again an' we didn' know! 0, 
bebby, bebby — your fath-er come back! 
Your fath-er 's come back ! ! ! 
{Shaking a bough of cherry blossoms, 
which fall on them both.) This is the 
bes' nize momen' since you was bomed. 
Now your name 's Joy ! Suzuki ; the 
Moon Goddess sent that bebby straight 
from Bridge of Heaven to make me cour- 
age to wait so long. 

SuzuKL Ah, ship 's in. . . . 

Madame Butterfly. {Rising in great ex- 
citement.) Hoarry, Suzuki, his room. 
(Suzuki pulls out a screen to form a 
little room.) We mus' hoarry — {Pick- 
ing flowers from the pots and decorating 
the room) like we got eagle's wings an' 
thousan' feets. His cigarettes. (-S'e^- 
ting the jar in the room.) His slipper. 
(Suzuki gets them from the shrine.) 
His chair, Suzuki — hustle! (Suzuki 
hastens off. Madame Butterfly shakes 
a cushion and drops it on the floor.) 
His bed. (Suzuki enters with a steamer 
chair, which she places upside down.) 
Now his room fixed ! ( Suzuki closes the 
shoji. Madame Butterfly adjusts the 
chair and sets the lanterns about the 
room.) Bring me my wides' obi, kan- 
zashi for my hair, poppies — mus' look 
ver' pretty! 

:Suzuki. Rest is bes' beauty. He not 
come yet. Sleep liddle firs'. . . . 

3iADAME Butterfly. No, no time. {Tak- 
ing up a small mirror and looking criti- 
cally at herself.) He mus' see me look 
mos' pretty ever. You thing I change 
since he went away — not so beauty? 
(Suzuki is silent.) W'at? ... I am! 
^Brandishing the mirror.) Say so! 



Suzuki. Perhaps you rest liddle, once 
more you get so pretty again. 

Madame Butterfly. Again f . . . 

Suzuki. Trouble, tha's make change. . . . 

Madame Butterfly. Moach change. 
{Still looking in the glass.) No, I am 
no more pretty — an' he come soon. {On 
her knees in front of Suzuki — resting her 
forehead on the maid's feet.) Ah, Su- 
zuki, be kin' with me — make me pretty 
. . . don' say you can't — you moas'. 
An' tomorrow, the gods will. Ah, yes! 
You can — you can — you got to! Bring 
powder, comb, rouge, henna, fix it hair 
like on wedding day. (Suzuki brings 
the toilet articles and they sit on the 
floor. Suzuki puts the poppies and 
pins in Madame Butterfly's hair, and 
she, in turn, dresses the baby, envelop- 
ing him in an obi, so wide that it almost 
covers the child.) Now, bebby, when 
you cry, he '11 sing you those liddle 'Meri- 
can song he sing me when I cry — song 
all 'Merican sing for bebby. {Sitting 
with the baby in front of her, swaying it 
by the arms, she sings.) 

"Reg' a bye bebby, 

Off in Japan, 

You jus' a picture, 

Off of a fan." 

(Suzuki has found it very difficult to 
finish the toilet, but at last she accom- 
plishes it. Madame Butterfly lifts the 
baby up, gives it a doll, then touches it 
with rouge and adds a final dash of rouge 
to her own face.) Now for watch for 
pa-pa ! 

{Putting the flag in the child's hand, 
she takes it up to the window and 
makes three holes in the shoji, one 
low down for the baby. As the 
three look through the shoji, they 
form the picture she has already de- 
scribed.) 

{During the vigil, the night comes on. Su- 
zuki lights the floor lamps, the stars 
come out, the dawn breaks, the floor 
lights flicker out one by one, the birds 
begin to sing, and the day discovers Su- 
zuki and the baby fast asleep on the 
floor; but Madame Butterfly is awake, 
still watching, her face white and 
strained. She reaches out her hands and 
rouses Suzukl) 

Suzuki. {Starting to her feet, surprised 



662 



MADAME BUTTERFLY 



and looking about the room.) He no 
come f 

Madame Butterfly. No. . . . 

Suzuki. {Pityingly.) Oh! 

Madame Butterfly. {With an imperious 
gesture.) No ^'Oh"! He will come. . . . 
Bring fresh flowers. {She collects the 
lanterns as Suzuki brings in fresh 
flowers. Madame Butterfly tears up 
the roses and throws their leaves in Pink- 
erton's room. Then pointing to the up- 
per part of the house.) Now I watch 
from liddle look out place. {She picks 
up the child whose doll drops from its 
hand. Have mos' bes' nize breakfas' 
ready w'en he come. 

{She leaves the room and Suzuki goes 
to prepare the breakfast.) 

(The stage is empty. Very faintly a strain 
of "I call her the Belle of Japan" is 
heard. Madame Butterfly is singing 
that she may not weep. A pause. Some 
one knocks on the door. Lieutenant 
Pinkerton's voice calls outside the 
shoji.) 

liiEUTENANT Pinkerton. Madame Butter- 
fly? Madame Butterfly? {Coming into 
the room, he looks about.) Butterfly? 

Sharpless. {Following him.) They've 
seen the ship — these decorations were not 
here when I called. 

Madame Butterfly. {Singing to hush 
the baby.) 

"Rog' — a — bye, bebby, 
Off in Japan," 

(Lieutenant Pinkerton listens to the 
song coming from above.) 

"You jus' a picture, 
Off of a fan." 

Lieutenant Pinkerton. She is watching 
the ship. {Noticing the screened off part 
of the room.) My room . . . just as it 
used to look . . . my chair. {Picking 
up the doll which the child has dropped.) 
Poor kid ! Poor little devil ! . . . Sharp- 
less," I thought when I left this house, 
the few tears, sobs, little polite regrets, 
would be over as I crossed the threshold. 
I started to come back for a minute, but 
I said to myself: "Don't do it; by this 
time she 's ringing your gold pieces to 
make sure they 're good." You know 
that class of Japanese girl and — 



Sharpless. {Seeing Nakodo who is at the 
shoji.) Look here: I have something to 
settle with you! (Nakodo comes in cau- 
tiously.) Why did you seek out my 
friend's wife at the pier? 

Lieutenant Pinkerton. Why did you 
tell her that story — the child and all? 
Answer me? 

Nakodo. {To Sharpless.) Your Excel- 
lency, I but thought if trouble came be- 
tween the two women, he would surely 
break with Cho-Cho-San, and then she 
would be glad to marry the rich Yama- 
dori and I get big fee. (Exit.) 

Sharpless. You'll never get it. {To 
Pinkerton.) She '11 starve first. 

Lieutenant Pinkerton. Sharpless, thank 
God, that 's one thing I can do — money. 
(He takes out an envelope containing 
some money.) 

Sharpless. What did your wife say, 
Pinkerton ? 

Lieutenant Pinkerton. Well, it was 
rather rough on her, — only married four 
months. Sharpless, my Kate 's an angel, 
— she offered to take the child . . . made 
me promise I 'd speak of it to Butterfly. 

Madame Butterfly. {Calling from 
above.) Suzuki? 

Sharpless. She 's coming. 

(Pinkerton instinctively draws be- 
hind the screen.) 

Madame Butterfly. {Coming down the 
stairs with the sleeping baby on her back, 
calling.) Suzuki? Come for bebby. 
{Kissing the child.) Nize liddle eye, 
pick out of blue sky, all shut up. 

Lieutenant Pinkerton. {Aside to 
Sharpless, his eyes fixed on the mother 
and child. ) I can't face it ! I 'm going. 
Give her the money. 

Suzuki. {Entering, and seeing Pinker- 
ton as he passes out of the door.) Ah! 
(Sharpless gives her a warning ges- 
ture. ) 

Madame Butterfly. (Seeing Suzuki's 
astonished face.) Wha' — ? (She puts 
the baby in Suzuki's arms. Suzuki 
goes out quickly. Madame Butterfly 
sees the Consul.) You! Oh! (Joy- 
ously.) You seen him? 

Sharpless. Yes. 

Madame Butterfly. An' you tole him? 

Sharpless. Well . . . 

Madame Butterfly. But you tole him 
... of bebby? 

Sharpless. Yes. 

Madame Butterfly. (Wiping her dry 
lips. ) Yaes . . . tha 's right. Tha 's 



DAVID BELASCO, JOHN LUTHER LONG 



663 



what I — as' you do . . . an'— an' what 
he say? 
Sharpless. Well . . . {Taking out the 
envelope, and giving her the money 
which she takes without looking at it.) 
He said — er — he was crazy to see you 
and — [Aside) What the devil can I 
say! (To her.) You know he can't 
leave the ship just yet. [Pointing to the 
package in her hand.) That is in re- 
membrance of the past. He wishes you 
to be always happy, to have the best of 
luck; he hopes to see you soon — and — 
[The lies die out on his lips.) 
Madame Butterfly. [Bending and kiss- 
ing his hand.) All — all the gods in 
the heavens bless you ! 

[Overcome, she staggers. Sharpless 
catches her, puts her into the chair 
— she leans against him — her face 
upraised, her eyes closed.) 

(Kate, entering hurriedly.) 

Kate. Has Lieutenant Pinkerton gone? 
Has my husband been here? 

(Madame Butterfly hears and opens 
her eyes.) 

Sharpless. For God's sake — [He looks at 
Madame Butterfly whose eyes are fixed 
on his with a look of despair.) Come, 
we can overtake him. 

Kate [In a lower voice.) Did he speak 
to her of the — 

Sharpless. No. 

Kate. Then I will ask. [For the first 
time seeing Madame Butterfly.) Is 
this — (Sharpless nods and goes. There 
is a short pause, while the two women 
look at each other, then Madame Butter- 
fly, still seated, slowly bows her head.) 
Why, you poor little thing . . . who in 
the world could blame you or . . . call 
you responsible . . . you pretty little 
plaything. 

[Takes Madame Butterfly in her 
arms.) 

Madame Butterfly. [Softly.) No — 
playthin' ... I am Mrs. Lef-ten-ant B. 
F. — No — no — now I am, only — Cho- 
Cho-San, but no playthin'. . . . [She 
rises, then impassively.) How long you 
been marry? 

KIate. Four months. . . . 

Madame Butterfly. [Counting on her 
fingers.) Oh . . . four. 

Kate. Won't you let me do something for 
the child? Where is he? (Madame 
Butterfly gestures toward the next 



room. Kate,^ seeing the child.) Ah! 
The dear little thing ! May I — 

Madame Butterfly. No! Can look . . . 
no can touch. ... 

Kate. Let us think first of the child. For 
his own good ... let me take him home 
to my country, ... I will do all I would 
do for my own. 

Madame Butterfly. (Showing no emo- 
tion.) He not know then — me — his 
mother ? 

Kate. It 's hard, very hard, I know ; but 
would it not be better? 

Madame Butterfly. [Taking the money 
box from her sleeve, and giving the coins 
to Kate. ) Tha 's his . . . two dollar. 
All tha 's lef of his moaneys. ... I 
shall need no more. . . . [She hands 
Kate the envelope which Sharpless has 
just given.) 1 lig if you also say I 
sawry — no — no — no — glad — glad! I wish 
him that same happiness lig he wish for 
me . . . an' tell him ... I shall be 
happy . . . mebby. Thang him . . . 
Mister B. F. Pik-ker-ton for also that 
kindness he have been unto me . . . an' 
permit me to thang you, augustness, for 
that same. . . . You — you mos' bes' lucky 
girl in these whole worl'. . . . Goon- 
night — 

[She stands stolidly with her eyes 
closed.) 

Kate. [Wiping her eyes.) But the 
child? 

Madame Butterfly. Come back fifteen 
minute. . . . [With closed eyes, she hows 
politely.) Sayonara. (Kate reluc- 
tantly goes.) God he'p me, but no sun 
kin shine. (Suzuki, who has listened, 
sinks at Madame Butterfly's feet.) 
Don' cry, Suzuki, liddle maiden . . . ac- 
eoun' I dizappoint, a liddle dizappoint' 
— don' cry. . . . [Running her hand over 
Suzuki's head — as she kneels.) Tha 's 
short while ago you as' me res' — sleep. 
. . . [Wearily.) Well — go way an' I 
will res' now. ... I wish res' — sleep . . . 
long sleep . . . an' when you see me 
again, I pray you look whether I be not 
beautiful again ... as a bride. 

Suzuki. [Understanding, sobbing.) No — 
no — no. 

Madame Butterfly. So that I suffer no 
more — goon bye, liddle maiden. (Su- 
zuki does not go. Madame Butterfly 
claps her hands, and sobbing, Suzuki 
leaves the room. Madame Butterfly 
bolts the shoji, and the door, lights fresh 
incense before the shrine, takes down her 



664 



MADAME BUTTERFLY 



father's sword and reads the inscription:) 
"To die with honor . . . when one can 
no longer live with honor." . . . 

{She draws her finger across the hlade, 
to test the sharpness of the sword, 
then picks up the hand glass, puts 
on more rouge, re-arranges the pop- 
pies in her hair, bows to the shrine, 
and is about to press the blade of 
the sword against her neck, when 
the door is opened and the child is 
pushed into the room by Suzuki, 
who keeps out of sight. Madame 
Butterfly drops the sword and 
takes the baby in her arms. A 
knocking is heard but she pays no 
heed. She sets the child on a mat, 
puts the American flag in its hand, 
and picking up the sword, goes be- 
hind the screen that the child may 
not see what she is about to do. 
A short pause — the sword is heard 
to drop. Madame Butterfly re- 



appears, her face deathly — a scarf 
about her neck to conceal the wound. 
Suzuki opens the door, sees the face 
of her mistress — backs out of the 
room in horror. Madame Butter- 
fly drops to her knees as she readies 
the child, and clasps it to her. A 
hand is thrust through the shoji and 
the bolt is drawn.) 

(Kate enters quickly urging the reluctant 
Pinkerton to follow her.) 

Lieutenant Pinkerton. {Discerning 
what she has done.) Oh! Cho-Cho-San! 
{He draws her to him with the baby 
pressed to her heart. She waves 
the child's hand whidi holds the flag 
— saying faintly.) 
Madame Butterfly. Too bad those rob- 
ins didn' nes' again. {She dies.) 



HER GREAT MATCH 

BY 

Clyde Fitch 



COPYBIGHT, 1916, BY ALICE M. FiTCH AND ThE CeNTUEY Co. 

All Rights Reser\'ed 

Printed, for the first time, from the original manuscript by 
permission of Mrs. Alice M. Fitch. 



HER GREAT MATCH 

Her Great Match represents the international play of to-day. It stands 
also for social comedy and it is representative of the work of its author in his 
best period. 

Clyde Fitch was born in Elmira, New York, May 2, 1865. His father was a 
captain in the United States Army during the Civil War. He attended the 
Holderness School, New Hampshire, and graduated from Amherst College in 
1886, and was already noteworthy in his college days for his interest in costume 
and rather luxurious accessories of life. He determined from the beginning to 
devote himself to the stage, and settled in New York, supporting himself by giv- 
ing readings and tutoring while waiting for recognition. This came first when 
Richard ]\Iansfield produced his Beau Brummel at the IMadison Square Theatre, 
May 17, 1890. This picture of the Georgian dandy remains one of his most 
characteristic conceptions. Notwithstanding the success of this play and that of 
Frederic Lemaitre (1890), in which Henry Miller starred. Fitch had to wait 
and work hard before he attained a secure footing. He succeeded, however, in 
becoming probably the most prolific and the most successful of American play- 
wrights. He was indefatigable in his exertions and produced in twenty years 
thirty-two original plays, besides twenty-three that were either adaptations from 
the French or German, revisions of other men's work, or dramatizations of 
novels. He lived surrounded by every luxury, and he made frequent trips to 
Europe, and died at Chalons-sur-Marne, September 4, 1909. At the time of his 
death, three plays, The City, A Modern Marriage, and The Manicure Girl, were 
in rehearsal. 

The early work of Clyde Fitch was tentative, but when he produced The 
Climbers, January 21, 1901, he entered upon a more definite period of work- 
manship, and showed himself a master in delineation of the actions and motives 
of people moving in social relations. This social consciousness had been in his 
work from the first, but Beau Brummel is not so significant since it reflected 
the manners of an earlier day in England, and was a play of types rather than 
real people. What is of the most significance, Fitch did not limit himself to 
social satire ; his greatest plays have in them a central idea, which unifies the drama 
and gives it body. In The StiMornness of Geraldine, played after a tryout in 
New Haven, at the Garrick Theatre, New York, November 3, .1902, by Mary 
Mannering, — the theme is the fidelity and trust of a woman for the man she loves. 
In The Girl with the Green Eyes, produced by Clara Bloodgood in the leading 
role at the Savoy Theatre, New York, December 25, 1902, the central idea is that 



G68 INTRODUCTION 



of jealousy and its terrible effects. In The Truth, tried out in Cleveland, Ohio, 
in October, 1906, and later played in New York with Clara Bloodgood as "Becky" 
and in London in 1907 with Marie Tempest in the same part, there is a masterly 
study of the effects of lying on the part of a woman who is not inherently bad but 
who is incapable of resisting the temptation of the moment to prevaricate. In The 
City, produced after his death, on December 21, 1909, at the Lyric Theatre, New 
York City, there is a study of the effect upon people coming to the city from a 
small town where they have been the principal family for many years. Even 
in plays that are more frankly melodrama, such as The Woman in the Case 
(1904), there was a well conceived unity of action since the theme turned upon 
the devotion of a wife to a husband who has been accused of murder, and of her 
saving him by her association with a woman of doubtful reputation who holds the 
key to his release. 

Fitch varied his social study with an international setting in The Coronet of 
a Duchess (1904) and in Her Great Match, and he wrote several plays which had 
an historical interest. Of these Nathan Kale, played first in Chicago, January 
31, 1898, and Major Andre (1903), were tragedies of the Revolution, and Bar- 
bara Frietchie, first put on in Philadelphia, October 10, 1899, was a tragedy of the 
Civil War, in which the atmosphere of jMarjdand during the war is well portrayed. 
His interest in a play representing a "period" is illustrated by Captain Jinks of 
the Horse Marines (1901), laid in New York City in the early seventies. Fitch 
succeeded quite well, too, in such a play as Lovers' Lane (1901), especially in his 
interpretation of a child's mind. In The Girl and the Judge (1901), laid in a 
Western town, he showed his ability in creating a situation, even if he did not 
develop it to the best advantage. The most important plays of Fitch are as 
follows: Beau Brummel (1890), Betty's Finish (1890), Frederic Lemaitre 
(1890), A Modern Match (1891), Pamela's Prodigy (1891), The Masked Ball 
from TjC Veglione of Bisson and Carre, (1892), The Social Swim (1893), His 
Grace de Grammont (1894), April Weather (1894), Mistress Betty (1895),^ 
(produced ten years later as The Toast of the Toicn), Nathan Hale (1898), The 
Moth and the Flame (1898), The Cowboy and the Lady (Avith Willis Steel, 1899), 
Barbara Frietchie (1899), The Climbers (1901), Captain Jinks of the Horse Ma- 
rines (1901), Lovers' Lane (1901), The Last of the Bandies (1901), The Way of 
the World (1901), The Girl and the Judge (1901), The Stubbornness of Ger- 
aldine (1902), The Girl with the Green Eyes (1902), Her Own Way (1903), Glad 
of It (1903), Major Andre (1903), The Coronet of a Duchess (1904), The Woman 
in the Case (1904), Her Great Match (1905), The Truth (1906), The Straight 
Boad (1906), A Happy Marriage (1909), The Bachelor (1909), The City (1909). 
This list includes all his original plays. 

Her Great Match was written by Fitch while in Sicily and was produced first 
ia Syracuse, New York, September 1, 1905, and then brought out at the Criterion 



INTRODUCTION 669 



Theatre, New York, September 4, 1905. It was successful and the contemporary 
criticism praised the delightful effect of the love episodes and the realism of the 
scene on the morning after the party. It is significant that in this international 
contrast, Fitch has endowed his American characters with a proper sense of 
social values without laying stress upon the matter at all, and that "Jo Sheldon*' 
meets the Prince upon the human footing of a man and a girl charmingly in 
love with one another. 

The following plays have been published : Nathan Hale (R. H. Russell, 
1899), (rep. by W. H. Baker), * Barbara Frietchie (Life Pub. Co., 1900), * Cap- 
tain Jinks of the Horse Marines (Doubleday, Page and Co., 1902), * The Climhers 
(1906), * The Girl with the Green Eyes (1905), * The StuMornness of Geraldine 
(1906), ""The Truth (1907), ^ Her Own Way (1907), by Macmillan, * Beau 
Brummel (John Lane, 1908). Those starred can be obtained in the Samuel 
French reprints, and all of them, together with Lovers^ Lane, The Woman in 
the Case, and The City, have been republished in the Memorial Edition, edited by 
M. J. Moses and Virginia Gerson (Little, Brown and Co., 1915). 

Her Great Match has never before been published. The present text is 
printed from manuscript furnished the editor through the courtesy of Mrs. 
Alice M. Fitch, Miss Virginia Gerson and Messrs. Ernst and Cane, to all of 
whom the editor is indebted for information concerning Mr. Fitch. 

For a bibliography of Clyde Fitch see A Beading List of Clyde Fitch, by 
John A. Lowe, Bulletin of Bibliography, Vol. 7, p. 30, July, 1912. For biog- 
raphy and criticism see Archie Bell, The Clyde Fitch I Knew, New York, 1909 ; 
L. C. Strang, Players and Plays of the Last Quarter Century, Boston, 1902, Vol. 
2, Chap. 6 ; Montrose J. Moses, The American Dramatist, Chap. 10 ; B. H. Clark, 
The British and American Drama of Today, New York, 1915 ; and among many 
articles, Martin Bernbaum, Clyde Fitch, an Appreciation, Independent, Vol. 67, 
pp.123-131; W. P. Eaton, The Dramatist as Man of Letters, Scrilner's Maga- 
zine, Vol. 46, pp. 490-97 ; Ada Patterson, How a Bapid-Fire Dramatist Writes 
his Plays, Theatre, Vol. 7, pp. 14-16, January, 1907— practically a statement by 
Fitch himself of his methods ; The American Stage Loses Clyde Fitch, Theatre, 
Vol. 10, p. 112, October, 1909; Archie Bell, The Real Clyde Fitch, Theatre, 
Vol. 10, pp. 158-160, November, 1909. For a criticism of Her Great Match, see 
The Theatre, Vol. 5, p. 243, October, 1905. 



ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Criterion Theatre, New York, September 4, 1905. 

Jo Sheldon Miss Maxine Elliott 

Mrs. Sheldon Miss Madge Girdlestone 

ViCTORLi Botes Miss Nellie Thorne 

H. R. H. The Grand Duchess of Hohenhetstein . . . .Mme. Mathilde Cottrelly 

Countess Casavetti Miss Suzanne Perry 

H. R. H. The Crown Prince Adolph op Eastphalia Mr. Charles Cherry 

Mr. Botes Mr. Herbert Standing 

Cyril Botes Mr. Leon Quartermaine 

Frank Wilton Mr. Felix Edwardes 

Hallen Mr. Cory Thomas 

Weeks Mr. Hodgson Taylor 



HER GREAT MATCH 



ACT FIRST. 

The scene is a tent at a garden fete for 
charity on the estate of Mr. Botes, in 
Hertfordshire, England, on a Saturday 
in July. Weeks and Hallen, two 
young footmen in rather splendid liv- 
eries, are arranging the tent for the use 
of a fortune teller. A small table stands 
in the center with a chair on each side. 
The place is decorated with greens. 

Weeks. Who is this yere Gypsy fortune 
teller anyway? 

Hallen. The American what's staying 
here — Miss Sheldon. Ain't you 'eard 
'em talking at table? 

Weeks. No, I ain't 'eard. 

Hallen. This is a queer family we 're in 
anyway, however you looks at it. 

Weeks. {With emphasis.) They pay 
wages ! 

Hallen. Faugh! Why not? A million- 
aire brewer and a German to boot, ought 
to be bigger 'n they is. 

Weeks 'E ain't no German! 

Hallen. Well! you heat me! Anybody 
would think you was extra help in for 
the day. The Guv'nor was born in East- 
phalia and left there when 'e was ten 
and came to London, and made 'is for- 
tune 'ere! An' now 'e's got the idea of 
being a Baron. Hold Botesy wants to 
be a hancestor, that 's what ! See ? 

Victoria. (Outside.) And this is Jo's 
booth, Father — The Gypsy's tent. 

[She enters from the left followed hy 
Botes and Cyril, who has a dog with 
him.) 

Finished, Hallen? 

Hallen. Quite, Miss. 

Botes. Well, this looks all right. 

Cyril. Don't it? I got it up from a pic- 
ture of one I saw the Prince of Wales 
had at Marlborough House! 

"Victoria. (Laughing.) Then it's sure 
to suit you and father! 

Botes. Do you think it 's rich enough, 
Cyril? Oughtn't you have a little gold 



furniture ? Remember we 're entertain- 
ing royalty for the first time, and we 
don't want to mince matters. 

Victoria. Give them plenty of lager, 
father ! That 's gold enough for you. 
And it 's a good chance to advertise the 
BOTES BRAND! 

Cyril. Sis! Don't be so funny! 

Victoria. Father, if you ever get the title 
you are so mad about, I propose for our 
family crest — 

Botes. What? 

Cyril. (Quickly.) Don't ask her! 

Victoria. A glass of lager, between two 
money bags rampant, with a crown of 
hope; and underneath for a motto, 
"There is no fly in our amber." It will 
sound better of course, in Latin! 

Botes. Well, you can make fun of me, 
Vic, but it is the serious ambition of my 
life, and I 'm going to get a title if 
there 's one for sale in Eastphalia ! 

Cyril. That 's the spirit. Dad ! 

Botes. For any price I can command. 

Cyril. Right ho, old Pops! 

Victoria. It will take three generations 
to make your brand-new title worth bear- 
ing. It '11 smell of varnish all through 
Cyril's life. 

Botes. Nonsense! If I get a Barony 
from King George, I shall choose the 
name of my old home. ^'Baron Arns- 
herg'^! — hasn't that a fine old flavor? 

Victoria. (Sniffing.) Not to me! I taste 
rosin! 

Cyril. But what I want to know is, why 
should it be all right socially, to sell bad 
champagne, and all wrong to make good 
heerf 

Victoria. Father, you '11 never get any 
title to compare with your old one. 

Botes. "Word of honor Botes." 

Victoria. Yes! "Word of honor Botes." 

Botes. Well, that came to me really from 
my father. Just as I want to give a 
Barony to Cyril. Father's simple word 
in Arnsberg was as good as any docu- 
ment that was ever signed and sealed 
and witnessed. It was the catechism 
Father taught me ! Never to break your 



671 



672 



HER GREAT MATCH 



word when once it was given. (Rising 
as he continues.) , Be mighty careful 
how you gave it, but once given no mat- 
ter what it cost you, stand by it. No 
matter what your temptation don't break 
your word, break your neck rather. 

Victoria. Hurrah for Grandfather! 

Cyril. Out of date now. If you 'd started 
your business on that principle nowa- 
days, old chap, we 'd have to drink our 
own beer and pay for it. 

Botes. Speaking of paying for things — 
I wish Mrs. Sheldon 'd pay for her auto- 
mobile. The Pushard people wrote me 
they must hold me responsible, as I in- 
troduced her, and she pays no attention 
to their bill. I suppose it 's all right ? 

Victoria. Of course. Jo told me she had 
a big fortune from her first husband. 

Cyril. I say, the Prince is awfully gone 
on Jo, ain't he ? But he would n't marry 
her, would he? 

Victoria. Why not? 

Botes. I suppose he 'd make her his 
morganatic wife. 

Cyril. Well, what 's the matter with that? 

Botes. Don't work well with Americans. 
There was a lot of trouble over Prince 
Jerome Bonaparte when he married a 
Baltimore lady that way. 

Cyril. Did he? 

Victoria. It would never do for Jo ! She 
does n't share your and Cj^il's titled am- 
bitions! She has high ideas and high 
ideals. 

Botes. I don't think one season on the 
Riviera goes quite to the bottom of any 
young lady's character. It seems to me 
Mrs. Sheldon knows her way about 
pretty well. 

Victoria. Jo is a very different thing 
from her stepmother. 

.Cyril. Rather! 

Botes. Well, all the same I think Miss 
Jo is — 

Jo. (Outside.) Hush! Don't say it! I 
am in hearing — unless it was something 
very nice. Of course if it was something 
very flattering, you can say it and I '11 
wait outside. If it was something dis- 
agreeable then I '11 come right in and 
stop you. 

Botes. It was very disagreeable. 

Jo. I don't believe you! 

(She enters from the left in gypsy cos- 
tume, with a pack of cards; they all ex- 
claim in approval of her dress.) 

Botes. Splendid ! Splendid ! 



Cyril. Bravo ! Bravo ! 

Victoria. Lovely, Jo! Lovely! 

Jo. Do you really like it? (They all ex- 
claim again and try to see the hack.) 
No, no, you mustn't look at the back. 
It isn't finished there, — Vic, go around 
to the back like a dear and see what 's 
the matter. 

Cyril. Vic is very near sighted. 

Jo. Oh, is she!! 

Botes. And very extravagant. She never 
could make both ends meet, — it takes her 
father! 

Jo. Oh, does it! how is it, Vic? 

Victoria. It needs a pin, that 's all. Has 
anyone got a pin? 

Jo. Gentlemen, here 's your chance. Has 
either of you a pin? 

(Botes and Cyril both look around in 
mock eagerness.) 

Cyril. Here 's a hammer and tacks ! 

Jo. Won't do. 

Victoria. Never mind, I Ve got one. — ■ 
There ! 

Jo. It 's finished. Thank you, gentlemen, 
for your kind assistance. 

Hallen. (Entering, to Botes.) A tele- 
gram for you, sir. 

Jo. (Quickly, without thinking.) Per- 
haps Prince Adolf isn't coming. 

Victoria. (Laughing.) Dear me! How 
anxious we are! 

Cyril. Oh ! Would n't it be awful ! 

(Jo throws the cards at Cyril.) 

Botes. Really, Miss Jo, I'm apt to re- 
ceive one or two telegrams in the course 
of a day. Listen! "I will give to my- 
self the pleasure of to bring my aunt 
the Grand Duchess of Hohenhetstein and 
her suite at the Fete when you shall 
kindly arrange to receive." 

Victoria. Oh, heavens! 

Botes. "My regards to your daughter. 
Adolf." 

Jo. Oh, you are a wretch. Wait till I 
tell your fortune today. Then I 'U 
punish you. 

Botes. (Going out toward the left.) 
Come along, Cyril, we must make ar- 
rangements to receive the Grand Duchess. 
Vic, you '11 be on hand." 

Victoria. Oh, mercy — I suppose so. 

Cyril. What I want to know is — hasn't 
she come to look Miss Jo over? 

Jo. Look here — I 'm what they call at 
home an athletic girl ; and if you keep on 
like this I '11 forget myself and go for 
you! 

Cyril. I wish you would. If you'd 



CLYDE FITCH 



6f3 



grapple me once you could hang on as 
long as you 'd want. I 'd like it. 

Victoria. Where '11 you sit ? 

Jo. Here. — and he there. 

Victoria. He ? 

Jo. (Embarrassed.) I mean he or she 
or they, whoever is having their hand 
told. 

Victoria. (Laughing.) Oh, Jo — can you 
read hands at all? 

Jo. No — not really! I just guess at it. 
I make them look me straight in the 
eyes — 

Victoria. Oh, well! then of course they 
give up everything ! 

Jo. And then I sort of feel my way and 
I can tell when I 'm right. 

Victoria. Well, I 've got a perfect plan ! 
I shall be outside the tent there, and can 
easily see those coming from the other 
way. Cyril is to take his time giving 
them their tickets, while I come in and 
give you points quickly and when I ring 
the bell, I rush out, and Cyril lets the 
victim in! (She waits for an answer ^ 
hut Jo is preoccupied and looking into 
space.) Don't you think that's a fine 
plan? (Then receiving no answer.) 
Jo! (She turns Jo around.) You 
haven't heard a word. 

Jo. Yes I have, really. You 're going to 
come in and tell me things, I know. 
Vic! Tell me something new! 

Victoria. What ? 

Jo. Of course you 're all only teasing me 
about Prince Adolf. You don't really 
think I care for him. Do you? 

Victoria. no! not at all, Jo! Not at 
all! 

Jo. Well! Anyway, you don't think he 
thinks I care for him — do you? 

Victoria. (Seriously.) I don't know a 
woman in London who 'd have held her 
own with him as you have. 

Jo. I 've never thrown myself at any man's 
head, not at any rate until he'd thrown 
himself at my feet. 

Victoria. Hasn't Prince Adolf? 

Jo. Not at my feet yet, — he may be 
about my knees — but not in earnest. 
I 'm sure he does n't care a rap about 
me. 

Victoria. My dear, I '11 bet you a five 
pound note for the Eastphalian suf- 
ferers, that he talks, eats, drinks and 
sleeps, laughs, sings, nothing but you! 

Jo. (Embracing her.) Vic Botes, you're 
the dearest girl that ever lived. 

Victoria. Oh, am I? 



Jo. Yes, and if it was n't for you I think 
I 'd take the very first boat back to 
America ! I 'm homesick. 

Victoria. I shouldn't call it "Home"- 
sick! 

Jo. Vic, I don't ask this for any personal 
reasons, you know that, it 's just my 
curiosity's aroused; — did a Crown 
Prince of any nation ever marry an 
American girl? 

Victoria. Of course I understand that 
your question is purely impersonal! but 
I can't say that I ever did hear of a 
case. In fact, my dear, I don't think 
an heir to a throne could marry any- 
one not of royal blood, except in one 
way. 

Jo. What way? 

Victoria. Morganatically. 

Jo. Morganatically! You mean one wife 
and then marry someone also for Queen ? 

Victoria. Yes. 

Jo. Well! The only American girl that 
sort of a Crown Prince could get would 
come from Utah. You can take your lit- 
tle Jo's word for that. 

Victoria. Of course a Prince can give up 
his throne. An Austrian Grand Duke 
became plain Monsieur Somebody or 
other three or four years ago to marry 
a Swiss girl, and they say they 're the 
happiest couple in the world. 

Jo. It would be an awfully big sacrifice 
for a man, wouldn't it, to give up a 
throne ? 

Victoria. Not if he loved you. 

Jo. No, I 'd give up fifty ! I 'd be glad 
of the chance to have something big to 
do to show how much I loved. Have 
you ever been in love, Vic? 

Victoria. No, men bore me. 

Jo. Bore you? 

Victoria. Yes ! I think they 're the most 
selfish, egotistical creatures. 

Jo. Oh, come, Vic! 

Victoria. Want everything for them- 
selves — 

Jo. Wait a minute, my dear — has one 
wanted you yet? 

Victoria. No, thank heaven. 

Jo. Oh well, just wait till one does, and 
then you '11 thank heaven the other way 
around. 

Victoria. How do you know? unless 
you 're in love yourself. 

Jo. Oh, I just imagine. 

(Mrs. Sheldon enters, speaking as she 
does so, with a letter in her hand.) 



674 



HER GREAT MATCH 



Mrs. S. Anything private, or may I come 
in? 

Victoria and Jo. {Together.) No, no — 
come in. 

Mrs. S. They 're in great excitement at 
the house getting ready to receive the 
Grand Duchess with Prince Adolf, — and 
I 've just had a dear letter from your 
father, Jo. 

Victoria. I suppose I ought to see if I 
can help. 

Jo. When am I to see the rest of the 
Fete? 

Victoria. I '11 come back for you or send 
Cyril. {Exit.) 

Mrs. S. Your father is n't very well, Jo. 

Jo. Oh, Mother Lena! 

Mrs. S. Not seriously ill, but I confess 
I 'm a little worried. He writes " I '11 
be all right I know in a day or two; I 
expect the next English mail if it brings 
letters from you both will finish my cure. 
Especially if it tells me you are both 
coming home. Is n't it most time ? 
You 've been gone five months, three 
weeks, two days, and eighteen hours! 
Give my very best love to my girl, Jo; 
I know someone '11 be taking her from 
me before long, but you are mine for 
life, Lena, and I '11 never let you go 
away again without me, law office or no 
law office." 

Mrs. S. I can tell his girl Jo one thing, 
a woman is very lucky to have the de- 
voted love of a man like your father. 

Jo. And his girl Jo can tell you, her dear 
father is lucky to have a woman like you. 
Mother Lena, to make him so happy. 
Bless you for it. 

Mrs. S. Bless you! Jo dear, of course 
you know what everyone here is talking 
about? 

Jo. No! What? 

Mrs. S. Prince Adolf! 

Jo. {Roguishly.) What about Prince 
Adolf? 

Mrs. S. Miss Josephine Sheldon! I was 
not bom yesterday, and I ought to know 
what I 'm talking about when I say this 
young foreigner is head over heels in 
love with you! 

Jo. Mother Lena, he's only amusing him- 
self, he 's not in earnest — any more than 
I am. 

Mrs. S. You're not in earnest? 

Jo. {Hesitating.) I don't know. 

Mrs. S. Where ignorance is bliss 'tis 
folly to be — 

Jo. Perhaps — but Mother Lena — he 



could n't marry me ! He must marry 
some Princess. 

Mrs. S. If he loves you he will find a way. 
It would be a great match, Jo. 

Jo. That means nothing to rae. I will 
only marry for one thing — Love! and I 
could never love a man whom I didn't 
honor down to the ground. 

Mrs. S. You must n't ask too much. Men 
are human. 

Jo. So am I. I don't ask for an angel, I 
wouldn't want one to live with — not in 
this world. But the man I love must 
want me, and only me, above everything 
and everybody else, as I shall want him. 
He must make me believe he would never 
lie to me as I would never lie to him. He 
must make me feel that the sea or the 
desert would be home if he were there 
with me; that there is no such thing as 
loneliness for him or me in life with our 
love between us, and no comradeship for 
either of us in the world without each 
other. That's what love means to me. 
Mother Lena. 

Mrs. S. {Meaningly.) When did you 
think out all this? 

Jo. {Smiling and turning away em^ 
harrassed.) Lately! 

Mrs. S. Jo! 

Jo. I know it 's a pretty big order ! 

Mrs. S. Bend your head down! Here 
is a present for you, to bring you good 
luck today. 

Jo. {As she does so.) But you mustn't 
give me so many presents, and such 
handsome ones. It reminds me — I 
opened a bill that came for you today by 
mistake. 

Mrs. S. a bill? 

Jo. From Streeter, the Bond Street Jewel- 
ler. It looked like "Miss Sheldon" on 
the envelope. Mother Lena, it 's for 
3500 pounds— over $17,000. And they 
say this is their last pressure for pay- 
ment. 

Mrs. S. It's an old, old bill we've had 
some discussion about. 

Jo. It said for articles bought since April 
8th, this year. 

Mrs. S. {A little coldly.) You read it 
through very carefully. 

Jo. Naturally — I thought it for me. 

Mrs. S. Well, I have my own reasons for 
not paying at present. 

Jo. But it does n't somehow seem to me 
quite right — not square. 

Mrs. S. Jo! 

Jo. I 'm sorry, but you know I always say 



k 



CLYDE FITCH 



675 



just what I feel. Does Father know 
about it? 

Mrs. S. No — and mustn't. Remember, 
he 's ill. 

Jo. Mother Lena, you've not been spec- 
ulating ? 

Mrs. S. No, no! 1 tell you I have my 
own reasons for not paying Streeter's 
bill. 

Hallen. (Entering.) Mrs. Sheldon? 

Mrs. S. a gentleman to see me? 

Hallen. Yes, madam, Hi brought him 
'ere. 

Mrs. S. Drop those curtains please, and 
show him in here. 

Hallen. Yes, madam. 

Mrs. S. It 's a man I want to see on busi- 
ness — a lawyer from home. 

Jo. Vic is probably ready to show me 
around by now. 

Mrs. S. Now don't worry about that bill. 

Jo. But it 's such an awful sum ! 

Mrs. S. When I tell you to trust me it 's 
all right. 

Jo. But why run up a bill for so valuable 
a pearl necklace or for such a tiara, if 
you can't pay, and where are they? 

Mrs. S. When I tell you it 's all right? 

Jo. Forgive me — yes, I know I must be 
wrong. 

Mrs. S. There, that's sensible. And 
now I want you to do me a little favor, 
a little joke I want to play on Mr. 
Botes. 

Jo. What? 

Mrs. S. You know how eager he is for a 
title? 

Jo. I think everyone knows that! 

Mrs. S. I want you to tell his hand and 
find a big honor for him in the near 
future, — 

Jo. I see ! The title he 's so crazy about. 

Mrs. S. Of course. You know he hopes 
to get a barony out of old King George 
of Eastphalia. 

Jo. I '11 find a coronet glued on to his life 
line! How old is he? 

Mrs. S. About sixty something. 

Jo. Then I '11 find it right about the mid- 
dle. The lines make a fool's cap rather, 
but it '11 do for Mr. Botes' crown. Thank 
you for the chain — it 's a beauty — but 
vou ought n't — 

Mrs. S. Jo! 

Jo. Oughtn't to spoil me as you do! 
Goodbye. 

(Enter Hallen, followed hy Wilton.) 

(Exit Jo.) 



Hallen. Mr. Wilton. 

Mrs. S. Tho§e other curtains. 

(The whole attitude and expression of 
Mrs. Sheldon when she is alone, 
changes. Her face grows hard and 
worried and her body sinks into an 
attitude of dejection. She pulls 
herself together, however, as Hal- 
len shows in Wilton.) 

Mrs. S. (Turning pleasantly.) How do 
you do? 

Wilton. How do you do, Mrs. Sheldon? 

Mrs. S. You know of course, that your 
business is strictly private — and that I 
don't wish anyone here to know any de- 
tails of your errand? 

Wilton. Oh yes. Mr. Prenter made me 
quite understand that. 

Mrs. S. Mr. Prenter is well? 

Wilton. Not altogether — he is too much 
worried. 

Mrs. S. I am sorry; I sincerely hope, for 
my own sake, that the bank's affairs are 
in good condition. 

Wilton. Mrs. Sheldon, I am Mr. Pren- 
ter's lawyer, and I 've been sent over here 
to come straight to the point. There 
can be absolutely no more delay or eva- 
sion. Unless you can send me back 
by Tuesday's steamer from Liverpool 
with two hundred and fifty thousand 
dollars for the Central National Bank, 
Mr. Prenter will be an utterly ruined 
man, the Examiner will take charge of 
the bank, and you will he indicted. 

Mrs. S. But I am over here ! You would 
have to procure extradition papers. 

Wilton. That would be easy. Meanwhile 
you would have the disgrace of exposure 
all the same, for yourself and for your 
husband. 

Mrs. S. Mr. Sheldon knows nothing what- 
ever about my business. 

Wilton. He would have to prove it. We 
have his signature on some of your 
papers. 

Mrs. S. I got those from him by decep- 
tion. He thought he was witnessing 
mortgages. 

Wilton. Well, that 's not our business. 

Mrs. S. Why doesn't Mr. Prenter help 
himself? After all he 's more criminally 
responsible than I. He 's President of 
the bank and has made me these loans 
illegally wi'thout the knowledge of the 
other directors. To save himself he 
ought — 

Wilton. He can't! All he can raise k 
one hundred thousand dollars — which is. 



676 



HER GREAT MATCH 



not enough to carry on the business of 
the bank. He 's a desperate, repentant 
man, Mrs. Sheldon, and he 's made up 
his mind. To prevent ruin all around 
the cirectors must be told and you and 
he suffer, unless you can furnish two 
hundred and fifty thousand more — 

Mrs. S. I came over here in the hopes of 
raising the money, and if I have n't sent 
it, it 's because I 've failed. I 've worked 
like a slave over here. I 've bought 
jewels I could n't pay for, and given 
them as security in one direction, I 've 
borrowed twice what sums I could on 
the strength of my letters of introduc- 
tion, and on the social success of my 
step-daughter. And do j^ou know how 
much I have managed to scrape together? 
Twelve thousand pounds! Sixty thou- 
sand dollars ! not a cent more ! 

"WiLTOX. It 's worse than ruin to you, 
Mrs. Sheldon. — It means prison. 

Mrs. S. Don't! Don't! You go too far 
when you say that to me. I acted in 
good faith with Mr. Prenter. 

WiLTOx. Bah! I don't believe in you, 
Mrs. Sheldon. I believe these securities 
j^ou boast of are fakes. Why not be 
frank with me? 

Mrs. S. {Rising, almost in tears.) How 
dare you? {Then controllitig herself.) 
Mr. Prenter controlled the bank funds! 
I didn't! He was willing to accept the 
usurious interest I promised! Save your 
threats for your client, not me, Mr. Wil- 
ton — and cable him today that he shall 
have the two hundred and fifty thousand 
dollars. 

Wilton. You said as much before. 

Mrs. S. And I say it again. When must 
you sail back with the money? 

Wilton. Tuesday noon. 

Mrs. S. I will have definite news for you 
by Monday; we return to town after to- 
morrow. 

Wilton. Will your definite news be in a 
cash form? 

Mrs. S. More than likely. 

V/iLTON. It will be somewhat neces- 
sary, as I hope I have made myself 
clear. 

Mrs. S. I don't want to hear what Mr. 
Prenter begged. Cable him — "Every- 
thing all right." He mustn't make a 
fool of himself and tell the directors 
anything. Thank you for coming over. 
Can you find your way back? There's 
a servant who will show you. {Calling.) 
Weeks! Weeks! Mr. Prenter will do 



nothing till he hears from you, you 're 

sure? 
Wilton. Yes. 

(Weeks appears in the doorway.) 

Mrs. S. Weeks, show this gentleman the 
way back. And, Weeks? 

Week. Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. S. Ask Mr. Botes to be so kind as 
to join me here. 

Weeks. Here comes Mr. Botes, Madam. 

{Exit.) 

Mrs. S. {In a conventionally agreeable 
manner to Wilton.) Good-bye, Mr. 
Wilton. Delighted to have seen you — 

Wilton. Thank you. (Exit.) 

Mrs. S. He might want some sort of a 
guarantee from Jo ! To be sure we were 
in earnest and meant business. I won- 
der if he knows her handwriting? 

Botes. {Outside.) Is Mrs. Sheldon here ? 

Weeks. Yes, sir — she was just asking for 
you. 

(Botes enters from the left.) 

Botes. Mrs. Sheldon, won't you help re- 
ceive her Royal Highness? 

Mrs. S. Delighted! But first, Mr. Botes, 
can you give me just five minutes ? 

Botes. Certainly ; I 've a special to bring 
them down and I 'm sending a four- 
horsed Victoria with postilions to tlie 
station. 

Mrs. S. {Rising.) Splendid! Mr. Botes? 
{She holds out her hand.) 

Botes. {Taking it.) Mrs. Sheldon! 

Mrs. S. We're good friends, I hope? 

Botes. So do I. 

Mrs. S. Good. {With a pial grasp of 
his hand, she drops it.) You're a man 
about forty-five. 

Botes. Thank you. 

Mrs. S. And I'm forty. 

Botes. No ! No ! Not yet. 

Mrs. S. You're too kind. What I mean 
is we 're two sensible people and I 'm 
coming right straight to the point. You 
don't make any secret of wanting a 
title — a barony for your family. 

Botes For my son ; the rest of my family 
sticks up her nose at it. 

Mrs. S. {Pleasantly.) Suppose I could 
arrange your securing this title? 

Botes. I did n't know you had them in 
the States, except "Colonel" and "Judge.'" 

Mrs. S. No, I 'm serious. I want forty 
thousand pounds. Would you give it for 
a title such as you wish? 



CLYDE FITCH 



677 



Botes. Well, Mrs. Sheldon, you rather 
take my breath away. 

Mrs. S. What 's forty thousand pounds 
to a man with millions if he can satisfy 
his ambition, and that of his son? 

Botes. It 's not the money that staggers 
me. What title? How is it possible? 
It must be some practical joke of yours 
and Vic's. 

Mrs. S. What a practical joke! (Sit- 
ting down at the table.) May I trust 
you? (He nods.) Jo is going to marry 
the Crown Prince of Eastphalia. 

Botes. It is settled? 

Mrs. S. Practically. 

Botes. Good ! 

Mrs. S. Jo will give — a — all that passes 
between us of course is buried? 

Botes. I give you my word of honor. 

Mrs. S. Jo will give you a guarantee of 
a barony among the titles given in cele- 
bration of her wedding to the Crown 
Prince if you will give me the sum I ask 
for. 

Botes. You are speaking for her as well 
as for yourself? 

Mrs. S. Yes. You let her tell your hand 
this afternoon. But I need hardly ask 
you not to discuss the matter with her. 
If we go on into this I am to be the 
middle man — that Jo insists on. 

Botes. Well, I can't say as I blame her. 
It means a sort of shaky business for a 
young lady to go in for. It is n't my 
daughter's idea of Miss Jo at all ! I 'm 
sure if I were to tell Vic she 'd refuse 
to believe it. 

Mrs. S. But you'll not tell your daugh- 
ter. 

Botes. No, I 've given you my word, and 
that 's my weak point, you know, not to 
go back on my word. 

Mrs. S. {Smiling.) I should call it a 
strong point. 

Botes. The marriage would have to be 
morganatic ? 

Mrs. S. That wouldn't limit your influ- 
ence with Prince Adolf; — he loves 
her! 

Botes. Oh, I don't object if Jo does n't. 

Mrs. S. If I give you a paper signed by 
Jo agreeing to use every influence in her 
power to have you granted this barony; 
to make it a positive request of her hus- 
band and her first one. 

Botes. {Taking out his pocket hook — 
doubtfully.) Of course that wouldn't 
be really any guarantee. 

Mrs. S, Perhaps not legally, but morally. I 



And after all what's forty thousand 
pounds to a multi-millionaire to risk? 

Botes. Oh, come, I wouldn't be one if I 
took that tack. 

Mrs. S. {Leaving her hand on his arm.) 
I know how you love your son — think 
what it will mean to Cyril. 

Botes. {Rising.) But it seems do unlike 
your daughter. 

Mrs, S. Jo has a right to be ambitious as 
well as you and Cyril. 

Botes. That 's true. 

Mrs. S. And I 've got to have this money 
— or a marriage of any kind won't be 
possible. 

Botes. {Approaching her.) Well, look 
here, if you '11 bring me this signed by 
Miss Jo,— I '11 risk it. 

Mrs. S. {Reading.) "I give Augustus 
Botes, Esq., my word of honor I am go- 
ing to marry the Crown Prince Adolf, 
and agree to use all my influence to have 
a barony conferred on him, if not 
amongst the honors given at my wedding, 
then on my husband's coming to the 
throne. This to be in — " In? 

Botes. Exchange — 

Mrs. S. —"Exchange for £40,000, given 
to my step-mother the day this paper is 
received. The receipt of which this ac- 
knowledges — signed — " {Turning to him 
and holding out her hand.) Thank 
you. 

Botes. {Looking away and not taking it.) 
There are no thanks due, it's just busi- 
ness. 

(Victoria enters from the left.) 

Victoria. Father ! Heaps of people have 
arrived already in motors. Also the car- 
avan is ready to go to the station to meet 
your grandees. 

Mrs. S. {Quickly.) Oh, then, I must go 
to my place. Hullo, Jo. 

{Exit Mrs. Sheldon- as Jo enters from the 
left.) 

Jo. Hullo, Lena. People are beginning 

to come, and I 'm getting stage fright. 
Victoria. Nonsense. 

{Enter Cyril with a board.) 

Cyril. They're off to the station. Great 
day for us ! I should think it would end 
our snubbing in this neighborhood. 

Jo. Come along, Mr. Botes — {she comes 
around to the right of the table and 
takes Botes' hand. She then goes to 



678 



HER GREAT MATCH 



the chair at the left of the table) — give 

me your hand, I 'm going to start on you 

— and get into practice. 
Cyril. {Showing the board.) How's 

this for a sandwich board? 

{They all look at it and laugh.) 
Botes. Hiawatha. 
Cyril. The American Gypsy. 
Jo. From Milwaukee. You'd better 

study your American geography. 
Botes. Have I time, Cyril? 
Cyril. Yes, old boy — give us a guinea. 
Botes. I say, you don't want me to pay. 

I 'm getting up this blooming fete. And 

think what it 's costing me. 
Jo. Oh, but— Mr. Botes ! 
Cyril. Oh but come on, old grand stand! 
Victoria. Cyril '11 get it! 
Cyril. Right y'are! (Botes gives him a 

shilling.) A shilling! Make it short, 

Jo. 

(Botes sits by the table — Cyril puts 

the money in the box.) 
(Jo, with a smile and a wink to Vic- 
toria, makes ready. Botes gives 
her his hand, watching her search- 
ingly all the time.) 
Cyril. {Looking at his watch.) Father 

can have a two minutes' future, that 's 

aU. 
Jo. Well — first — you have a generous 

heart. 
Victoria. {Doubtfully.) A what? 
Botes. Well!!! 
Jo. And two children. 
Cyril. {Laughing.) Isn't it wonderful, 

this palmistry? 
Jo. A good daughter — and a bad son. 
Victoria. Quite right. 
Cyril. Bah ! You 're a fakir ! One min- 
ute 's up. 
Botes But all that 's my past. 
Jo. Very well, I '11 begin in the middle of 

your hand — I see a coronet. 
Cyril. Really! or are you just making it 

up? 
Jo. Can't you see it there? 
Cyril. Where? 
Jo. A Baron's coronet? 
Botes. {Looking hard at Jo.) Wonder- 
ful, isn't it? 
Cyril. Time's up, Father! {Exit.) 

Jo. {Who is all through, intensely 

amused.) A coronet for a guinea! 

You can't complain at the price. 
Botes. {Rises — meaningly, looking at her 

closely.) I don't mind the price if I am 

sure of getting it. 
Weeks. {At the door, hurriedly, excited.) 



Beg pardon, they 're passing the lodge, 
sir. 

Botes. Good Lord ! Where 's my hat ? 

Jo. Lena put me up to teasing your fa- 
ther, but I don't think I succeeded very 
well, do you? 

Victoria. Poor Father! He is like the 
little boy in the advertisements — He 
won't be happy till he gets it. What 
sort of a man is your father ? I 've 
often wondered. 

Jo. {Sitting on the ground.) Oh, such 
a dear old darling, Vic. We were n't 
separated a day of our lives until he 
married Mother Lena. He says he 
would n't have married even then, but he 
expected me to run off and leave him 
any day. Only I haven't gone off as 
quickly as he expected. And his mar- 
riage has made a tiny little break — not 
between him and me, — only in our lives 
because, try as hard as I can, I can't 
really love Mrs. Sheldon. 

Cyril. Pst! Pst! Countess Casavetti. 

Victoria. Who ? 

Cyril. {Whispers strongly and disap- 
pears.) Casavetti. 

Jo. Oh, quickly — tell me something about 
her. 

Victoria. She is an American who mar- 
ried a cheap Italian in a boarding house 
in Florence. She 's a beastly little 
woman — crazy about married men. 
Takes everybody's husband away. They 
call her the Housebreaker. 

Jo. Where's her own husband? 

Victoria. Oh, my dear! Lost a long 
time ago in the shuffle. 

Jo. But I don't see that this helps me 
very much. 

Victoria. Oh, you don't do yourself jus- 
tice. 

Jo. What's her latest? 

Victoria. Tall ! 

Jo. Dark or light? 

Victoria. Dark. 

Cyril. This way. 

Countess. {Giggling as she enters.) 
1 'm quite frightened. 

Jo. You needn't be. 

Countess. Of course you 're not really a 

gypsy! 

Jo. No, not really. 

Countess. {Sitting by the table.) I 

have n't the slightest idea who you are. 

I hope you don't know me. 

{Giving her left hand.) 
Jo. I 'm sorry to say I never had the 

pleasure of seeing you before in my life. 



CLYDE FITCH 



679 



Countess. {Surprised.) But I 'm an ex- 
tremely well-known woman in London 
and having my portrait in the book of 
beauty — unfortunately gave me added 
notoriety. 

Jo. {Looking at her left hand.) Too 
bad! I see you have a great deal of 
temperament. 

Countess. Oh, where do you see that? 

Jo. I mustn't give my trade away — but 
I see you are a very ardent woman. " 

Countess. It 's perfectly wonderful ! 
You know I am. I adore men! 

Jo. Well, I don't mind them myself. 

Countess. Do you love every one f 

Jo. No, I won't go so far as that — But 
I think you 're what Cyril would call — 
a flyer. 

Countess. I rather like Cyril ! The trou- 
ble is he 's not married and there 's no 
excitement. 

Jo. Oh, but he ^s young yet, he '11 keep, 
and he 's sure to marry in time. You 
must have your reserves. 

Countess. That 's true ! How clever you 
are. 

{The "Watch on the Rhine'' is played 
hy the hand in the distance. Jo and 
the Countess lift their heads and 
listen. ) 

Countess The Royalties have arrived. 
Do go on! 

Jo. No — Yes, yes, it is there! 

Countess. What ! ! 

Jo. Do you want me to tell you every- 
thing I see? 

Countess. Oh, yes, please — everything. 

(Vic enters.) 

Jo. I see a married man coming across 
your future. 

Countess. {Excited.) Oh, is he coming 
soon? 

Jo. Very soon. 

Countess. {Laughing with nervous de- 
light.) What's he like? 

Jo. Tall! 

Countess. Oh, it's perfectly wonderful! 
And is he dark? 

Jo. Yes, dark. 

Countess. Yes, that 's right. 

Jo. Of course it 's right ; the hand never 
lies. 

Countess. I think it's perfectly amaz- 
ing ! I 've always scoffed at this sort of 
thing, you know! excuse me, but — are 
you a lady, or are you paid for this? 

Jo. I 'm doing this for my friend — I am 
Miss Sheldon, an American. 



Countess. {Quickly.) Don't tell me you 
are the Miss Sheldon, the beauty who 
was on the Riviera this winter? 

Jo. No, I won't tell you that, but only 
that I am Miss Jo Sheldon. 

Countess. The one the Crown Prince of 
Eastphalia is mad about? 

Jo. There I can assure you you are very 
wrong. 

Countess. Not at all ! But I should never 
have known you from your photograplis. 
They do flatter, don't they? 

Jo. Well, really! 

Countess. Oh, you know what I mean! 
I want to be taken by the same man — 
you must give me his name and address. 

{Re-enter Cyril.) 

Cyril. You 've had your guinea's worth. 
Countess Casavetti. 

Countess. {Taking her parasol — rising 
and going back of table to opening.) 
Oh dear, do come to see me in London. 
I am sure we would get on immensely, 
and I should adore having you tell my 
hand every day. 

Cyril. Come, come, or it will be half a 
crown extra. 

Countess. Do lunch next Tuesday, I 've 
a short blond one coming then. His 
wife has died since I took him up, and 
he rather bores me. ( Going. ) 1 'd love 
to have you take him off my hands! 
That 's a dear ! 0, your Royal High- 
ness, how lucky I am, aren't I? Do 
walk a step with me and let me tell you 
all about the wonderful gypsy. 

Jo. Well ! ! ! She is a pig ! She 's actu- 
ally trying to walk off with my Prince! 

Cyril. Your Prince? 

Jo. Well, you know what I mean. 

Cyril. You bet I do! 

Jo. He is n't a married man. He 's none 
of her business. 

Victoria. {In the doorway, whispering.) 
Pst! Cyril! Cyril! 

Jo. Cyril! 

Cyril. Prince? (Cyril rushes out.) 

Victoria. Prince Adolf! 

Jo. {Jumps up with a little scream of 
joy.) Oh, hurrah! — she didn't keep 
him long. I '11 reward him for that — if 
I can! 

Victoria. He only arrived here two min- 
utes ago! It didn't take him long to 
get here, did it? 

Jo. Not very. 

Victoria. {Insinuatingly.) I wonder if 



680 



HER GREAT MATCH 



he knows by any chance who the gypsy 

is? 
Jo. (Mischievously.) I wonder! and by 

the way you need n't wait, Vic — I 

think I know all about him I need to. 
Victoria. I thought I 'd just — 
Jo. Well, you needn't think, my darling. 

You can go away instead! 
Victoria. No, I want to suggest that you 

find a blonde woman "crossing his path." 
Jo. You little beast! — I won't do any- 
thing of the sort! — 0, but yes I will! 

It will be great fun! Now ring your 

little bell and run away. 
Victoria. What 's your hurry ? 
Jo. I'm not in a hurry, only — {pushing 

her up to entrance) — please go away — 

he might n't wait. 
Victoria. Not wait! He'd wait till 

Doomsday! {Exit.) 

(Jo quickly moves the chair so they 
are on the left and right of the 
table.) 

{Enter Prince Adolf. He comes down to 
the table.) 

Prince. Oh ! 

Jo. {Curtseying.) Guten Tag, your 
Royal Highness. 

Prince. {Speaking in German.) If you 
can speak German, then I will not talk 
any more to you in English — 

Jo. No ! No ! I can't really speak at all, 
only the tiniest German! And you 
speak English splendidly! 

Prince. {Putting hat on table, he mo- 
tions her to sit down.) Ach! Yah! I 
spik what is you call der pidgin Eng- 
lish! So! I have now come to you for 
my future. Do you know that I was 
much happy to ask mine future of your 
hands? 

Jo. 0, no, of yours. Come, put your 
hand on the table, and let me read it! 

Prince. {Disappointed.) On der table? 

Jo. dear! What's the matter?— 

Prince. They haf said you shall haf to 
hold mine hand inside your hand to tell 
me of it. 

Jo. How much did you pay to come in the 
tent? 

Prince. One guinea. 

Jo. 0, that is only for the table telhng. 
It 's tw^o guineas for the charity, if I 
tell it more — more sociably. 

Prince. What is der charity? 

Jo. Really a title for Mr. Botes. 

Prince. What? 

Jo. 0, no. I didn't mean that. Please 



forget I said it. But surely you know, 
it 's for the flood sufferers in Eastphalia? 

Prince. So? 0, yes, I have forgot. 
Goot! dere is de guinea. And now be- 
gin. {Lifting his left hand and holding 
it out.) Nein! Nein! dat was not com- 
fortable — {he takes her left hand in his 
right hand, and puts his left hand over 
her right hand) — and I was frightened 
for fear you shall drop it — please ! watch 
out! hold it so! So! Dat is better! 

Jo. Excuse me, who 's telling this for- 
tune, you or I? 

Prince. Ach! Gott! You! 

{Looks lovingly at her, and squeezes 
her hand.) 

Jo. {Laughing.) Oh! but you mustn't 
do that ! 

Prince. What I do? 

Jo. Squeeze my hand — you know per- 
fectly well. And if you do it again I '11 
give your money back and not tell you 
a thing! {Pushing the coin.) 

Prince. I beg pardons. 

{Puts out his left hand and pushes the 
coin back.) 

Jo. {With mock severity.) That's bet- 
ter. You must remember that you are 
to let your hand lie perfectly quiet or 
else the important lines won't show. 
Whatever pressing is to be done, I must 
do it. 

Prince. Will you? {Eagerly.) 

Jo. {Holding his left hand.) If it's nec- 
essary to tell the lines. 

Prince. I shall like dat immense — go on. 
{Gazing into her eyes lovingly.) 

Jo. You mustn't look at me like that, 
either. 

Prince. Why not? 

Jo. It — it — sort of prejudices me aii^ 
keeps me from seeing straight. 

Prince. {Turning aivay and leaving hand 
with Jo.) Well, I shall do me mein best 
and look out away. Only now make a 
beginning. 

Jo. Well ! ! You have a lovely disposi- 
tion. 

Prince. Dat was not true, you shall be 
one bad hand reader. 

Jo. Wait a minute — that is the hand of 
what you might be. Give me your other 
hand. 

Prince. You shall take bose when you 
like. 

{Turns to her, giving both.) 

Jo. No, thank you — {putting the left 
aivay, keeping the right) — I think one of 
your hands, your Royal Highness, is all 



CLYDE FITCH 



681, 



I can manage at a time. Now in this 

hand is the line as you Ve made it your- 
self, and it says you have spoiled your 

disposition. 
Prince. Well, dat vas not true either. 
Jo. Thank you! I seem to have made a 

good beginning ! ! ! 
Prince. You haf not begin yet! It shall 

take you one hour to begin, and one 

more hour also to make finish. 

{He kisses her hand; then takes' her 

hand in both of his, and kisses it.) 

Jo. {Taking her hand away.) Prince 

Adolf! If you do anything like that 

again I will begin and finish, at the same 

time, and at once. 

{Pushes coin toward him.) 
Prince. Forgeef me! 

{Pushes coin hack.) 
Jo. I will — partially. 
Prince. Thanks. 
Jo. {Going on with the right hand.) 

You are capable of loving very deeply. 
Prince. Ah, dat was right!! 
Jo. But I can't make out if it is loving 

someone else, or yourself. 
Prince. So! Well, you shall skip dat, I 

know mineself dat answer. 

{He leans over table. She looks up 
at him, smiling; he smiles mean- 
ingly back at her — she turns her 
glance away — and then back to his 
hand.) 
Jo. You are very brave. 
Prince. That vas nefer mein fault. Dere 

vas nefer one Hohenhetstein a coward! 
Jo. {Looking at him.) You will make a 

splendid, kind, sensible, republican king! 

— just like a President! 
Prince. Is dat in mein hand? 
Jo. Yes, and I know it 's in your heart 

too. 
Prince. I cannot guarantee dat! mein 

heart is so full of something else just 

now. 
Jo. {Softly.) You are going to be loved 

very, very deeply. 
Prince. {Softly, hut excited — eager.) 

Yes? 
Jo. Yes! {She looks up at him a second 

and then adds.) By your subjects! 
Prince. {Angry.) Ach! Is dat all? 
Jo. No- 
Prince. {Softly again.) No? 
Jo. {Softly.) No! 
Prince. There was someone else? 
Jo. Yes. 
Prince. Yes? 

{A pause. Jo looking at his hand, he 



at her. ^ He places his free hand on 
hers. She lifts it off and looking 
up at him, points back to his hand.) 

Jo. Yes, look. Your fate line is crossed 
right here — by a blonde woman. 

Prince. By a vat ! ! ! 

Jo. By a blonde woman. 

Prince. Neffer! {Takes his hand away.) 

Jo. Yes, it 's there in your hand! 

Prince. Damn it! Where! 

Jo. Really!!! 

Prince. 0, I beg your pardons! I beg 
your pardons! but look once more — you 
shall be mistaken, where was der blonde 
lady? 

Jo. There ! Don't you see — a lovely little 
canary blonde! 

Prince. Nein! I hate canaries! and I 
see only one tall, beautiful, black-haired, 
blue-eyed Juno! 

Jo. well, that 's because you don't un- 
derstand how to read a hand. 

Prince. No, just look one other time and 
see when you can't see with mein eyes^ 
I see her dark! 

Jo. But that 's the best I do : it 's impossi- 
ble to go back upon your fate line. See I 
there she is, a little blonde. 

{Pointing it out in right hand.) 

Prince. No, I was not willing to see her 
— she was a lie! 

Jo. No, she 's true. She crosses- your 
fate line, just like Forty-second Street- 

Prince. Vat vas dat? Forty-second 
Street? 

Jo. 0, it 's the — the equator of New 
York; it crosses every important street 
in the city and lands you in the water 
at both sides. I 'm afraid she 's a stren- 
uous lady, your blonde, and that you 've 
got the water ahead of you. 

Prince. {Looking disgustedly at his 
hand.) It was all your joking. It has 
all not nothing of truth at it. I tell you 
what we do. Try now the other hand 
once. 

{The Prince holds out his left hand.) 

Jo. It wouldn't do any good. That 
hand 's only what you might have been. 

Prince. Perhaps it was not too late yet 
for me to be what I might have been. 

Jo. Perhaps not! 

{Enter Cyril and ViC.) 

Cyril. I 'm sorry, sir, but time 's up. 

And there 's a line out here waiting a 

dozen deep. 
Prince. But I vas not satisfied at mein 

future. 



682 



HER GREAT MATCH 



Cyril. Try another! 

Prince. {Rises, to Cyril.) Yes, she 
haf told der wrong hand. Here is an- 
other guinea. 

(Jo sees Vic, and motions her quickly 
to go back — she exits.) 

Prince. Here vas two — I will haf der 
two guinea kind. 

Cyril. What 's the two guinea kind? 

Jo. Never mind, I 'II see he gets it. 
Good-bye, Cyril! 

Cyril. Good what? 

Jo. Good-bye. 

Prince. Good-bye. 

Cyril. Ah! Don't worry! — Good-bye! 

(Cyril bows and exits.) 

Prince. {Sitting and giving the right 
hand.) Now! Try bose, and please be 
good. 

Jo. {Mischievously.) You've sort of dis- 
couraged me, but I will try once more. 

Prince. Do you not see some new lines 
dis time? 

Jo. Yes, here your life line breaks and 
one side goes off at right angles! Can 
that mean going away from your throne ? 

Prince. How? 

Jo. Perhaps a revolution in Eastphalia! 

Prince. {Laughing.) 0, neffer! Ve vas 
the smallest and der happiest Kingdom 
in all Germany. 

Jo. It could n't mean that you are going 
to give up the throne ! 

Prince. neffer! dat vas also as impos- 
sible ! 

Jo. Impossible! 

Prince. Why should I mein throne give 
up? Let us skip Pollittiks and go on 
to the heart line. 

Jo. You 're quite right. Why should you 
give up your throne? By all means let 
us skip pollittiks. Well, this hand says 
you love much — 

Prince. Yah ! 

Jo. {Continues.) And often! 

Prince. Nein! 

Jo. And you are loved back often — 

Prince. Nein, nein! 

Jo. But not much. 

Prince. {Angry.) What beastly hands 
I do have for mineself. 

Jo. Until— 

{She looks up dramatically, but smil- 
ing.) 

Prince. Until? 

Jo. Yes, you see — until that blonde 
woman crosses fate line! 

Prince. {Rises.) Nein, nein. 

Jo. I 'm very sorry, I can't help it ! 



maybe she 's a German Princess. She 

evidently js your fate. 
Prince. Miss Sheldon!!! 
Jo. {Rising.) Sir? 
Prince. Miss Sheldon, I tink you vas one 

great big flirt! 
Jo. Your Royal Highness, I tink you was 

one little other! {Curtseys.) 

Prince. {Angry — bows.) Good-bye — 

{Turns and goes to door.) 
Jo. Good-bye. You 're not really going ? 
Prince. Not really! 
Jo. Come back — come back. I '11 tell it 

all over again. 
Prince. You will! 
Jo. No ! for nothing this time — we '11 see 

if I can't change the color of that lady's 

hair. 

ACT SECOND. 

The scene is the conservatory at Mr. 
Botes' house in London on the follow- 
ing Monday night. The room is semi- 
circular with a green lattice work cov- 
ered with ivy running around it. 
Extending from the right toward the 
center is a white marble carved bench. 
Behind it a tier of pink rhododendron 
bushes is in full bloom. On the left, 
toward the rear, is a door leading to the 
garden. Also on the left, but farther 
forward are the doors which lead into 
the drawing room. 

Mrs. Sheldon is sitting on the marble 
bench. Hallen and Weeks enter from 
the garden, carrying a string of Japa- 
enes lanterns. 

Mrs. S. {To Hallen.) Have you told 
Miss Sheldon I want her? 

Hallen. Yes, madam, she 's here. 

{Exeunt Hallen and Weeks.) 

Jo. {Entering from the left.) They're i 
clamoring for you, mother. Mr. Botes f 
and Vic are at the head of the big stair- 
case to receive the Grand Duchess. 

Mrs. S. And Prince Adolf! 

Jo. No, he 's at Buckingham Palace at a 
state dinner, and is coming on by him- 
self. 

Mrs. S. Is there ink and paper any- 
where? {pointedly) — down here? 

Jo. {Motioning to the left.) In there — 
there always is. 

Mrs. S. I want to write a message for 
you to take to Mr. Botes. I have my 
gloves on. Does he know your hand- 
writing? 



CLYDE FITCH 



683 



Jo. No, I don't suppose so. What dif- 
ference does that make ? I '11 write it if 
you like. 

Mrs. S. No, after all it's private busi- 
ness ; perhaps he 'd rather — 

Jo. Well, make haste or you'll be late. 
How lovely it is out here — I wonder if 
he'll— Ready, Mother? 

Mrs. S. One minute. I 'm sealing it — 
you won't mind, will you? 

Jo. Not at all. It looks to me as if -you 
and Mr. Botes were going into a part- 
nership. 

Mrs. S. (Lightly.) Well, if I could be 
as lucky in business as Mr. Botes — 

Jo. You could n't be because you 're so 
generous. Even Mr. Botes' own chil- 
dren acknowledge he 's the hardest fisted, 
most miserly nice person they ever knew. 

Mrs. S. Give that to Mr. Botes without a 
word, except that I '11 join him in a 
moment. 

Jo. He 's frightfully bored at the idea of 
having the old lady on his hands and at 
the same time overjoyed at the chance. 
And he's told me already three times 
what the ball is costing him. 

(She starts to leave.) 

(Enter Hallen.) 

Hallen. Here is Mrs. Sheldon, your 
Royal Highness. 

(Enter the Prince.) 

Prince. Goodt eefning, Laties! 

(Both women curtsey and say "good 
evening.'' Mrs. Sheldon turns to 
the seat at the right.) 
Prince. I was lucky to find you bose to- 
gether ! 
Jo. And you are still more lucky, sir, in 
that I am obliged to leave you at once, 
if your Royal Highness will allow me, — 
Prince. Please don't so Royal Highness 
me, it make me what you — Miss Sheldon 
'ave call "tired" not? 
Jo. (To him, in mock aside.) Beware! 
Mrs. Sheldon is very attractive, and you 
see — she 's blonde — she 's nearly blonde. 
(As she leaves the stage, the Prince 
starts to follow her.) 
Mrs. S. Prince Adolf. 
Prince. (Turning to her.) Yah, Ma- 
dame? 
Mrs. S. I had intended asking for this 
interview. Will you forgive me — if I 
speak very, very frankly f 

(The Prince steps toward her — em- 
harrassed.) 



Prince. Yah, bitte. If you please. 

Mrs. S. People are gossiping very openly 
about my step-daughter and your Royal 
Highness. 

Prince. Yes, I have heard dat today, and 
I think only of what I shall do for to 
make Miss Sheldon forgif me. 

Mrs. S. Thank you! It will be easy. 
Prince Adolf, if you love her. 

Prince. If I love her! Ach, Gott! with 
all mein hearts, with all mein — what you 
call der oder ting — mein souls — mein 
souls ! 

Mrs. S. Then believe me, sir, Jo will for- 
give you because — (pauses a moment, 
then finishes in a lowered voice, hut im- 
pressively) — she loves you too. 

Prince. Nein, nein! She haf always 
make joke at me. 

Mrs. S. If you knew her as well as I do, 
you 'd know that proved she cared. 

Prince. And I may tell to her dat I loaf 
her! 

Mrs. S. Yes. And I speak for her father 
as well as myself. (Conversationally.) 
You know a marriage between your 
Royal Highness and Jo can't be the con- 
ventional one, but we are willing to trust 
her happiness to you, and so I beg you 
to put a stop to scandal before it begins, 
and speak to Jo tonight. 

Prince. I tank you one million times! 
(Bows and kisses her hand.) 1 shall 
speak with her so soon as possible when 
she shall allow me. 

(Enter Hallen.) 

Hallen. Beg pardon, ma'am. Her Royal 
Highness is arriving. (Exit.) 

Mrs. S. I must help receive. 
Prince. (Aside, as he leaves.) She 
bores me. 

(Mrs. Sheldon meets Jo, Vic, Cyril 
in the doors on the left.) 
Mrs. S. I 'm going to receive the Grand 
Duchess. 

(They all greet each other as they 
meet.) 
Cyril. Excuse me, but I am very busy. 

(He goes to the bench with card.) 
Jo. What are they going to do with her 

Royal Highness? 
Victoria. They 're going to show her 
through the rooms and then dump her 
and her suite on a dais in the Ball Room. 
Jo. What are you doing there, Cyril? 
Cyril. Oh, I '11 put you on. This is the 
Spooners' Retreat, you know, or will 
know before the evening 's over. 



684 



HER GREAT MxVTCH 



Jo. It depends upon who shows it to me. 

Cyril. How many guesses do you give 
me? 

Jo. None. 

Cyril. Well, I 'm giving it a finishing 
touch. 

Jo. {Reads on the card.) "A friendly 
hint to Rheumatic couples." 

Victoria. What? 

Cyril. No, no. Romantic couples. Lis- 
ten, _ Jo — you may find this very useful. 

Jo. You silly person. 

Cyril. {Reading card.) "Press the elec- 
tric knob hanging on the side of the 
lamp if you want moonlight only." 
Watch! {Presses button and out go all 
the lights, and only moonlight pours in 
through the glass roof on the marhle 
bench.) Wouldn't that make anyone 
feel billy-and-coo-y ? 

Victoria. Well, rather. 

Jo. A little too light still for the Countess 
Casavetti, is n't it ? She would want the 
moon on an electric button too. 

{She presses a button, and the lights 
come on again.) 

Cyril. 0, well, of course it 's really all 
planned just for you and Adolf. 

Vic and Jo. Cyril! 

Jo. Allow me to inform you, Mr. Scally- 
wag C>Til, that Prince Adolf and myself 
parted at the fete on Saturday at sword 
points. 

Cyril. {Pins the card on the bushes.) 
Well, if you want to make up, drag 
him here, and press the button, the moon 
will do the rest. 

Jo. Our little misunderstanding — was 
really Vic's fault. 

Vic. Mine ? 

Jo. Yes, I took your advice when I read 
his hand, and told him a blonde woman 
would be his destiny. 

Cyril. Clever Vic! She was evidently 
trying to sneak one for herself. 

Vic. {Laughing.) It didn't do me much 
good. 

Cyril. Was that the third or fifth time 
you told his hand? 

Vic. ( Laughing. ) What ? 

Jo. None of your business. 

Cyril. {Laughing.) Jo hung on to his 
hand like a terrier to a rat. 

Jo. {Becomes serious and a little angry.) 
Now look here, Cyril, I 've had just 
about all the teasing on this subject I 
care to put up with. It is n't funny any 
longer; I don't care at all — or — in that 
way — for Prince Adolf — any more than 



he cares for me. Under the circum- 
stances any more of your teasing will 
not be in exactly the best of taste. 

Cyril. {Wilts grotesquely.) Crushed! 

Jo. {Slowly losing her anger.) Well, so 
you ought to be. • 

Cyril. {Rises, goes on his knees, touches 
the floor with his forehead before her.) 
Forgive me! 

Jo. {Laughing.) I wish I couldn't. 

Vic. {Looking off.) Cyril! Quick! 
They 're coming ! 

{The Duchess, Mr. Botes, and Mrs. 
Sheldon are seen coming through 
the room at left. Cyril gets up 
hurriedly. They enter.) 

Botes. This, ma'am, is the Flirtation 
Corner. 

Duchess. Ach! Schon, sehr schon. 

Botes. And here are the young people. 
My son and daughter — 

Duchess. Goot eefning. 

Botes. And the Goddess of Liberty come 
over from the States. 

Jo. Only to Cuba and the Philippines as 
yet, your Royal Highness. 

Duchess. I see Liberty vas becoming a 
leetle crowded over dere. She vas be- 
ginning to emigrate — {looking at her) — 
Not? So! I find it not easy to recog- 
nize the gypsy. {She notices Jo's em- 
barrassment. To Cyril.) You vas in 
love mit Mees Sheldon — not? 

Cyril. Oh, something awful, ma'am. 

Vic. Silly boy! 

Jo. {Laughing.) Oh, no, not at all, 
ma'am. Cyril knows me too well. 

Duchess. {Laughing.) So? 

Vic. {Comes to right of Jo and puts her 
left arm around her.) That is not true, 
ma'am. To know my American friend 
is to love her the more. 

Duchess. So ! 

Jo. {Laughing.) Miss Botes is my best 
friend, ma'am, she is prejudiced. 

Duchess. So — after all, handsome is vat 
handsome doos. Not? 

Vic. Yes, and she does, ma'am. 

Cyril. Yes, ma'am, she doos. 

Duchess. So. {To Jo.) Compliment. 
Are there other rooms? 

Botes. No, ma'am. 

Duchess. Den I shall ask will you let 
me speag mit you a leedle and Mrs. Shel- 
don here? 

Botes. Certainly, ma'am. 

(Mrs Sheldon looks startled.) 

Duchess. {To Jo.) It ees not fair for 
an old woman to monopolize der loafers' 



CLYDE FITCH 



685 



comer. But I vill promise not geep him 
long. 

Botes. Vic, you 'd better be looking after 
the guests. 

Mrs. S. Jo, go in the garden, dear, and 
I will join you. 

Jo. No, I think I 'd better help Vic. 

Vic. Yes, do. 

(Vic and Jo leave together.) 

Cyril. I want to see if the lanterns have 
been placed all right. 

[Exit through door at hack.) 

Duchess. Will you all please to sit you 
down, Misses. (Mrs. S. sits on bench, 
Botes sits on seat at left of bench.) 
Mine nephew has yesterday told me all. 
Ach, lieber Adolf. It vas beautiful how 
he loaf her. And so sad. {She gets 
tearful.) He swears he shall kill him- 
self mitout her. It vas peautiful. 

Mrs. S. You sympathize with the young 
people, ma'am? 

Duchess. With all mein hearts. Aber, I 
vas nutting. It vas the King who vas 
der master of us all. When I haf seen 
Miss Sheldon I telegraphed to mein 
brudder and I haf only just now re- 
ceived his answer before I come tonide, 
and it makes necessary dat I say it out 
to you at once. 

(Botes and Mrs. S. exchange a ques- 
tioning look.) 

Duchess. Mein brudder does not know 
what you mean quite about Mees Shel- 
don and der Prince Adolf. 

Botes. I beg your pardon, ma'am? 

Duchess. You 'ave them brought much 
together, not? 

Botes. But always at the urgent request 
of Prince Adolf, ma'am. 

Duchess. You had made much better, 
Misses, to have taken your daughter away 
from here before dis — 

Mrs. S. Miss Sheldon is only my step- 
daughter. She is her own mistress. 

Duchess. She haf not the air of an in- 
triguante, but she shall haf known dat a 
marriage between her and a heir to a 
throne vas not possible. 

Mrs. S. Perhaps my stepdaughter may 
have been persuaded by Prince Adolf 
that such was not the case. 

Duchess. Ooch. You know what loafers 
will say — you haf had loafers. Misses, 
not? 

Mrs. S. {With a cynical smile.) I have 
been married twice, ma'am. 

Duchess. So? Compliment! Aber, Mr. 
Botes, you must »ot have encouraged 



deir meetings. You vas one of us at 
Eastphalia, King George haf very much 
anger mit you for dis. 

Botes. {Looking at Mrs. Sheldon.) I 
assure you, ma'am, I did not know — 

Mrs. S. {Quickly.) If the young people 
wanted to meet, ma'am, they would have 
managed it somewhere in spite of Mr. 
Botes. {She looks meaningly at Botes.) 

Duchess. So. Well, after dat I haf seen 
Mees Sheldon on Saturday I haf writ- 
ten a long letter to the King all about 
vat I find vas der danger for Adolf and 
dis message vas tooken at His Majesty, 
by Colonel Toochberg, who haf come met 
me ofer from Eastphalia for dat. He 
is arrived dis afternoon because I haf, 
just now before I come here, received 
of His Majesty mein answer. He dis- 
patches me by wire that Prince Adolf 
shall return to Eastphalia by der Egs- 
press tomorrow. Prince Adolf shall be 
at once sent to Manchuria as our attache 
of the Russian army. (Mrs. S. smiles to 
herself.) I haf alles dis to tell mein 
nephew here tonight. 

{A long silence — the Duchess rises — 
all rise, Botes goes toward the foun- 
tain. ) 

Duchess. I vas very sorry dat I must 
speak all dose disagreeable tings. I loaf 
loaf, and I loaf mein nephew, and she 
vas very beautiful — Mees Sheldon. Ach! 
if I shall let myself tink of it, it vas 
terrible, loaf's young dream. Ach! 

{Sniffles.) 

Mrs. S. You have loved yourself, once, 
ma'am, perhaps? 

Duchess. Lieber Gott, yah. I have loafed 
ven I vas a leedle girl. A soldier, just 
a common soldier. His fader vas a 
bootcher. Aber Himmel, he vas peauti- 
ful, just like a imache. He stood on 
sentry duty half of efery week outside 
der palace door, and we haf neffer spoke 
except mit our eyes. But we haf loafd 
two years. {She is in tears, and blows 
her nose heavily. After a moment's 
pause — she steps forward.) So, und 
den I haf married mein cousin, the Grand 
Duke, because I vas a Princess — so it 
always vas — and always shall be — we 
must obey the laws of our family, and of 
our country, and of our King. Mein 
nephew and meinself shall return to East- 
phalia tomorrow. You will like to have 
a few words with Mrs. Sheldon. May I 
please ask you to call your nice son to 
take me back to the ball room? 



386 



HER GREAT MATCH 



Botes. Thank you, ma'am. 

{He goes hack of the fountain, to door 
hack at the rear and is heard calling 
"Cyril — Cyril" — answered hy a dis- 
tant "whoop" from Cyril.) 
Mrs. S. {Aside to BucuESS.) Your Royal 
Highness, is there not such a thing pos- 
sible as a Morganatic marriage in your 
country ? 
Duchess. Yah, but I tink mein brudder 
shall neffer consent to dat. It would 
make one scandal I tink mit der people. 
And any way der Kang commands "us to 
come back tomorrow. Dat is der best 
finish. Time shall cure, not? You say 
yourself you haf twice married — then 
you shall haf forgot once loving — not? 

{Re-enter Cyril — followed hy Botes. 
Botes stays hy the left entrance.) 

Cyril. I 'm sorry you won't stay in the 
Spooners' Comer with me, ma'am! 

{Offers his arm.) 

Duchess. {Laughing heartily.) Ach — 
you vas a nice boy. (Cyril hows.) I 
hope I haf showed tagt. It vas not easy 
to do mein dooty, I vas glad it vas ofer. 
And now, Mr. Botes, I am going with 
all mein hearts to enjoy your peautiful 
pardy. 

{Takes his arm. Botes hows, and the 
Duchess and Cyril exeunt.) 

Botes. Well then, it's all off, is it? 

{Disappointed.) 

Mrs. S. Not at all. {Emphatically.) Jo 
gave you a note just now — didn't you 
open it? 

Botes. Yes, but you can't hold me to this 
agreement now. 

Mrs S. If Jo is still willing to carry out 
her share, why not? 

Botes. How can she with the Prince's 
father determined against it? 

Mrs. S. Suppose the Prince disoheys his 
father? It wouldn't be the first time in 
history, royal or otherwise. 

Botes. But is it likely? 

Mrs. S. It's more than likely, it's cer- 
tain. I have had a talk with him, only 
a few minutes ago. Mr. Botes, it 's all 
the more necessary now for you, if you 
want an Eastplialian title, to stand by 
us. With King George angry, and hold- 
ing you to blame for the present state 
of affairs — your only chance must be the 
Prince Adolf. 

Botes. When do you want the money? 

Mrs. S. You promised to get it ready for 
me today. 



Botes. And I have. The securities are 
in the hands of the Bank. All I have to 
do is to write out a cheque. 

Mrs. S. Write it out tonight. 

Botes. {Pale and surprised.) Tonight! 

Mrs. S. {Pleading.) Well, early tomor- 
row morning. Mr. Botes — {puts her left 
arm on his right shoulder) — you 've made 
me trust you. I 've opened my heart to 
you as I 've never done to any other man. 
Don't disappoint me. Please don't. 

Botes. {Facing her, half humorous, half 
cynical.) You know it 's about the poor- 
est business I ever went into. It would 
take more than a day to find any real 
security in it. 

Mrs. S. But think what the Barony will 
mean to you and your Cyril. Without 
it you have now already everything in 
the business world — with it, you will have 
the social world at your feet, too. That 
world which has up to now turned its 
back on you and snubbed your son — 
you '11 have that world to do what you 
like with, men and women. For women 
won't resist you, that I know — 

(Botes turns to her — she has her left 
arm on his right shoulder.) 

Botes. {Turning to her.) You!!! 

Mrs. S. Yes, I! {Looks him straight in 
the face, holding her face close to his. 
Botes looks and slowly hends nearer to 
her — she very slightly moves a tiny hit 
nearer and lifts her face — he kisses her.) 

Mrs. S. {Looks down.) You don't really 
dislike me then? 

{With passion in her voice.) 

Botes. I fancy I like you, — (Mrs. S. looks 
at him) — all that's good for me. 

{Keeps his eye on her.) 

Mrs. S. {Laughing.) You brute, you. 
You know you hurt my feelings by that. 
You make me ^Tetched. 

Botes. Well, cheer up. You shall have 
the cheque tomorrow morning. (Mrs. S. 
turns.) Oh, by the bye, is it to be made 
out to you or to Miss Jo? 

Mrs. S. To neither — to George W. Pren- 
ter. 

Botes. What name? 

Mrs. S. Prenter— T— E— R— . President 
of the Central National Bank of New 
York. Does n't that give you confidence? 

Botes. {Smiling.) Oh, I don't know. 

Mrs. S. Send Jo here, and I '11 bring the 
Prince. 

Botes. Very good. 

Mrs. S. And do forget how foolish I wa§ 
just now. 



CLYDE FITCH 



687 



Botes. Forget it! I hope not. Not if it 
costs me £40,000 ! 

{With a smile, he exits at left.) 
Mrs. S. You prosaic ogre, you. 

(Mrs. S. turns to the fountain, wets 
her handkerchief in water, presses 
it to her lips and to her forehead and 
goes and sits on the bench.) 

(Jo enters.) 

Jo. It strikes me, Mrs. Sheldon, that you 

are monopolizing the Lovers' Retreat — 

I shall have to report you to father. 
Mrs. S. My dear girl, this time I 'm only 

holding Cupid's bower for you. 
Jo. Really! Much obliged. {Looking.) 

But as Cupid's Bower for me it is a lit- 
tle too lonely even with you in it to meet 

all the requirements. 
Mrs. S. Wait till I wave my wand and 

the Fairy Prince comes. 
Jo. Very well, I '11 wait. But meanwhile 

what did Mr. Botes mean by saying just 

now, "Don't worry, I 've seen your 

mother. It's all right"? 
Mrs. S. He means your happiness, my 

dear. 
Jo. What has my happiness to do with 

that selfish old person? 
Mrs. S. {Secretively and impressively.) 

Jo! 
Jo. What? 
Mrs. S. I 've had a very interesting and 

very important talk with Prince Adolf. 
Jo. Oh ! — I told him to beware of a blonde 

woman ! 
Mrs. S. Shall I warn you? 
Jo. No!!! Warn me of what? 
Mrs. S. He 's out in the garden now. 
Jo. {Jealous.) With whom,? 
Mrs. S. {Smiling.) Alone. 
Jo. well, serves him right. He was 

very rude to me when I told his hand 

Saturday. 
Mrs. S. He says on the contrary that you 

always make fun of him. 
Jo. If he knew me he 'd know that was a 

sign that I liked him. 
Mrs. S. That 's what I told him. 
Jo. {Really pleased.) How dared you! 

I am very angry. 
Mrs. S. He is waiting out there all this 

time alone for a chance to see you. 
Jo. Oh, he probably has a cigar, and no 

man 's very lonely when he has a cigar. 
Mrs. S. Jo, it's coming out all right; he 

loves you. 
Jo. He doesn't. 
Mrs, S. He told me so, 



Jo. Well, he 'd much better have told me. 

Mrs. S. Will you give him the chance? 

Jo. No. 

Mrs. S. You won't? 

Jo. Yes. 

Mrs. S. He 's waiting for a signal from 

me that you are here, alone. 
Jo. Don't you give it! 
Mrs. S. {At door, at hack.) What? 
Jo. I mean do. 

(Mrs. S. goes to door at hack, and 
calls ^'Prince Adolf!'') 
Prince. {Off stage.) Yes, madame. 
Mrs. S. May I speak to you a moment? 
Prince. I comst. 

(Mrs. S. nods and exits quickly.) 

(Prince Adolf enters from the hack, comes 
forward to the left of the fountain.) 

Prince. {Looks about.) Yes, madame, I 
vas here. {Laughing.) I tink you vas 
your mother. 

Jo. Thank you. I 'm sorry to disappoint 
you. {She leans upon the basin of the 
fountain.) Do you like gold fish? 

Prince. I don't know — because — why? 
{Leaning on the opposite side of foun- 
tain. ) 

Jo. 0, I don't know. I was just trying 
to make conversation. 

Prince. {Left of fountain.) They vas 
slippery, like to a girl. 

Jo. I thought you might like them because 
they 're blonde. 

Prince. Miss Jo, I wish you shall be seri- 
ous mit me dis night. 

Jo. Not before supper? 

Prince. When shall you be serious? 

Jo. Well; if I must make a positive date, 
I should say about two thirty I shall be- 
gin to feel rather serious. 

Prince. Very goot. And while we wait 
you shall give to me my future again. 

Jo. Oh no, I will not. 

Prince. Bitte! Let me gif yours at you 
then now? 

Jo. No, thank you. I know that you 'd 
tell me that I am a flirt. 

Prince. But are you? 

Jo. I am! 

Prince. And you haf flirted mit me? 

Jo. I have. 

Prince. For why? 

Jo. For fun. 

Prince. How was dat "for fun"? 

Jo. It is like when you play a game. 

Prince. What game? 

Jo. {Desperate.) mercy! I never 
heard so many questions I {She looks at 



688 



HER GREAT MATCH 



him a second, smiling without speaking 

and hears the music in the hall room.) 

They 're dancing, Prince Adolf, don't 

you want to dance? 
Prince. {Goes behind fountain, close to 

her.) Mit you? Yah. Always. 
Jo. No, thank you — I don't care to dance. 
Prince. Den I stay here all der night with 

you. 
Jo. no, you won't. I shall go to bed 

about three o'clock. 
Prince. You shall get tired? 
Jo. Very. 

Prince. I shall bore you? 
Jo. (Satirically.) no! (Pretends to 

yawn.) Excuse me. 
Prince. You was already bored — not? 
Jo. Suppose I ask a few questions now. 

Aren't you bored? 
Prince. Yah. 
Jo. really — ^why? 
Prince. Because I tink your mother have 

tell me lies. 
Jo. What did Mother Lena tell you ? 
Prince. I am ashamed to say. 
Jo. 0, Lena ! ! Was it so bad as that ? 
Prince. She say dat you loaf me. 
Jo. How dared she? (Very angry.) 

No, it is n't true. 
Prince. Yah, she say you loaf me. 
Jo. Oh! (Her arm and her hand with 

her glove on go into the water.) Oh! 
Prince. allow me. Allow me dat I 

dry it, please. 
Jo. No, it 's horrid. I '11 take it off. 
Prince. (Follows her.) Allow to me. 
Jo. Yes, it is so horrid. I think I will 

let you. 
Prince. Tank you. (Unbuttons glove.) 
Jo. Yes, but please hurry and take it 

ofe. 

Prince. So. (Starting very slowly to 
take it off.) I was afraid to make too 
quick, when I might hurt you. 

Jo. 0, you needn't be afraid of that at 
all. 

Prince. Yah, Mrs. Sheldon haf said you 
loaf me. 

Jo. I heard you the first time you said 
that. Mrs. Sheldon unfortunately some- 
times wanders in her speech. 

Prince. How vas dat? 

Jo. (With pretended hauteur.) I am sur- 
prised that you listened to her. 

Prince. Listened? Gott! I will listen 
to dat all mein life! 

Jo. ( Very grandiloquently.) I 'm ashamed 
of my mother. If you would just pull 
a little on the glove I think it would 



come off without any difficulty, now, 
thank you. 

Prince. (Smoothing it gently.) But if I 
pull her I shall spoil her. 

Jo. 0, it 's spoiled already. If you don't 
pull, I will. 

Prince. Very goot — I pull. (He pulls 
off the glove.) Your arm vas vet — I 
shall make him dry. 

Jo. Thank you, I shall dry him myself. 

Prince. Mit what? 

Jo. I — don't — know — 

Prince. I will make him dry mit mein 
handkerchief. (He does so.) 

Jo. You 're really working very hard this 
evening, are n't you ? 

Prince. this is nutting. 

Jo. (Sits on the bench at right.) O 
really. That will do then. Thank you. 

Prince. No, I thank you. 

Jo. Sit down, you must be tired. 

Prince. No ! No ! 

Jo. Oh! 

Prince. No, I was tired only from the 
teasing of me so much by you. 

Jo. Prince Adolf! 

Prince. Yes? Yes? 

Jo. I want to explain the foolish remarks 
Mrs. Sheldon made, and it is not teasing 
this time, not a game. 

Prince. Yah. 

Jo. No! 

Prince. I mean no. 

Jo. Well, you must say what you mean, I 
am going to. 

Prince. Very well, I will too — I loaf you. 

Jo. No, no. 

Prince. Yes — yes. 

Jo. No. Listen to me before you say any- 
thing more. Mrs. Sheldon of course was 
jesting and didn't mean what she said 
to you. And you and I have been like 
two children playing with fire. 

Prince. Define fire. 

Jo. Maybe — still, it 's time we grew up. 
I frankly like you too much, Prince 
Adolf — to keep on. You are a Prince 
going back to your country to be King 
some day, and I am an American girl 
going back to my country — 

Prince. Where you shall reign ofer many 
hearts, dat I am sure. 

Jo. I am a woman, I don't want to reign, 
I want to be the subject. (He lifts her 
hand quietly and kisses it.) Now that is 
the end of our flirtation and the begin- 
ning of our friendship, isn't it? (Bis- 
ing.) Promise me you will forget what 
Mrs. Sheldon said. It was n't true. 



CLYDE FITCH 



689 



Prince. Not true? {S\e turns away and 
slowly withdraws her hand, hut she does 
not answer.) Nein. {Pleading.) 0, I 
cannot neft'er forget dat. Besides, I 
want not to forget. For all dat time out 
dere until you haf called me, I haf 
thought you loafed me. Come. (Takes 
her hand.) Look. {Leading her to hack 
hy door.) Look, do you see the stars 
out there? 

Jo. Yes, I see myriads of them. 

{The Prince turns when Jo turns — 
and they face each other at door.) 

Prince. I haf to tell each one, "she loaf 
me," "she loaf me." Dey shall neffer 
allow me dat I forget. I vas happy ven 
I belief dat. 

Jo. Why did n't you tell the stars that you 
loved me? 

Prince. No use. 

Jo. Oh! 

Prince. Nein! Dey haf know dat al- 
ready yet one long time. 

Jo. How? 

Prince. Because I haf dem told dat efery 
night after der first efenmg I haf met 
you. 

Jo. (Softly.) Yes? 

Prince. Yah. I walked me home efery 
night since den just to be alone mit dose 
stars, dey vas mein goot friends — dey 
haf keep always ofer me — I see dem der 
first time to Pall Mall and dere I tell 
dem first. Den I see dem to Piccadilly. 
Dey vas ofer mein head in Park Lane 
last night. In Berkely Square der night 
before. And alles times dey haf looked 
at me and winked mit deir eyes when I 
tell dem. And dey answer to me "Yah, 
our leedle bruder, wir know that you love 
her." And when dis night I did tell 
dem der great good news, dat you was 
not one flirt, but also you haf loaf me, 
how dey dance for joy mit me. And 
one haf sent me down one kees. 

Jo. A kiss? 

Prince. Yah. Mr. Cyril was in der 
garten and he haf called it a "shooting 
star," aber I know besser, it was one 
kees. 

Jo. Look and see if you can't see another 
now. 

Prince. For luck? 

(He looks at her, then, on her nod, 
looks out of door at hack.) 

Jo. For luck. 

(She softly rises, slowly leans for- 
ward and kisses him. He turns 
quickly and seizes her in his arms.) 



Prince. Goot, it ees no lie? you loaf me? 

Jo. No lie. I love you. 

Prince. (With his armr ahout her.) But 

— but— 
Jo. Don't tell the stars anything more, 

I 'm jealous of them. Tell it all to me. 
Prince. There vas no stars outside now, 

none, I see dem all, in side in your eyes. 
(Music stops and Vic off the stage 
calls ''Jo.'') 
Vic. Jo! 
Jo. Yes. 

(Cyril pushes Vic on — Cyril is seen in 
the door at the left.) 

Vic. What is it? 

Jo. What is what? 

Vic. Cyril said you wanted me. 

Jo. I don't. No such thing. 

(Vic looks at Cyril. Cyril exits.) 

Vic. 0, excuse me — (Very embarrassed.) 

1 'm very sorry to have interrupted you — 

(Edging away.) 

Jo. not at all — you have n't interrupted 

us — won't you sit down? 
Vic. No I — excuse me — I 'm sorry — but 

— I think the Duchess is going soon. 
Prince. Miss Botes, I hope der musickers 

will play some American music. 
Vic. I '11 see that they do before you go. 
(There is an awkward pause — suddenly.) 
1 '11 ask them now. 

(Exits at the left.) 
Jo. Well, we 're sorry you can't stay. 

Good-bye. 
Prince. Miss Botes are blonde — What 

about my future? 
Jo. Oh, never mind Miss Botes. I 'm 
blonde at heart. 

(She moves to the seat and sits on 

the bench at right of the fountain. 

The Prince takes her left hand as 

she sits.) 

Prince. Who else do you loaf besides me 

— what men? 
Jo. My father. 
Prince. Dat is all of us? 
Jo. Yes, but I love him very, very, very 

much. 
Prince. As much as you loaf me? 
Jo. (Slowly.) No. 

Prince. Half as much as you love me? 
Jo. No. 

(She lowers her face and turns away,- 
because of her tears.) 
Prince. What does he call you — by name ? 
Jo. (With emotion in her voice and not 
turning.) His girl Jo. 



690 



HER GREAT MATCH 



Prince. Den also I will call you "His girl 
Jo/' 

Jo. No, please don't. Call me "Yowr girl 
Jo." 

Prince. Yah, I will. "Your girl Jo." 

Jo. No, you don't understand. Whose 
girl am I? 

Prince. Mine ! 

Jo. Yes. Then that 's what you 're to call 
me. 

Prince. yes, I see. Mein girl Jo! 

Jo. {Seriously, softly.) I hope so. 

Prince. Mein girl Jo — mein wife. 

Jo. Yes. 

Prince. You are not afraid of a fight? 

Jo. A fight? 

Prince. To get us married. 

Jo. How a fight? 

Prince. Mein fader was very angry. 

Jo. I 'm sorry. What can we do ? Per- 
haps — 

Prince. Nein, nein. Der was no perhaps. 
I haf told to mein Aunt I loaf you, and 
dat when you loaf me, she haf come to 
London for nuttings. 

Jo. She came to prevent? 

Prince. Yah. But I haf told her I was 
a damn nant. 

Jo. Adamant you mean? 

Prince. Yah. My fader loaf me. I tink 
he will give way for me. 

Jo. And if he won't? 

Prince. He must. How much do you 
loaf me, my girl Jo? 

Jo. How many stars did you see in the 
garden ? 

Prince. Ach! More den I shall count. 

Jo. Just so much I "loaf" you. More 
than I can count ! I 've told myself over 
and over again that love between us was 
impossible; I know everything is against 
us. 

Prince. We will come over alles — alles. 

Jo. Can we? Can we? A hundred times 
a day I 've determined I would never let 
you see inside my heart. Nor let you 
open yours to me. And yet — at the very 
first real chance — I 've forgotten every- 
thing — everything. 

Prince. Except dat I loaf you. You haf 
not forgot dat. 

Jo. No, when I saw how deep inside your 
heart I was already — I could n't keep my- 
self outside your arms. 

Prince. Meine Liebste. 

Jo. Adolf. I don't see how it can be, and 
yet if you think I 'm worth the fighting 
for, I '11 fight with you. Because — I love 
you. 



Duchess. {Off stage.) Tank you for 

bringing me. I could haf guessed mem 

nephew vas in der Loafers' Cosy Corner. 

(Jo and the Prince start and separate 

and look at each other.) 

Prince. I will tell it to her now. 

{They rise as the Duchess enters.) 

Duchess. Good eefning, Adolf. (To Jo.) 
Good eefning again. {To Adolf.) I 
was sorry to take you away but I shall 
be going now, mein nephew. 

Prince. Excuse me. Aunt Caroline, when 
I do not go mit you. I shall stay a leetle 
longer by Miss Sheldon, because, liebe 
Tante, she haf just now done the honor of 
saying she will be my wife. 

Duchess. Adolf! 

Prince. She loaf me after all — 

Duchess. Your fader? — 

Prince. — When he know how much I 
loaf her — 

Duchess. You haf no right to ask of her 
what you know is impossible. 

Prince. Aber. I will make it possible, 
when mein fader know how good and 
peautiful she are. 

Duchess. I haf received a dispatch of 
your father after you haf left dis eefning. 
His Majesty haf seen Colonel Toochberg, 
and orders you to leave mit me tomorrow. 
You shall find a dispatch of your own 
by your house when you go in. 

Prince. I will answer make to mein fader. 
I will send at him a dispatch meinself 
mit explanation dat I cannot go. 

Duchess. It shall be no good, my tear 
poy. You must go back by me. It is 
the King, your fader's command. His 
Majesty haf ordered dat Prince Adolf 
go by der noon express out to Manchuria 
to represent our army dere mit Russia. 
I regret alle, aber ich habe, I have warn- 
ing given to Mrs. Sheldon and Mr. Botes. 
Gude nit. (Jo curtseys and the Duch- 
ess turns to Adolf.) You will stay here 
a little to say good-bye. Goot. I will 
wait a half hour longer in der ball room. 
Eggscoose me, I was very sorry. ( Takes 
Jo's hand.) I haf loafed meinself- — for- 
gif me. But dis marriage cannot neffer 
be, mein dear young lady. Der throne is 
Adolf's destiny, and a Queen of royal 
birth must share it with him. Dat is 
der law of centuries in all our countries, 
and he cannot overturn dat now in one 
eefning. Good-bye. To Manchuria, the 
day after tomorrow. 

Jo. You have n't gone yet ? 

Prince. That was true. 



CLYDE FITCH 



691 



Jo. I 'm not frightened if you 're not. 

Prince. Der King mein fader will do alles 
he can for to separate us. 

Jo. I don't believe any father of yours 
could be so cruel. Not when he sees 
you care so much for me — how much do 
you care for me? 

Prince. Alles — alles. 

Jo. That 's almost enough. And when he 
sees it is my life he is trying to take away 
from me, no man who is your father, 
King or no King, would be so cruel as 
that. I don't believe any old laws made 
half a million years ago can separate a 
man and a woman today, who honestly 
love each other as much as — 

Prince. — As I do you. {They embrace.) 
You haf belief in me? 

Jo. I haf belief in you. 

{Looking him straight in the eyes.) 

Prince. I shall find me a way out for us. 

Jo. There 's your "Amerikaner," Wagner. 

Prince. I like dat. ( With his arm around 
her.) Come, tomorrow we shall make 
plans. Tonight let us forget alles 
troubles — not? {They sit on bench — a 
pause.) My girl Jo! I hope that our 
stars can see us. 



ACT THIRD. 

A living room at Mr. Botes' London house. 
On the right there is a settee, with an arm 
chair near it and toward the rear a writ- 
ing table. On the left there is a couch, 
and by the window on the left a small 
cane chair. There is an open fire place, 
without fire, and other appropriate furni- 
ture. Mr. Botes is sitting on the couch 
reading a paper. He rises, crosses the 
room and returns to the couch, evidently 
in a bad humor. Hallen comes in and 
sta7ids near the couch. 

Botes. {Sitting on the couch.) Aren't 

any of the family down yet? 
Hallen. Mr. Cyril 's at breakfast, sir. 
Botes. Good humor? 
Hallen. Something hawful, sir! Threw 

his heggs at me and swore for giving 'im 

bad 'uns. {Bespect fully.) When I'm 

sure they was as fresh, sir, as if I 'd laid 

'em myself this morning. 
Botes. And the ladies? Out of sorts too, 

I suppose. 
Ha-Llen. Yes, sir, leastways I 'ear as 

Miss Victoria changed 'er mind three 



times as to whether she 'd heat or not 
heat, sir! * 

Botes. Humph ! 

Hallen. We ain't 'eard hanything ha- 
gainst Miss Sheldon's spirits, sir. She 
rang 'er bell before we 'd 'ad hour break- 
fast, sir. Sent Weeks hout with a cable 
to Hamerica. Yes, sir. Telling 'er 
father of 'er hengagement to 'is Royal 
'ighness. 

Botes. {Turning to Hallen angrily.) It 
was n't your business. 

Hallen. No, sir — but — I read it really 
without thinking, sir — ^very fine party 
last night, sir. 

Botes. Was it? 

Hallen. Yes, sir, excuse me, sir. 

Botes. Ought to have been. It cost 
enough. 

Hallen. Did it, sir? 

(Mrs. Sheldon opens the door and enters, 
dressed to go out. Botes turns and sees 
her J rising.) 

(Hallen exits.) 

Botes. {On his dignity.) Good morning, 
madam. 

Mrs. S. {With forced good humor, com- 
ing to front of arm chair.) Good morn- 
ing. 

Botes. {Standing and looking at her.) 
Good morning. 

{There is a moment's pause.) 

Mrs. S. Well! Now all your doubts and 
fears must be at rest. 

Botes. I don't know, so far so good. 

Mrs. S. come ! This is only the feeling 
of "the morning after." You heard the 
Prince announce to me last night that 
Jo had promised to be his wife. Mr. 
Botes, is it right of you to tantalize me 
like this? The cheque must go to Amer- 
ica with Mr. Wilton who leaves today at 
one o'clock. You oughtn't to make me 
ask for it again. 

Botes. Of course I oughtn't to have 
agreed to give you the cheque until the 
marriage had taken place. 

Mrs. S. Without your cheque today there 
could be no marriage. Come, you hold 
our share of the bargain and you prom- 
ised me your cheque in exchange. 

Botes. You made yourself very agreeable 
last night — and I promised a good deal 
that I would n't have in the cold light of 
this morning. 

Mrs. S. I could n't help showing you my 
gratitude. You are a masterful man, one 
that appeals to a woman like me, per^ 



692 



HER GREAT MATCH 



haps more strongly than I should like to 
acknowledge, for the very reason that 
I know you can take care of yourself. 
Keep faith with us as we have with you. 

Botes. To tell the truth I almost wish I 
had n't. 

Mrs. S. How do you mean? 

Botes. I 'm not sure I 'm not ashamed of 
the whole business. 

Mrs. S. I don't understand you. 

Botes. 0, I know we 're all more or less 
in the same boat. You 're the middle- 
man, and Jo 's selling and I 'm buying. 

Mrs. S. Buying what you want, and what 
you agreed to buy. 

Botes. Yes, but after all it 's a pretty low 
down business for an established man of 
my age, and for a nice seeming girl like 
Jo. 

Mrs. S. Business is business! 

Botes. Yes, but wdien women mix up in 
it — I don't know — It seems dirtier 
than it does for men ! I 'm ashamed of 
my daughter's friend ! There, now it 's 
out and being ashamed of her, damn it 
all, has made me ashamed of myself. 

Mrs. S. Ashamed? 

Botes. Yes ! I 've got a little of my 
daughter Vic in me, after all. 

Mrs. S. But you gave us your word. 

Botes. Yes, I know. And of course I '11 
stand by it, if I have to, but — (^.s Mrs. 
S. places her hand on his arm he puts 
her hand away.) No! No! Let me 
keep my practical senses, please! 

Mrs. S. And your word — come — Don't 
keep me waiting any longer, or I sliall 
think you are taking advantage of a 
woman to break your word. 

Botes. (Rising.) No, that could never 
be said of my father's son. (He looks 
straight in her face and she looks back 
into his. There is a pause while he takes 
a cheque from his pocket amongst other 
papers.) Here is your cheque. 

Mrs. S. {Taking it.) Thank you. Now 
I must hurry to meet Mr. Wilton at 
Euston Station. 

(Vic enters and meets Mrs. Sheldon in 
the doorway. ViC is in ill humor also, 
but takes it more good naturedly.) 

Vic. Good morning. (Mrs. Sheldon 
passes out without replying.) Dear me! 
Mrs. Sheldon seems to have got out of 
tlie wrong side of bed too! How are 
you, father? I'm cross as two sticks. 

Botes. I 'm beastly ! 

Vic. Don't let 's give any more parties. 



I haven't slept a wink, the servants are 
too disagreeable to live with ; I 've got a 
ripping headache and wish I were dead, 
or married. 

Botes. No such luck — I wish you were the 
latter — hand me my paper — and then I 'd 
take chambers and live at a club. 

Vic. Never! What would be the good 
then of all the smart friends you 're 
fishing for and that title you and Cyril 
have your hearts set on. 

Botes. Oh, damn the smart friends, — and 
the title this morning! 

(Enter Hallen, who gives Botes a card.) 

Hallen. Would like to see you, sir — im- 
portant. 

Botes. (Reading the card.) Mr. George 
Rudding, representing Streeter & Com- 
pany, Bond Street. 

Vic. (Crossly.) The jewelers. 

Hallen. He asked first for Mrs. Sheldon, 
but she 's gone out. He called yesterday 
for Mrs. Sheldon and she sent word she 
was out. And lie 's called before, sir. 

Botes. Well, tell him to call again within 
the hour, when Mrs. Sheldon will be in, 
and then if she won't see him, then I 
will. 

PIallen. Yes, sir. 

Vic. Hallen! 

Hallen". Yes, miss? 

Vic. Where are the letters? 

Hallen. Tliere are n't hany for you, miss. 

Vic. Aren't any? 

Hallen. No, miss. 

Vic. (Irritably.) 1 never heard of such 
a thing. 

Botes. Hallen. 

Hallen. Yes, sir? 

Botes. Call me a cab. 

Hallen. At once, sir? 

Botes. Well, w^ien did you suppose I 
wanted it — next week? 

Hallen. Excuse me, sir — but — 

Botes. 0, go to the devil! 

Hallen. Yes, sir! (Exits.) 

Vic. (Quickly and loudly.) Father! 

Botes. 0, leave me alone. Vic, you can't 
read a paper through in this house. 

(There is a pause during which Cyril en- 
ters, glum — he yawns — sits down. Botes 
and Vic yawn. Botes closes eyes and 
drops the paper on his knees.) 

Vic. (Leaning forward, staring vacantly,, 
with a dead voice.) Good morning 
Cyril. 



CLYDE FITCH 



Cyril. {To Vic.) Morning. (Yawns.) 

Morning, governor! 
Botes. Morning. 

{There is another pause — ViC yawns 
violently and rises with effort. She 
looks at Botes — then at Cyril.) 
Vic. mercy! are you going to smoke? 
I 've got a splitting headache. 

(Cyril looks at her, yawns again, and 
with the air of a martyr puts away 
the cigarette. As he slams the case 
the noise awakens Botes.) 
Cyril. {To Vic.) Selfish. {To Botes.) 
I say, old chap, do you mind pushing 
the bell, it 's nearer you. 
Botes. Yes, I do mind. 
Cyril. Vic, then, you push it — ^you 're up. 
Vic. Yes, but I 'm on this side of the 
room. 

(Cyril with difficulty rises, and rings 
the bell.) 

{Enter Hallen.) 

Hallen. Excuse me, sir — your cab is 

ready. 
Botes. Very good! 
Cyril. Hallen, fix me a bromo seltzer in 

the dining room and be quick. 
Hallen. Yes, sir. 
Botes. Fix two. 

Hallen. Yes, sir. {Exit.) 

Cyril. Lovely party! {There is a pause 

— all look crossly at him.) Let 's give 

another soon. 
Vic. Oh! Lord! 
Botes. Cyril ! 
Cyril. Yes. 
Botes. Cyril. 
Cyril. I answered you. 
Vic. He answered you. 
Botes. CjtII, don't you want to go to the 

bank for me? 
Cyril. What for? 
Botes. To stop payment on a cheque 

I 've been foolish enough to give this 

morning. 
Cyril. You 'd better go yourself, old boy, 

and learn a good lesson. (Botes, angry, 

looks at Cyril.) Good Lord, if you're 

going to be one of those cheque-givers 

in your old age Vic and I might as well 

throw up the game at once. 
Botes. You won't go? 
Cyril. {Angry.) No! Governor, I'm 

not going to spoil you. You want to age 

before your time. 
Botes. Humph ! Cheek ! 

{Enter Jo^ buoyant, gay and happy, she 



almost dances into the room and almost 
sings when 4he speaks.) 

Jo. Good morning, everybody ! Is n't it a 
lovely, lovely morning! 

{There are loud, bare exclamations 
from all.) 

Vic. Mercy ! 

Botes. Lord ! 

Cyril. Is it! 

{They all look up at her glumly and 
gaze in astonished silence.) 

Jo. Why! What's the matter? 

Vic. My dear, we 're all dead tired, and 
your spirits simply stagger us. 

Cyril. Not a blessed one of us has slept 
a wink. 

Jo. Nor have I. 

Vic. 0, my dear, did you toss about all 
night too? 

Jo. No, I think I sang straight through 
the whole night ! softly, of course, to my- 
self. 

Botes. {Rising.) Excuse me. 

Vic. With pleasure. 

(Botes gives her a look as he leaves 
the stage.) 

Cyril. That's exactly how I feel, except 
that I 've got a motor car inside my head. 
Now I Ve got to smoke ! 

Vic. Of course, Cyril, we are n't in love ! 

Jo. {To Vic.) Have you a headache, 
dear? 

Vic. I did have, but your happiness is 
curing it already. 

Jo. I love you, Vic! 

Vic. 0, do you! 

Jo. Yes ! You 're a perfect old darling ! 
I think Cyril's pretty nice too. Cyril, 
I 've never kissed you, but I think I will 
this morning. I feel fond of everybody ! 

Cyril. No, you don't — no, you don't — I 'm 
not up to kissing women this morning. 

Jo. You impertinent rascal! as if I were 
in earnest ! When I kiss you, you '11 
know it. 

Cyril. Hope so. 

Jo. If your father had given me half a 
chance I 'd have kissed him this morn- 
ing. 

Cyril. If you 'd kissed the Governor this 
morning he 'd have bit ! 

Jo. And aren't you going to congratu- 
late me? 

Cyril. I did this morning after the party, 
about six — before I went to bed — but 
you were sort of dotty and didn't know 
what was going on. 

Jo. Well, both of you congratulate me all 



(J94 



HER GREAT MATCH 



over again. I want to be sure I didn't 
dream it. 

Vic. {liishig and going to Jo — hugs her.) 
With all my heart! 

Jo. You darling! I really do love you 
awfully, Vic ! 

Cyril. Well, I congratulate him. There! 
There 's a pretty speech for you ! 

Jo. 0! If you think that's a "pretty 
speech" you ought to hear one of his! 
And now, haven't you an engagement, 
Cyril? 

Cyril. No. 

Jo. Not even with Countess Casavetti"? 

Cyril. No, it 's too early for her. Her 
theory is it 's the early worm that gets 
caught by the bird! 

Jo. Well, pretend you have an engage- 
ment and go out anyway! Won't you? 

Cyril. No, I 'm hanged if I Vill. 
{Yawns.) Why? 

Jo. Because! I want you to let me have 
this room to myself, like a duck! Please 
do! 

Cyril. Why don't you take the whole 
house! Last night you monopolized the 
Spooners' Corner! 

Vic. And I understand, didn't forget the 
electric button! 

Jo. Shh! {To Cyril.) Please, Cyril- 
he 's coming to see me in a few minutes. 

Cyril. Who? 

Jo. He! 

Cyril. Oh! My homage to your Royal 
Highness — and I have an engagement 
I 've just remembered with a bromo 
seltzer. 

Vic. lai go too! 

Jo. No, not yet, he 's not coming for half 
an hour. I want to talk to you alone. 
Do you mind? 

Vic. Of course I don't. 

Jo. Vic ! He 's just sent me a message ! 

Vic. Where is it? 

Jo. I won't tell. But he says he 's coming 
this morning to tell me a plan for our 
marriage. 

Vic. I wonder what it '11 be ? 

Jo. I don't know, but I trust him, and 
I 've cabled father before the servants 
were really awake. He must know by 
now. I finished with, "Jo's love on the 
Happiest Day of Her Life!" Dear 
father! And 0! Vic — {Running to 
her, hugging her again.) I'm very fond 
of you! {She kneels by ViC.) 

Vic. 0, Jo! {Laughing.) 

Jo. But there 's one I ^m more fond of, 
look. {Goes to conservatory door up at 



the right, pointing off into it.) Dear 
room — {Throwing in a kiss.) You know 
what happened when you all found us 
in the dark ! We had pushed the electric 
button and when we heard you coming 
we tried to push the button back, and it 
wouldn't budge! {Both laugh.) 

Vic. Cyril knew you and Prince Adolf 
were in there, and he slipped the connec- 
tion from the hall. 

{Enter Hallen.) 

Jo. {Laughing.) He ought to be spanked ! 
Hallen. The mail, miss. I brought 'em 

at once, seeing as you seemed so anxious. 
Vic. No, I wasn't anxious, Hallen — I 

was cross — 
Jo. Good morning, Hallen. Isn't it a 

lovely morning? 
Hallen. Yes, miss. 
Jo. And was n't it a beautiful party last 

night ? 
Hallen. Yes, miss. 
Jo. Wait, Hallen — I want to give you 

something — oh dear, I haven't got my 

purse-;^ Lend me something, Vic. Give 

me a pound. 
Vic. I have n't got it, my dear — I have 

nothing but a five pound note. 
Jo. Well, give me that. {Gives it to Hal- 
len. ) Hallen, there 's a little something 

for you. 
Hallen. What for, miss? 
Jo. You 've been so kind during our long 

visit, and you can keep the change. 
Hallen. Thank you, miss. This will 

come in very 'andy, now, miss. 
Jo. Will it, Hallen, why? 
Hallen. To buy a baby carriage with, 

miss. 
Vic. You extravagant creature! What 

in the world — 
Jo. Now, my dearest Vic, don't question 

me why I do anything today, come along ! 

What do you call that? 
Vic. What? 

Jo. {Pointing to the window.) That! 
Vic. a window! I call it a window! 
Jo. I thought you would! Well, I don't. 

I call it a picture-frame, because all I 

see in it is — 
Vic. {Laughing.) Really? All I see is 

out of doors. 
Jo. You have my sympathy. I suppose 

you call that a mirror and see yourself 

in it. 
Vic. Exactly. 
Jo. That only shows how vain you are. 

Another picture frame. I look in it and 



CLYDE FITCH 



695 



see nobody but him again. And what do 
you call that? 

(Vic looks at the door; Jo brings her 
down the center and points to the 
door at the left.) 

Vic. Another picture frame, I suppose! 

Jo. Not at all, that 's a door, thank good- 
ness, because it will open soon and he '11 
come in. {Taking the arm chair from 
the left, she faces it against wall at left.) 
And now, watch ! I 'm going to arrange 
the room. 

Vic. Why? What's the matter with the 
room? 

Jo. There 's a great deal the matter w^itli 
it for an engaged couple. For one thing, 
it's far too light. I wish Cyril had the 
sun on an electric button too. (ViC 
gets off the table.) Excuse me, dar- 
ling, — (Jo pulls Phe table up to mantel — 
Vic sits on the chair in the center. Jo 
comes to the arm chair in the center.) 
Get up ! This will be my chair, so ! 

Vic. Jo, I 'm so tired. 

Jo. 0, no! (She turns the chair around 
— Vic sits on the sofa.) After all, the 
sofa '11 be better. Come on, help me with 
the sofa. 

Vic. {Laughing, helps her — they w.ove 
sofa so that it faces the center.) My 
dear, you 're tearing the whole room to 
pieces — father '11 be furious, you know 
what an old maid he is. 

Jo. I can't help that ! That is to keep me 
from being an old maid. Now — {She 
moves the arm chair so that it faces the 
mantel.) I want to arrange it so that 
we '11 have to sit on the sofa. 

Vic. {Mischievously.) Why? {A pause.) 
Why? 

Jo. Well, when you're engaged, you'll 
know why, and meanwhile, you can guess. 
{She turns the arm chair to the wall.) 
Chairs are very unsociable things when 
you 're engaged. There ! 

{The chairs are all away to one side 
against the wall. Only the sofa is 
conveniently placed and it is quite 
by itself.) 

Vic. {Amused, looking around.) I don't 
think the room looks very well. 

Jo. As the Duchess said — "Handsome is 
as handsome does" — {As she does so, Jo 
pulls cushion away and puts it at the 
end of couch.) And this does very well 
for us, thank you. {She arranges the 
cushions at one end.) 0, my dear! 
What an awfully big sofa! This sofa I 
should call after instead of before ! This 



is the kind you would have around your 
silver wedding, for a family reunion! 
Goodness, it 's so long ! Wait a minute. 
More pillows! 

(Vic turns and watches her; she gets 
cushions from the settee. Vic 
laughs.) 

Vic. They don't match! 

Jo. Who cares! He and I do! That's 
all that 's necessary. {She places the 
pillows so they occupy at least one half 
of the sofa, leaving a very small place 
for them to sit down.) There! How's 
that? 

Vic. {As if crushed in seat.) The most 
uncomfortable seat I was ever in in my 
life! You can't breathe. 

Jo. My dear, who wants to breathe? 
You don't think about breathing. — Of 
course, it is rather crowdy now, it does 
make a difference whom you share it 
with. 

Vic. Why don't you sit on his lap and be 
done with it? 

Jo. Don't be vulgar ! Although I 'm not 
so sure I should mind that so awfully. 

Vic. {Laughing.) Well, I suppose such 
a thing has been done, even by a lady! 

Jo. 0, I know you think I 've lost my 
mind, but I have n't. It 's only my heart 
I 've lost, Vic, only my heart ! And I 
don't want to find it. You darling, I 
don't want to find it! 

Vic. {Pats her on the back.) 0, Jo. 

Hallen. 'Er Royal 'Ighness, the Duch- 
ess of Hohen'etstein. 

{They rise as the Duchess comes forward.) 

Vic. Jo. 

Jo. Oh, Vic. 

Duchess. I peg your pardons dat I come 
so unannounced — And I vas afraid too 
early! I see der servants have not yet 
made time for to re-arrange der rooms. 
(Jo turns to Vic and they laugh.) Eggs- 
cuse me! 

{Both the girls are confused.) 

Vic. We are glad to see you, ma'am, at 
any hour. 

Duchess. I haf asked for Mrs. Sheldon, 
but vas informed dat she vas out and 
ven my visit vas of der greatest im- 
portance and I haf put behind mein de- 
parture from London to come and ven 
it most concerns also Miss Sheldon — 
I haf thought it better to see her, wid- 
out Mrs. Sheldon. 

Jo. Yes, ma'am. 



696 



HER GREAT MATCH 



Vic. Then, if you will excuse me, ma'am — 

{Exit.) 

Duchess. As you please. 

Jo. Thank you. 

Duchess. Please all sit down. This is a 
dreadful pusiness. Ah, Ach! (Sighs.) 
Adolf loaf you so much. 

Jo. (Quietly.) I am very happy and 
very proud of that, madame. He loves 
me, I am sure, no more than I love him. 

Duchess. We haf talked many hours, him 
and me, and we haf both said peautiful 
things about loaf, and we haf three times 
sent dispatches at his fader — and now — 
I bring you goot news. 

Jo. (Rising, relieved.) 0! Thank you! 
— Thank you ! — Thank you ! 

Duchess. Yah! Adolf haf won me ofer 
to his side! Vere loaf vas in it, I vas 
always weak. I vas in loaf meinself 
once. Himmel, vith such a angel! 
Peautiful like a imache! He vas a sen- 
try outside our palace; plue eyes, one 
vas a leedle squinty but I liked dat ! We 
haf neffer spoke — aber^ — perhaps I haf 
told you dis pefore? 

Jo. Yes, but I am glad to hear you tell it 
now. Your love will make you kind to 
me. 

Duchess. Yah, for dat I haf my bruder 
told all possible, and mine last dispatch 
at him dis morning haf cost me one 
pound two shilling. And my bruder is 
goot— he haf give way. He is con- 
sented — 

Jo. (Overjoyed.) To our marriage! Of 
course, I knew he would ! 

Duchess. Yah! His Majesty will agree, 
tanks for his kind heart, to a morganatic 
marriage. 

Jo. (Rising.) No! No! No! No! 

Duchess. No? 

Jo. You mean for me to share Adolf 
with some other woman? Be half his 
wife, and half his mistress? 

Duchess. 0, you must not put dat so! 
Der morganatic wife of der late King 
Humbert of Italy, she haf been very 
happy. Queen Margaret nefer haf in- 
terfered with her in no way. She haf 
had her own palace, and haf lived her 
own life. 

Jo. No, no — never such a marriage for 
me! My home to be only half my hus- 
band's? His home all some other 
woman's? This woman who will share 
his life's work with him, and her chil- 
dren will be his heirs. 

Duchess. You '11 be made a countess — 



Jo. I don't care about that. 

Duchess. (Continues.) Your children 
will bear titles — 

Jo. It isn't that, Madame! You don't 
understand. I come from a dilferent 
country where we give all, when we love, 
and demand all back. I would n't shame 
my country, I would n't shame my father ! 
I wouldn't shame myself by accepting 
what you offer me. 

Duchess. We German wives do much 
more dan dat for our husbands. 

Jo. Yes, but your wives are their hus- 
bands' servants, we women at my home 
are our husbands' friends, we share every- 
thing with them — the happiness and sor- 
row, and even their work sometimes. At 
home we stand hand in hand, equal, the 
man and the woman — and that is the 
pride and joy of our lives. 

Duchess. But you cannot be Queen, my 
dear girl — no woman can who is not of 
royal blood, and it vas not only in our 
family — it vas so in all royal families in 
all the countries, dat is for why the 
morganatic marriage — 

Jo. No, no — don't talk to me any more 
about it. Excuse me, but I won't listen. 
I know you don't realize how I feel, I 
know you can't realize what marriage 
means to me — 

Duchess. What did you expect? 

Jo. I don't know — only I know I loved 
him, and I know he loved me, and I 
trusted him, and I do still. I have no 
desire to be a Queen! If I could love 
him more than I do, it would be if he 
weren't a prince, but nobody — like me! 
Then we could he happy nobodies to- 
gether ! 

Duchess. But you vas forgetting he viir 
be King some day. 

Jo. (Sits on left end of couch.) Must 
he reign? He has a brother! Suppose 
he wished to give it up? all up? 

Duchess. (Breathless.) What! You 
vould ask of him to give up the crown? 
To make dat sacrifice? 

Jo. Oh no, not if it 's a sacrifice. It 's 
only if he should prefer my love. 

Duchess. It isn't possible for Adolf to 
give up the throne — for dat his fader 
would nefer consent. 

Jo. Isn't Adolf his own master? Any 
boy of twenty-one at home — 

Duchess. You cannot bring your Amer- 
ican customs into our old countries, Miss 
Sheldon, and the sooner you got that idea 
out from your head, it vas better! The 



CLYDE FITCH 



697 



family of der Hohenhetstein must all 
obey der king who is deir head — 

Jo. If I can't share alone Prince Adolf's 
life, then even if it breaks my heart, your 
Royal Highness, I can't help it — he must 
make his choice. 

Duchess. Aber, dere is no choice, I haf 
now come to offer you de great honor 
of dis marriage as I haf said. 

Jo. What you call an honor, I call an in- 
sult. 

Duchess. {Rising.) Parding! 

Jo. Forgive me, but my life's happiness 
is at stake, and I must tell tiie truth. I 
could n't bear it, Madame — if it were n't 
that you come from the King, not from 
Prince Adolf. 

Duchess. I come from hose. 

Jo. {With a cry from her throat.) No. 

Duchess. Eggscoose. 

Jo. Forgive me — but — 

Duchess. I come from His Majesty and 
Prince Adolf. 

Jo. No. I can't believe this is the plan 
Prince Adolf wrote me of this morning. 

Duchess. So ! 

Jo. This is his plan, you tell me? 

Duchess. It is. 

Jo. {Stronger.) Then, Madame, I don't 
wonder Prince Adolf sent you rather 
than come himself. 

Duchess. So. 

Jo. Yes. Because I tell you again that 
what you offer me insults me. 

Duchess. Insults you? 

Jo {In angry tears.) Yes, Madame. 
Please tell him what I say. So that at 
least I needn't say it all again to him. 
Excuse me. 

{She curtseys in front of the Duchess 
and leaves the stage crying.) 

Duchess. {Watching her off.) Ach! 
Gott! Even in tears she vas just so 
peautiful as efer! When I weep I vas 
nefer peautiful, I always haf to blow 
my nose. 

(Hallen, entering.) 

Hallen. 'Is Royal 'Ighness. 

Duchess. Mr. Botes? Was he in der 

house, yet? 
Hallen. No, your Royal ^Ighness. 
Duchess. When he was in, please say I 

would see him. 

{The Prince enters. Hallen hows.) 

Prince. {Eagerly.) Well, well? 

{The Duchess motions to Hallen to 
leave.) 



Prince. Well— 

Duchess. Acli. My poor boy. 

Prince. What? 

Duchess. Refuses. 

Prince. Refuses? 

Duchess. Yah. It is wonderful. 

Prince. Aber. 

Duchess. {In resentful surprise.) And 
mit anger. 

Prince. Anger? 

Duchess. Yah. Anger at me, — and ex- 
cooses. 

Prince. For why? 

Duchess. Dat I can't made oud. It vas 
all talk aboud American women and laws, 
and such. I don't suppose dey can haf 
such marriages in America and she don't 
understand. 

Prince. Haf you explained mit her we 
would be married bose by der Church 
and by der Law also? 

Duchess. She haf n't listened. She talk 
about her own laws. 

Prince. But haf you tell her about King 
Humbert and about Arch Duke Ferdi- 
nand of Austria and the Countess 
Chokk? 

Duchess. She say dat make no difference. 

Prince. 0, dat is sure. She haf the 
wrong idea. {Crossing to the bell.) 
She haf got the wrong idea. I vill see 
her meinself. It vas sure she don't un- 
derstand. — How it vas different vith 
mein country and her country. Perhaps 
she don't know how she vill be really 
mein missus, mein truly wife. No mat- 
ter vich vas mein Queen. And by Gott ! 
when she was not possible to be Queen 
in Eastphalia, I vill have me no Queen 
when I vas King. 

Duchess. Your fader, he vill have some- 
thing to say to dat; you must make a 
Queen for der country. 

{Enter Hallen.) 

Prince. Please, I will see Miss Sheldon. 
{HAi^hEi^i bows and leaves.) Yah. When 
she see how I loaf her and dat I will 
nefer loaf any but she — nobody all my 
life but she, she will consent, not? If 
she like, I vill go me to New York and 
be married, or in Chikygo, or any- 
where in a church or hotel. Only as she 
vill be my wife. 

Duchess.' {Speaking in German.) Don't 
you see her before me — go into the con- 
servatory, and I will send her in to you. 

Prince. {Speaking in German.) Yes, 
that will be better, 0, my dear Aunt, I 



w, 



698 




S2 



HER GREAT MATCH 



love her. {Kissing iTer on each cheek.) 
I love her better than all the world — she 
must be my wife. 
Duchess. {Hearing Jo coming.) Pst. 
{She motions him off and he leaves. 
There is a moment's pame and then 
Jo enters from the left slowly, very 
serious and dignified.) 
Jo. {She stops, resenting what she thinks 
is a trick.) Hallen told me his Royal 
Highness wished to see me. 
Duchess. Dat vas right. He vas in the 
conservatory. 

(Jo slowly goes toward it; as she 
reaches the center of the stage the 
Duchess speaks again and Jo 
stops.) 
Duchess. He says you don't haf under- 
stand me. 
Jo. {Hopefully.) Yes? 
Duchess. Yes. He says it was not what 

you haf think. 
Jo. {Her face and manner lighting up.) 

I knew it! I knew it! 
Duchess. He vill himself make you un- 
derstand. 

{Motions her to go. Jo, with a total 
change of mariner, walk, hearing, 
hurries, almost runs, to the door of 
the conservatory and off the stage, 
hut is seen to close the door mean- 
ingly and smile through the glass to 
the Duchess. As the Duchess ap- 
parently listens. Botes enters.) 
Botes. {Apologizing.) I am so sorry — 
Duchess. Ssh! {Her finger on her lips.) 
They are in dere. {Pointing.) 

Botes. {Whispers hack.) Who? 
Duchess. Die two turtle doves. 

{Chuckling.) 
Botes. Oh. Miss Sheldon and — 
Duchess. Yah. His Majesty is agreed 

to a morganatic marriage. 
Botes. {Delighted on his own account.) 

Good. 
Duchess.' But she haf refused dat. 
Botes. {Forgetting himself.) Refused 
him! But she can't! She's bound her- 
self to marry the Prince. 
Duchess. So? 

Botes. I will make her accept Prince 
Adolf, ma'am, and assure you I can do 
it. 
Duchess. (Bising and speaking impres- 
sively.) Mr. Botes. 
Botes. Yes, Madame? 
Duchess. Don't do dat. It will pe one 
real blessing if she refuse him. I tink 
§he haf peculiar American ideas about 



tings, as shall not pe good for Adolf. 
So if he shall not inllooence her now yet 
to accept him, it vas best all around dat 
he gif her up. 

Botes. {Moving to the right as if eagerly 
listening.) But she will never let him 
go. (The Duchess turns.) I know she 
intends to marry the Crown Prince. 
{The Duchess sits on the couch, motion- 
ing him to sit down also.) Thank you. 
{He sits heside her on the couch.) And 
of course she understands she can only 
do so morganatically. Her mother told 
me as much. She cabled her father this 
morning she was going to marry the 
Crown Prince. 

{The Prince enters slowly, hows hack 
through the ojjen doorway, closes 
the door and comes forward. Botes 
rises.) 

Botes. Your Royal Highness — 

Prixce. She haf refused me also. 

Duchess. For why? 

Prince. She say she haf told you, and it 
vas for you already to make it not neces- 
sary for her to say de same ting ofer 
again to me. 

Duchess. She haf explain to you too dat 
you insult — 

Prince. {With his teeth set, and evi- 
dently going over the scene in mind.) 
Yah. 

Duchess. {Angry.) She haf said alles 
dat she haf said to me? 

Prince. I tink she haf said alles and more 
also. 

Duchess. {Angry.) She haf no right. 

Prince. Pardon, meine liebe Tante, she 
haf all der right. 

Duchess. What haf you answered? 

Prince. Nuttings. ^ 

Duchess. {Astounded.) Nuttings? 

Prince. Yah. {He turns to the Duch- 
ess.) Because all dat she haf said was 
damn true. 

Duchess. Adolf! 

Prince. Yah. I offer to her anything, 
except but everything. Alles or nut- 
tings. Aunt Caroline, I vas ashamed 
for meinself. 

Duchess. But it vas not your fault, mein 
dear boy. You cannot help dat you 
vas der Crown Prince and she vas no- 
body. 

Prince. Now also ven it vas too late, I 
see me. I could refuse to be King. 

Duchess. Adolf ! 

Prince. What is dat to me widout her? 
Nuttings, 



CLYDE FITCH 



699 



Duchess. Nefer. Your fader and your 
country vill not permit dat. 

Prince. I loaf mein fader and mein coun- 
try, but I loaf her more. She tink I haf 
insulted her. She say she loaf me not 
no more. I haf insult her. Do you 
know vat is the truth, Aunt Caroline? 

Duchess. Vas? 

Prince. I loaf her more dat she haf re- 
fused me now what I haf offered her. 
Efen mit all mein stupidness I can know 
now how I shall haf touglit less of her, 
efen withought knowing dat, when she 
haf said yes to me just now. 

Duchess. You tink dat because you are 
in loaf, aber — 

Prince. Kein Aber. I shall better haf 
give up mein crown and mein fader, 
throne and alles. Alles. Tonder blazes ! 

Duchess. {Rising.) Adolf! Mein Gott! 

Botes. The attractions of your title, sir. 

Prince. You tink dat? I don't. I haf 
lesson what is worth more den alles to 
me one million times double. I hate de 
whole King pusiness for dat it haf come 
between she and me, and before I get 
through mit him yet I will kick him alles 
out. Egscoose me. (Exit.) 

{The Duchess and Botes look at each 
other a moment.) 

Duchess. 0, this vas dreadful, Botes, 
yah! 

Botes. Yah ! 

Duchess. And he shall be able to do it, 
also. 

Botes. Yah! Yah! 

Duchess. He was always too republican. 
He haf made such trouble for dat mit 
his fader, mit his all too free notions. 
You haf said, Mr. Botes, you haf influ- 
ence mit her. You tink you can per- 
suade her to the morganatic marriage ? 

Botes. I feel sure I can. 

Duchess. {Goes to Mm.) Mr. Botes, 
you do dat, and I gif you my word 
anything you vould ask, possible, my 
bruder shall do for you. 

Botes. King George, ma'am, could, if he 
would, satisfy the chief ambition of my 
life. 

Duchess. So? What is dat. {As Botes 
hesitates.) Speak out! Speak out! 

Botes. I want a Barony, ma'am, not only 
for myself, but for my son's sake. 

Duchess. Goot ! You haf done much al- 
ready for Eastphalia. I can safely gif 
you my promise — if you will bring about 
dis marriage as we want it. 

Botes Yes? 



Duchess. Der honor what you want will 
come yours! 

Botes. I will see Miss Sheldon at once. 

Duchess. I go immediate — Gott in Him- 
mel, Mr. Botes, dis loaf! It makes in- 
digestion of all our senses. I know by 
mein own experience, and you too, not? 

Botes. {Slie takes his arm, humorously.) 
Me too, ma'am ; I 've suffered something 
dreadful ! 

Duchess. {Laughs.) I thought so. 

Thank Gott we are not any more so 

young as mein nephew was. That would 

be dreadful. {They exeunt.) 

{The moment the room is empty, Jo's 

face is seen stealing a look through 

the glass doors. She enters. There 

are traces of tears and real suffering 

on her face. She also seems to he 

thinking deeply. As she sits down, 

Vic enters quickly with an eager, 

happy curiosity.) 

Yic. I heard him go downstairs! Well, 
Jo! {She stops on seeing Jo's expres- 
sion.) 0, mv dear old girl — did she tell 
the truth after all? 

Jo. Yes. 0, Vic! {She hursts into tears 
and sohs through the following speech.) 
I 'm so unhappy ! Why did he make me 
own I loved him! Why did you let me 
love him? I knew in the beginning it 
was impossible, but somehow after I lost 
my heart I lost my head ! I 'm so un- 
happy — 0, Vic! 

Vic. Dear old Jo ! I 'm so sorry. Did 
you tell him what you told his aunt ? 

Jo. Yes. Every word. 

Vic. And what did he say? 

Jo. Nothing. He just looked at me with- 
out speaking. I wanted him to speak — 
to take back what he said or say some- 
thing else — anything else — I don't know 
what — only I wanted to make him speak. 
So I said "Goodbye.'^ Still he didn't 
answer. And then I told him I didn't 
love, him any longer. And I meant it 
then — at least I thought I did — and still 
he didn't speak — but just bowed and 
left me. 

Vic. The brute! 

Jo. No! It's I've been a fool. What 
did I expect? Only, Vic. 0, Vic— I 
let myself go. And now, even while 
I feel insulted at what he 's asked me, I 
love him. I love him still, Vic. Can't 
you shame me out of it? 

Vic. Dear old girl. I 'm so sorry. 

Jo. Only what '11 I do, Vic? Vic? 
What '11 I do ? And only this morning 



700 



HER GREAT MATCH 



I cabled my father and said it was the 
happiest day of my life. 

Vic. {Angry.) Jo, you must try and 
realize Prince Adolf really could n't love 
you as he should or he wouldn't offer 
you the sort of thing he did. 

Jo. {II er pride coming to her rescue, he- 
gins to recover a little.) Yes, that's 
true, that's true, isn't it? How dared 
he? How dared he? How could he? 
Say that to me again, Vic, Make me 
believe it! Keep on telling me! 

Vic. You would be pointed at always. 

Jo. Yes, I know. I ought to hate him, 
hate him! Why don't I? Why can't 
we choose whom we shall love and whom 
we shall hate! Life would be so much 
easier. I will never see him again, any- 
way. Never. Not unless he begs me to. 
And I '11 never listen to one word of love 
from him again so long as I live. Un- 
less — he asks my pardon and owns his 
way is wrong. 0, I 'm a fool wjth all 
these unlesses — the thing is finished! It 
must be! 

Vic. I wish I could help you, dear.' 

Jo. You 're so good to me, Vic. {Bis- 
ing. ) But I 'm going home to my fa- 
ther. His girl Jo is homesick for her 
father. You understand, don't you, 
dear? I want to go home. 

{Enter Botes.) 

Botes. {Angrily.) Well, I must say. 

Vic. Yes, father. 

Jo. Yes, Mr. Botes. 

Botes. Well, Miss Jo! You've made a 
nice mess of things. 

Jo. What? 

Botes. What the devil do you mean? 

Vic and Jo. {Together.) I don't under- 
stand you! 

Botes. Don't understand me? 

Jo. No. What do I mean by what? 

Botes. Why, refusing Prince Adolf or 
pretending to — 

Jo. "Pretending to"! 

Botes. Yes, after all the manoeuvering to 
get him? 

Vic. Father, you must n't say that. 

Jo. Mr. Botes. 

Botes. Vic, you 've been taken in by your 
friend here. Miss Jo got him where she 
wanted him, up to his eyes in love with 
her. 

Jo. That is — not true! 

Vic. Of course it 's not ! 

Botes. Bah ! Then she worked on my 
fool ambition, holding in my face her 



marriage, mind you, to get £40,000 out 
of me! And now she wants to turn 
around and pretend she won't have the 
Prince at his price! What's the game? 

Jo. Vic, do you know what your father 
means ? 

Botes. I mean the whole business looks 
to me like a pretty cunning scheme to 
get £40,000 for nothing! But I 'm a 
little of a tartar myself, when it comes 
to scheming. Are you in earnest in re- 
fusing the Prince? 

Jo. I am. 

Botes. And what about my £40,000? 

Vic. Father, you 're behaving brutally. 
What are you complaining of? Has the 
Prince borrowed money of you? 

Botes. No, the Prince hasn't. {To Jo.) 
What about the agreement you signed? 

Jo. What agreement? 

Botes. You '11 marry the Prince^ or you 'II 
never g€t a penny of that £40,000 in 
spite of my cheque ! I 've attended to 
that this morning. 

Jo. What cheque? 

Botes. And have you forgotten the note 
vou gave me last evening? 

Vic. What note? 

Jo. I don't know what was in that note! 

Botes. {Very satirically.) Really! Then 
vou didn't sign it, I suppose? 

Jo": No! 

Botes. No! 0, come. Miss Jo! Vic's 
going to know the whole truth from me 
sooner or later, so you may as well be 
frank now. (Mrs. Sheldon opens the 
door and enters.) Either you marry the 
Prince and carry out your agreement, or 
else — 

Jo. What agreement, Mr. Botes? Mother 
Lena ! 

Botes. Perhaps Mrs. Sheldon may per- 
suade you to be frank when she knows 
the alternative. 

Mrs. S. What are you telling Jo, Mr. 
Botes? 

Botes. First let me tell you that Miss Jo 
has refused Prince Adolf! 

Mrs. S. Jo! That can't be true! 

Jo. The marriage is impossible. 

Botes. And what about my money? 

Mrs. S. That is a private matter, Mr. 
Botes. 

Botes. Not any longer it is n't ! It 's 
going to be as public as I can make it. 

Jo. Mother Lena, Avhat does he mean 
about his money? What does it all 
mean? 

Botes. It means just what I said — that 



CLYDE FITCH 



701 



you are a couple of swindlers. {Turn- 
ing to Vic. ) That 's what it means, Vic. 

Vic. Father ! 

Jo. What do you mean? 

Mrs. S. How dare you? 

Botes. Your friend and her mother en- 
tered into an agreement with me that on 
Miss Jo's marriage with Prince Adolf — 
I was to get a Barony in exchange 
for — 

Jo. Mother Lena ! 

Mrs. S. You gave me your word to keep 
this private between you and me! 

Jo. Keep what? Keep what between you 
two? 

Botes. And I kept it private till she 
broke her word with me. 

Jo. What word? 

Botes. Your word to marry Prince 
Adolf! 

Mrs. S. Mr. Botes! 

Jo. I never gave you any such word! 

Botes. No, of course! You didn't give 
me anything last night! 

Mrs. S. Mr. Botes! 

Jo. I told you I didn't know what was 
in that envelope. Mrs. Sheldon gave it 
to me to — 

Mrs. S. Mr. Botes, if you will leave me 
alone with Jo — 

Botes. And you said you didn't sign it, 
either ! 

Mrs. S. Jo, don't answer! 

Jo. No, I did not sign it. 

Vic. Jo 's told you already, Father — 

Botes. How is that, Mrs. Sheldon? 

Mrs. S. I must ask you either to leave me 
alone with Jo, or else she and I will 
leave you! 

Jo. No, I won't leave this room till I 've 
found out something of what all this 
means. 

Botes. Excuse me. This all can end 
right here if Miss Jo will say that she 
has reconsidered and will marry Prince 
Adolf as he wishes! {Pause.) 

Mrs. S. Say it, Jo, for God's sake, say it! 

Jo. No! 

Botes. Then let me tell you both that I 've 
been to my bank since I gave Mrs. Shel- 
don that cheque and I 've stopped pay- 
ment on it. 

Mrs. S. {Beside herself.) What! You 
cheat ! ! You — 

Jo. {Seizing her arm and speaking very 
sternly.) Mother Lena, what does this 
mean? Tell me the truth! 

Mrs. S. {Looking at her with an appeal- 
ing gaze and trying to give her a hint.) 



Tell him that you signed the agreement 
and that you '11 stand by it. 

Jo. No ! You know I did n't ! 

Mrs. S. {Turning to Botes.) Mr. Botes, 
leave us alone, please — she doesn't want 
to speak the truth before your daughter! 

Vic. Jo! 

Jo. {Shaking her head slowly and then 
turning to Botes.) Mr. Botes, will you 
please leave me alone with Mrs. Sheldon 
for a few minutes? 

Vic. {Quickly and earnestly.) Yes, fa- 
ther, you must. I ask it too. 

Botes. {After a moment's hesitation.) 
Very well. My daughter and I will wait 
in the other room. The whole matter 
was your own plan ; and now it 's 
started, you 've both got to see it 
through. If you want that cheque of 
mine made good, Miss Jo marries the 
Prince. {Going to conservatory on the 
right.) Vic, I'll show you this. 

(Vic goes to Botes afid he shows her 
the agreement which he takes from 
his pocket.) 

Vic. What? 

Botes. The paper Miss Jo gave me — then 
things will be clearer to you. 

{Exeunt Vic and Botes.) 

Jo. Now quickly, what does all this 
mean? What have you done? 

Mrs. S. I am in desperate straits for 
money — and a Mr. Wilton came over 
here to save me — to save us — all, from 
a terrible scandal. 

Jo. Scandal ! 

Mrs. S. To get $250,000 from me. 

Jo. Why, why? 

Mrs. S. {Ignoring her question.) I saw 
how things were drifting between you 
and Prince Adolf, and in desperation 
I made this plan! I managed to 
wheedle £40,000 out of Mr. Botes on the 
strength of a barony which you are to 
get for him on your marriage to Prince 
Adolf. You know that would be the 
easiest thing in the world for you. 

Jo. It 's hard for me to follow you. I 
can't realize. I still don't understand. 

Mrs. S. You will marry him, won't you, 
Jo? 

Jo. But why do you need such a sum of 
money ? 

Mrs. S. We have n't time to discuss that 
now. You will marry him, Jo? 

Jo. And that paper — what was it? 

Mrs. S. An agreement between you and 
Mr. Botes. I signed your name to it. 

Jo. {Outraged — rising.) You dared! 



702 



HER GREAT MATCH 



Mrs. S. Jo! You'll say you signed it, 
won't you? 

Jo. No! 

Mrs. S. But you '11 marry Prince Adolf, 
won't you? 

Jo. No ! No ! You 've made it more im- 
possible than ever. 

Mrs. S. But say you '11 marry him, just 
say so — till we get this money safe in 
the hands of the bank at home. 

Jo. {Looking at her in horror.) No! No! 

Mrs. S. {Rer fear and excitement mount- 
ing.) But if payment on Mr. Botes' 
cheque is stopped, I '11 go — to prison. 

Jo. {Horror-struck, breaks awaij from 
Mrs. S.) What more have you done? 

Mrs. S. Never mind — I tell you I '11 go to 
prison ! 

Jo. {Pause, looking at her quietly.) 
Well?— 

Mrs. S. Jo! {She insinuates deter- 
minedly.) I won't go alone! 

Jo. {Looking at her after a moment, 
startled.) What do you mean? 

Mrs. S. Your father will go with me. 

Jo. No! No! 

Mrs. S. You must say that signature is 
yours, and carry out this agreement. 

Jo. No, no, I can't, less than ever now, 
I tell you! There must be some way at 
home to get this money? 

Mrs. S. Do you think I 've not tried every 
way? I owe money everywhere. At a 
breath of trouble, we '11 be swamped here 
by a score of people I 'm in debt to. 

Jo. You don't deserve to be helped. 

Mrs. S. O, I know you wouldn't do it 
for me. But for your father. 

Jo. He is n't responsible in any way for 
what you 've done. 

Mrs. S. I 've borrowed money illegally, 
and as much in his name as my own. It 
was easy enough for me to get your fa- 
ther to sign any paper I asked him to. 
He always took my word for what the 
paper was. 

Jo. Yes, he had faith in you. He loved 
you. Poor father! 

Mrs. S. He can't escape being punished, 
if you don't do as I say. 

Jo. No, no, I can't believe that! 

Mrs. S. You will believe it! When it's 
too late to help ! Will you let him go 
to prison? (Jo simply stares at her. 
There is a pause.) He will go! But I 
have my chance, and I '11 take it ! 

Jo. What do you mean? 

Mrs. S. Your fatlier is there, they can 
arrest him any minute, but I 'm over 



here and if you let the crash come, be- 
fore they can get the papers, I 'II be out 
of reach in Belgium, where there 's no 
extradition treaty. 

Jo. You 've even looked that up ! 

Mrs. S. Yes! 

Jo. Oh! But my instinct was right that 
kept me from loving you. You came 
into our lives when my father and I were 
the happiest couple in the world! Why 
did you come, why? Why! Of course, 
I know, to shield yourself behind my 
father's reputation, to trade on his love! 
To make him a cat's paw — to sacrifice 
him, body and soul, if necessary, to save 
your mean, contemptible self! You 
ought to crawl and beg at my father's 
feet for a crumb of forgiveness which 
you don't deserve to get. You traitor — ■ 
to everything and everybody! 

Mrs. S. What are you going to do? 

Jo. {Very quietly.) Of course I'm go- 
ing to save my father. 

Mrs. S. {Excited and eager — bending 
over the couch.) How? 

{There is a long pause while Jo stares 
straight ahead of her.) 

Mrs. S. How? 

Jo. By any sacrifice that 's necessary. 

Mrs. S. Jo! You'll do it? 

Jo. {Rising and drawing away in disgust 
and almost fear of her.) Don't! Don't! 
{Calls.) Mr. Botes! 

(Botes and Victoria enter.) 

Jo. Mr. Botes? 

Botes. Yes. 

Jo. It is true you have stopped payment 
on the cheque you gave Mrs. Sheldon? 

Botes. It is. 

Jo. And is there no other way to pei^- 
suade you to let us have that money, 
than the way you told us of just now? 
{He shakes his head.) If I will go into 
any sort of service I can get, governess, 
companion, secretary, into a shop, any- 
thing — and every cent outside my bare 
living you shall get ! 

Vic. Jo'! 

Botes. No ! 

Vic. Father ! 

Botes. No ! 

Jo. Well, I accept. 

Botes. {Taking out a paper.) Acknowl- 
edge to my daughter you gave me this 
paper, and give her your word you '11 
stand by it. 

Jo. Give it to me. 

{She reads the paper.) 



CLYDE FITCH 



703 



Vic. {Going to Jo and putting her hand 
on Jo's shoulder.) You can't do it, Jo! 
You know you can't ! 

Jo. {To Vic.) Yes, I can. {Then 
turning to Botes.) I signed this — and 
gave it to you, and I '11 stand by it. 

(Vic takes the paper — reads it.) 

Botes. Good ! Write a note to Prince 
Adolf asking him to call tliis afternoon, 
that you have reconsidered. 

Jo. Yes, but first you must give your 
word of honor to your daughter that you 
will make your cheque good today. 

Botes. Certainly. 

Vic. Father! 

Botes. I give you my word, Vic, to make 
good today the cheque I gave Mrs. 
Sheldon. (Jo sits and ivrites. Botes 
and Vic speak in lowered tones aside.) 
What do you think of your friend now, 
Vic? 

Vic. She did n't sign that paper ! 

Botes. What do you mean? 

Vic. It 's all written in her mother's 
hand; Jo didn't sign it. 

Botes. Well, she 's going to live up to it. 
That 's all that 's really necessary. 

Vic. I couldn't tell you, father, how 
shamefully I think you 're behaving. 
Let them have the money. 

Botes. What! And let the whole thing 
go just as I 've got what I want in my 
grasp! You talk like a — well — like a 
woman, Vic. Ask Cyril what he says. 

Vic. It 's shameful ! That 's all — shame- 
ful. Jo! 

Botes. {To Jo.) What have you writ- 
ten? No more tricks! 

Jo. {Handing the paper to ViC.) Read 
it aloud. 

Vic. {Reading.) Come this afternoon at 
five — if you still want me — I will be the 
sort of wife you wish. Josephine Shel- 
don. 

(Vic gives the note to Botes with a 
look of contempt.) 

Botes. That 's something like it, and 
there 's no going back on that, eh ? 

Jo. No! 

Botes. It 's good business all around. 
He gets what he wants, you get w^iat 
you want, and I get what I want, and 
all 's well that ends well. 

Jo. Wait one minute, Mr. Botes. 

Botes. Yes. 

Jo. Suppose Prince Adolf should alter 
his mind and not want me now, even at 
his own price! 

Botes. Humph! I'll risk that! 



Jo. You see, I'm not willing for him to 
marry me blindfolded. When he comes 
this afternoon I intend to tell him all 
the truth ! 

Botes. {Turning to her.) What! 

Jo. I intend to tell him wliy 1 We changed 
my mind! Tell him of our agreement; 
tell him for just how much he 's buying 
me, and then, if he still wants the bar- 
gain, I 'm his. 

Botes. That 's against the whole spirit of 
the agreement ! 

Jo. But it 's within the letter of it. 

Botes. Even then there 's nothing legally 
binding in the letter of it. 

Jo. Yes, but I 've made it with "Word of 
Honor Botes" ! 

Botes. It 's a damn trick. 

Jo. Every business is full of tricks, ours 
is n't different from the average ! 
Whether we lose, you and I, our Prince 
and our bargain, you won't lose your 
money in the end, for I tell you tliat my 
father and I will repay that cheque to 
you — somehow, some time, I don't know 
how — and from today on, I have only 
one purpose in my life and that is to 
repay you, and I will. 

{Enter Hallen, who gives a cable to Jo, 
wJto opens and reads it.) 

Hallen. a cable for you, miss. {To 
Botes.) The same man from Streeter's 
again, sir. 

Botes. {Turning his hack to the audience 
—to Mrs. S.) For you! 

Mrs. S. I won't see him. 

Botes. Then I will! {Turning to Hal- 
LEN.) Send this by hand at once — 
{Exit Hallen.) And you won't agree, 
Jo, not to tell your story to Prince 
Adolf? 

Jo. No. 

Botes. No? The Prince is coming at 
five — will you meet me here at half past 
four — 

Jo. Yes. 

Botes. Vic, you come with me, I want to 
hear what this man from Streeter's has 
to say. (Botes exits by the door, Vie 
following him slowly.) — and perhaps 
your friend will find I have a trick to 
take hers. 

(Jo bows her head, too full of emotion 
to trust herself to speak.) 

Mrs. S. Jo! {Coming to the back of the 
couch where Jo is sitting. Jo moves 
away from her.) Jo! 



704 



HER GREAT MATCH 



Jo. {Rises — her voice broken with sobs.) 
Go away ! Go away ! 

(Mrs. S. looks at her a moment^ and 

then leaves the stage. Jo hears the 

door shut. She lifts the cable, rises 

and reads it again.) 

Jo. "Great news for your devoted father! 

Happy congratulations and God bless 

my girl Jo on the happiest day of her 

life!" 



ACT FOURTH. 

(The Scene is the same as in Act Third, 
later on the same day. Victoria is sit- 
ting at a table as Hallen comes in.) 

Hallen. Your father is coming now, miss. 
Vic. Very well, H alien. 

{Enter Botes.) 

Botes. Tell Miss Jo I want her here. 
{Exit Hallen.) You want me, Vic? 

Vic. I want to know if you have kept your 
promise and made Mrs. Sheldon's note 
good ? 

Botes. Yes, and your friend must live np 
to her side of the bargain. 

Vic. Are you really going to hold Jo to 
her word 1 

Botes. Yes. 

Vic. Jo is lending herself to this abom- 
inable business of yours to protect some- 
one else, I know. If I only had some 
money of my own ! 

Botes. Well, you have n't. I 'm too good 
a business man for that. 

Vic. It is heartless and brutal of you. 

Botes. Hold on! after all I'm your fa- 
ther. 

Vic. {Almost breaking down, but still an- 
gry.) I know it, and I'm ashamed of 
you. 

Botes. That's enough. 

Vic. I won't live here with you if you do 
this. 

Botes. Please yourself. 

Vic. But it 's a disgraceful marriage. He 
is n't worthy of Jo or he would n't ask it 
of her. That sort of man will tire of her 
in a year and marry some princess, and 
where will poor Jo be? It's too dread- 
ful. 

Botes. It 's her own fault, if she does n't 
hold him. And anyway, it 's a good 
enough marriage for a scheming 
woman, — 



Vic. She's not a scheming woman. 
{Enter Jo.) 

Jo. Yes, Mr. Botes'? 

Botes. Ah, I 'm glad you 've come. Mrs. 
Sheldon 's not satisfied with running up a 
bill with Streeter's for several thousand 
pounds, and another with the Panchard 
people, but she 's been buying outrage- 
ously on credit, my credit, at half a dozen 
other shops. 

Jo. But surely she means to pay. 

Botes. What with? So far as I can 
make out neither of you have a penny. 

Jo. I have my own letter of credit, but 
of course in face of any such amount, it 's 
nothing. 

Botes. I can't have Mrs. Sheldon arrested 
for debt here in my house. That alone 
might upset this marriage. So I 've told 
my lawyer for the present I'll be re- 
sponsible — for the present, you under- 
stand. Unless you carry out your threat 
and tell Prince Adolf everything. Do 
that and Mrs. Sheldon can be arrested 
and welcome. 

{Enter Cyril.) 

Cyril. {Giving Jo a note. Jo sits on 
sofa. ) 1 say, Jo, here 's a note I found 
on the hall table for you. The gov- 
ernor's left word you and he weren't to 
be interrupted — but that 's nonsense. I 
won't have the governor putting on such 
airs. I noticed a royal crown on the en- 
velope — a love letter — and he only saw 
you this morning. Rather wearing that, 
don't you think? {Exit.) 

Jo. It 's from Prince Adolf. He did n't 
go to his hotel from here, and has only 
just received my note. He writes to say- 
that he refuses to consider the — 

Botes. What ! 

Jo. He says he withdraws his offer of mar- 
riage and is following his note at once to 
explain. 

Botes. But good God! Then the whole 
thing's up! 

Jo. I hope so. 

Botes. Vic, will you leave me alone with 
your friend, please? The Prince will be 
here in about twenty minutes. 

Vic. No. 

Jo. {Rising and taking ViC to the door.) 
Don't be afraid. I 've got to fight this 
battle out by myself and I might as well 
begin now, 

Vic. Whatever you do, Jo, I am with you. 

Jo. Thank you. {Exit Vic. ) 



CLYDE FITCH 



705 



Botes. Now, why has Prince Adolf 
changed his mind like this? 

Jo. I will find out perhaps when he comes 
this afternoon. 

Botes. You seem pleased. 

Jo. I don't believe there ever was a woman 
so happy to be refused by the man she 
loves. In spite of all the horrors of this 
day, in spite of all the trouble I know I 
must still fight through — in spite of the 
fact that these very troubles make a mar- 
riage even more impossible than it was 
before! Still, I am happy! 

Botes. Why ? 

Jo. You could n't understand. 

Botes. Why nof? {After a pause,) 
Why not? 

Jo. Because you're too selfish. Because 
you 're too wrapt up in getting every- 
thing you want for yourself at any sacri- 
fice! Because you're too senseless to 
other people's sufferings to sympathize 
with anyone's joys but your own. You 
belong to the eye for an eye and tooth for 
a tooth school. You can't understand 
how this note means to me, that after all, 
he really loves me. 

{Enter Hallen.) 

Hallejst. Mr. Botes, may I speak with you 

aside a moment, please? 
Botes. What is it? {Goes to Hallen. 

Hallen ivliispers aside to Botes. Botes 

starts in great surprise.) What! Miss 

Jo, do you know that your mother has 

run away? 
Jo. Run away? 

Botes. Yes, run away — sneaked otf. 
Jo. It can't be true. {Exit.) 

Botes. {To Hallen.) How did you find 

it out? 
Hallen. Her maid told Miss Botes' maid, 

hin confidence, as it were, but Maggie got 

scared, and let it hout. 
Botes. Does she know where she 's gone ? 
Hallen. She has reason to suspect it 's 

Brussels, sir. 
Botes. Was anything said about Miss Jo? 
Hallen. Everything was kept secret from 

her, too, for fear she 'd stop them.^ 

{Enter Jo and Vic. Botes motions 
Hallen of.) 

Jo. It 's true, she 's gone. Oh, Mr. Botes, 
she 's gone. She told me this morning 
she might do it. She left my father in 
the lurch. 

Botes. How do you mean? Left your 
father in — 



Jo. That money you have given her — 
£40,000— it 's hers. 

Botes. No, at her own request the cheque 
was made out to a Mr. Prenter — presi- 
dent of some New York bank. 

Jo. Then I don't care what becomes of her. 

Botes. You didn't know she was going? 

Jo and Vic. No ! 

Botes. You are really as surprised as you 
seem? 

Jo. Please, please! 

Botes. You make a good story. 

Jo. You don't believe me ! 

Botes. My daughter does ! 

Jo and Vic. Yes ! 

Botes. Well, if Vic's right about you, 
she 's right about me, too. 

Jo. How? 

Botes. That I 've treated you like a brute 
and ought to be ashamed. 

Vic. Yes. 

Botes. Well, I believe I am ashamed. 

Jo. Mr. Botes — 

Botes. I 've pretty well come to the con- 
clusion that you 're as innocent in the 
whole business as Vic is, and I 've been a 
blundering idiot. Now, I 've an idea that 
if my representative in New York can 
get hold of that lawyer who was here — 

Vic. Mr. Wilton? 

Jo. I can give you his address. 

Botes. Good, I'll cable. It may be that 
my money can be used as a loan to tide 
over a temporary difficulty. There, Vic. 
I 've practically asked your friend's 
pardon. ( To Jo. ) That 's what I mean. 
{Kisses Jo's hand.) How 's that, Vic? 

Vic. Father, if you think I 'm going to 
throw my arms around your neck and 
thank you for coming to your senses, 
you 're very much mistaken. I 'm glad 
you 've waked up, but it '11 be a long 
time before I can forget what you 've 
made Jo suffer. 

Botes. Well ! I 'm paying the bill — don't 
forget that. 

{Enter Hallen.) 

Hallen {who is evidently under a great 
stress of excitement and with difficulty 
controlling his countenance.) Mr. Hoh- 
en'etstein ! 

Jo, Botes and Vic. Who? 

Hallen. Mr. Hohen'etstein. 

{Enter Prince Adolf, who hows. Exit 
Hallen. Botes hows. Jo and Vic 
start to curtsey. The Prince crosses to 
Jo and stops her as she curtseys.) 



706 



HER GREAT MATCH 



All. Mr. Who? 

Prince. Mr. Hohenhetstein ! 

Vic. Your Royal — 

Prince. Nein! Nein! Nicht mebr! 

Botes. Your Royal High — 

Prince. Nein! {To All.) Alles der 
four hours since I hat* go away of your 
house I haf been in der office of der dis- 
patches I haf sent to mein fader and to 
der Prime Minister. I haf arranched dat 
I shall send a message at der Parliament. 
{The Prince finishes triumphantly. 
There is a moment's silence. Every- 
body is too surprised to speak at 
once.) 

Botes. But you are not in earnest, sir? 

Prince. yah ! And mein bruder he 
was very happy! He vill like to be 
King! 

Botes. Your brother! 

Prince. Yah! It vas one great big ma- 
chinery to make roll around, but I haf 
start him going! 

Vic. {Bursting into a joyful exclama- 
tion.) Prince Adolf! 

Prince. {To Vic.) Nicht Prince! It 
shall not alles be made immediate! It 
shall take up one little time. Aber! 
But ! I haf mein mind made up I vill 
give me up der throne. I vill be Mr. 
Hohenhetstein as mein Cousin at Austria 
who is now Mr. Hapsburg in der Switzer^ 
land! And I vill dat it begin here, in 
dis house, now. For a special why ! 

{Turns to Jo.) 

Jo. But your father? 

Prince. Mein fader know now I vas in 
earnest, and he accepts. 

Botes. But — 

(Vic whispers to her father. He nods 
that he understands, and they steal 
out into the conservatory. They 
close the windows, look for a moment 
through windows, smiling, and dis- 
appear. ) 

Jo. {Sitting on the sofa.) Accepts! 

Prince. Yah! I haf sent to him such a 
dispatch, dere vas not possible any doubt 
how I vas made up mein mind. {Pulling 
the arm chair to the sofa he sits down.) 
And he haf just answered to me, dat alles 
considered it vas besser so. 

Jo. Better? 

Prince. Yah ! Dat I vas alles too much 
republican. Dat ven I haf effer come to 
der throne I shall play der teffle mit it. 
Heinrich vill be king in mein place, and 
mein fader — {He laughs.) Ach ! Lieber 
fader! He haf ended der dispatch, ''for 



der loaf of heffen stop now vere you vas, 
and don't become one anarchist I" 

Jo. But to give up being King — won't you 
perhaps — some day — regret it? 

Prince. No. I haf neffer like dat King 
business, what vas it? It vas just to 
wear alles a different uniform, haf your 
picture taked and get shot at — dat vas 
about all! But anyway — if I vas to 
speak of der glory of der throne — of 
mein country of good and happy people. 
Yah ! If I vill spoke only of all der 
great things, still, — neffer mind, I am a 
modern, I am all for der new ideas, and 
der new thought and I vas better in der 
new country. Still again dat vas not 
really why I gif him up! Vill you not 
ask me for why I gif him up? 

Jo. {Very softly.) No — I daren't. 

Prince. Why not ? 

Jo. For fear it might be for me — you 
must n't — you must n't ! 

Prince. You haf told me dis morning dat 
you no longer haf loafed me. 

Jo. Yes. 

Prince. Dat vas ri^ht, nicht? 

Jo. '{Softly.) No." 

Prince. How vas dat, No? 

Jo. {Ve7-y softly.) It vas a lie! 

Prince. No! You shall forgif me for 
what I haf asked from you dis morning! 

Jo. Even this morning I wanted to forgive 
you. 

Prince. Goot! {Takes her hand.) Now 
I tell you for who I gif up mein throne ! 
I gif it up for you! 

Jo. But something new has come up to 
separate us ! Mrs. Sheldon has done dis- 
honorable things and has run away! 

Prince. Ven she haf run away, dat vas 
all right den ! 

Jo. It may bring a scandal upon my fa- 
ther and on me. I could n't bring that 
scandal to you to help me carry. 

Prince. Vhy not? Das macht nichts. 

Jo. What? 

Prince. Dat makes nutting for me. I vill 
ask nothing besser dan to carry scandals 
for you alles ! 

Jo. But don't you want to know what 
Mrs. Sheldon has done? 

Prince. Nein, das machts nichts! 

Jo. But don't you want to know why I 
sent you that note a few hours ago? 

Prince. Nein! das macht nichts! 

Jo. But I have nothing to give you in ex- 
change for all you give up. 

Prince, Das macht nichts! 

Jo. But some day if you should regret? 



CLYDE FITCH . 707 


Prince. Nef er ! I haf not much meinself 


Prince. You loaf me again ? 


to offer you. No position — not more. 


Jo. The word is n't big enough ! 


Jo. Das macht nichts! 


Prince. I'll find me another! 


Prince. And not much money either! 


Jo. No, the word maeht nichts! 


Jo. Das macht nichts! 


Prince. NO ! ! 


Prince. But I will make me a new life 


{He takes her face in his hands and 


and a new money alone! 


they embrace.) 


Jo. No, not alone. 





THE NEW YORK IDEA 

BY 

Langdon Mitchell 



Copyright, 1907, 1908, by Langdon Mitchell 

All rights reserved under the International Copyright Act. 
Performance forbidden and right of representation reserved.- 
Application for the right of performing this play may he made 
to Alice Kauser, 1402 Broadway, New York, N. Y. 

For amateur performances, permission must be secured from 
Walter H. Baker and Company, Boston. 

Reprinted by permission of Mr. Langdon Mitchell and 
Walter H. Baker and Company. 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 

The New York Idea represents American social comedy at its best. It por- 
trays impersonally and artistically the effects of our divorce laws upon a group 
of very human beings, indicating cleverly the restraining influence upon their 
actions exercised by their varying respect for the importance of social values. 
They are all, however, fully aware of these values. 

Langdon Elwyn Mitchell was born in Philadelphia, February 17, 1862. He 
is the son of the late Dr. S. Weir Mitchell, the physician and novelist. He was 
educated at St. Paul's School, at Concord, New Hampshire, and after three years' 
study abroad, studied law at Harvard and Columbia Universities and was ad- 
mitted to the New York Bar in 1886. He has been a poet and playwright since 
1883, his earlier works appearing under the pen-name of John Philip Varley. 
His first published drama was Sylvian, a tragedy partly in verse, laid in Cordova 
in the seventeenth century, published in Sylvian and Other Poems (1885). His 
other poetical work .appeared under the title of Poems (1894). Love in the 
Backwoods (1896) consisted of short stories and novelettes. In 1892 Mr. 
Mitchell married Miss Marion Lea, of Philadelphia, who created the part of 
''Vida Phillimore" in The New York Idea. The dramatization of his father's 
novel The Adventures of Frangois, played by Henry E. Dixey, was not success- 
ful, but his play Becky Sharp, founded on Thackeray's Vanity Fair, and played 
by Mrs. Fiske at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, September 12, 1899, was a decided 
success for two years and was revived by Mrs. Fiske ten years later. So great 
indeed was the success of the play that another American version was played 
during 1900-1, until stopped by injunction, and two versions were given in Eng- 
land during the season of 1901. 

The New York Idea was first produced by Mrs. Fiske at the Lyric Theatre, 
New York City, November 19, 1906, with the cast as given. It was a very suc- 
cessful play and has been revived. Miss Grace George playing it in repertory 
during the season of 1915-16. 

Under the name of Jonathan's Tochter, The New York Idea was translated 
into German and played at the Kammerspiel Theater, Berlin, under the direc- 
tion of Max Reinhardt, October 7, 1916. The criticism in the Berlin newspapers, 
especially the Vossische Zeitung, indicated that from the critics' point of view, 
the comedy was a charming one, but that international complications prevented 
at first, an impartial judgment of the play. Since then, it has had considerable 
success and is now being translated into Danish, Swedish and Hungarian. 

Mr. Mitchell wrote no plays for some years, but has recently resumed active 
work. On October 11, 1916, at Atlantic City, New Jersey, his dramatization of 

711 



712 INTRODUCTION 



Thackeray's Pendennis was placed on the stage with Mr. John Drew in the 
leading part of "Major Pendennis." After a satisfactory tryout, it was taken 
to New York City. 

The New York Idea was published in 1908 by W. H. Baker and Company. 
It is here reprinted through the courtesy of Mr. Mitchell and the publishers- 
The editor is indebted to Mr. Mitchell for a careful revision of the text made 
especially for this volume. 

For an interesting criticism of Becky Sharp, see William Winter, The Wallet 
of Time, New York, 1913, vol. 2, pp. 273-286, and, for a very appreciative analysis 
of The New York Idea see Mr. William Archer's notice of the play in The Lon- 
don Tribune of May 27, 1907, reprinted in the published play. See also for 
Becky Sharp, Plays of the Present, by J. B. Clapp and E. F. Edgett, New York, 
1902, pp. 32-4. 



To Marion Lea 



THE OEIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Lyric Theatre, New York City, November 19, 1906 

Philip Phillimore Mr. Charles Harbury 

Mrs. Phillimore, his mother ]Miss Ida Vernon 

The Reverend ^Matthew Phillimore, his brother Mr. Dudley Clinton 

Grace Phillimore, his sister Miss Emily Stevens 

]\Iiss Heneage, his aunt Miss Blanche Weaver 

William Sudley, his cousin Mr. William B. ]\Iack 

Mrs. Vida Phillimore, his divorced wife Miss j\Iarion Lea 

Brooks, her footman Mr. George Harcourt 

Bexson, her maid Miss Belle Bohn 

Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby Mr. George Arliss 

John Karslake Mr. John IMason 

]\Irs. Cynthia Karslake, his divorced wife Mrs. Fiske 

NoGAM, his valet Mr. Dudley Digges 

Tim Fiddler Mr. Eobert V. Ferguson 

Thomas, the Phillimores' family servant Mr. Richard Clarke 

ACT I — Drawing-room in the Phillimore house, Washington Square. 
Wednesday afternoon, at five o'clock. 

ACT II — Mrs. Vida Phillimore 's Boudoir, Fifth Avenue. Thursday morn- 
ing, at eleven. 

ACT III — Same as Act I. Thursday evening, at ten. 

ACT IV — John Karslake 's House, Madison Avenue. Thursday, at mid- 
night. 

Scene — New York. Time — The Present 



i 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene. Living room in the house of 
Philip Phillimore. Five o'clock of .an 
afternoon of May. The general air and 
appearance of the room is that of an old- 
fashioned, decorous, comfortable interior. 
There are no electric lights and no electric 
hells. Two hell ropes as in old-fashioned 
houses. The room is in dark tones in- 
clining to somhre and of old-fashioned 
elegance. 

{The curtain rises, disclosing Miss Hene- 
AGE, Mrs. Phillimore and Thomas. 
Miss Hexeage is a solidly huilt, navrow- 
minded woman in her sixties. She makes 
no effort to look younger than she is, and 
is expensively but quietly dressed, with 
heavy elegance. She commands her 
household and her family connection, and 
on the strength of a large and steady in- 
come feels that her opinion has its value. 
Mrs. Phillimore is a semi-professional 
invalid, refined and unintelligent. Her 
movements are weak and fatigued. Her 
voice is habitually plaintive and she is 
entirely a lady without a trace of being 
a woman of fashion. Thomas is an 
easy -mannered, hut entirely respectful 
family servant, un-English both in style 
and appearance. He has no deportment 
worthy of being so called, and takes an 
evident interest in the affairs of the fam- 
ily he serves. Miss Hexeage, seated at 
the tea-table, faces the footlights. Mrs. 
Phillimore is seated at the left side of 
the table. Thomas stands near by. The 
table is set for tea. There is a vase with 
flowers, a silver match-box, and a large 
old-fashioned tea urn on the table. The 
''Evening Post" is on the table. Miss 
Heneage and Mrs. Phillimore both 
have cups of tea. Miss Hexeage sits up 
very straight, and pours tea for Grace, 
who has just entered. She is a pretty 
and fashionably dressed girl of twenty. 
She speaks superciliously, coolly, and not 
too fast. She sits on the sofa, and does 
not lounge, wearing a gown suitable for 
spring visiting, hat, parasol, and gloves.) 

Grace. {As she crosses and sits down.) I 



715 



never in my life walked so far and found 
so few people at home. {She pauses, 
taking of her gloves, and somewhat 
querulously continues ) The fact is the 
nineteenth of May is ridiculously late to 
be in town. 

Miss Hexeage. Thomas, Mr. Phillimore's 
sherry? 

Thomas. The sherry, ma'am. (Thomas 
indicates a table where the decanter is 
set.) 

Miss Hexeage. Mr. Phillimore's Post? 

Thomas. {Pointing to the ''Evening Post" 
on the tea-table.) The Post, ma'am. 

Miss Hexeage. {Indicates the cup.) Miss 
Phillimore. 

(Thomas takes a cup of tea to Grace. 
There is silence while they all sip tea. 
Thomas goes back, fills the sherry 
glass, remaining round and about 
the tea-table. They all drink tea 
during the following scene.) 

Grace. The Dudleys were at home. They 
wished to know when my brother Philip 
was to be married, and where and how? 

Miss Hexeage. If the Dudleys were per- 
sons of breeding, they 'd not intrude their 
curiosity upon you. 

Grace. I like Lena Dudley. 

Mrs. • Phillimore {Speaks slowly and 
gently.) Do I know Miss Dudley? 

Grace. She knows Philip. She expects 
. an announcement of the wedding. 

Mrs. Phillimore. I trust you told her 
that my son, my sister and myself are 
all of the opinion that those who have 
been divorced should remarry with mod- 
esty and without parade. 

Grace. I told the Dudleys Philip's wed- 
ding was here, to-morrow. 

Miss Hexeage. {To Mrs. Phillimore, 
picking up a sheet of paper from the 
table.) I have spent the afternoon, 
Mary, in arranging and listing the wed- 
ding gifts, and in writing out the an- 
nouncements of the wedding. I think I 
have attained a proper form of announce- 
ment. {She takes the sheet of note paper 
and gives it to Thomas.) Of course, the 
announcement Philip himself made was 
quite out of the question. (Grace 
smiles.) However, there is mine. 



716 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



{She points to the paper. Thomas 
gives the list to Mrs. Phillimore 
and moves away.) 

Grace. I hope you '11 send an announce- 
ment to the Dudleys. 

Mrs. Phillimore. {Reading plaintively, 
ready to make the best of things.) "Mr. 
Philip Phillimore and Mrs. Cynthia Dean 
Karslake announce their marriage, May 
twentieth, at three o'clock, Nineteen A, 
Washington Square, New York." {She 
replaces paper on Thomas's salver.) It 
sounds veiy nice. 

(Thomas hands the paper to Miss 
Heneage.) 

Miss Heneage. In my opinion it barely 
escapes sounding nasty. However, it is 
correct. The only remaining question is 
— to whom the announcement should not 
be sent. {Exit Thomas.) I consider 
an announcement of the wedding of two 
divorced persons to be in the nature of 
an intimate communication. It not only 
announces the Avedding — it also announces 
the divorce. {She returns to her tea- 
cup.) The person I shall ask counsel of 
is Cousin William Sudley. He promised 
to drop in this afternoon. 

Grace. Oh! We shall hear all about 
Cairo. 

Mrs. Phillimore. William is judicious. 

{Re-enter Thomas.) 

Miss Heneage. {With finality.) Cousin 
William wdll disapprove of the match un- 
less a winter in Cairo has altered his 
moral tone. 

Thomas. {Announces,) Mr. Sudley. 

{Enter William Sudley, a little oldish 
gentleman. He is and appears thor- 
oughly insignificant. But his opinion of 
the place he occupies in the world is ex- 
alted. Though he is filled with self-im- 
portance, his manners, voice, presence 
are all those of a man of breeding.) 

Mrs. Phillimore and Miss Heneage. 

{They rise and greet Sudley; a little 

tremulously.) My dear William! 

{Exit Thomas.) 
Sudley. {He shakes hands with Mrs. 

Phillimore^ soberly glad to see them.) 

How d 'ye do, Mary ? A very warm May 

you 're having, Sarah. 
Grace. {She comes to him.) Dear Cousin 

William ! 
Miss Heneage. Was n't it warm in Cairo 

when you left? 

{She will have the strict truth, or noth- 



ing; still, on account of Sudley's 
impeccable respectability, she treats 
him with more than usual leniency ) 

Sudley. {Silting down.) We left Cairo 
six weeks ago, Grace, so I 've had no 
news since you wrote in February that 
Philip was engaged. {Pause.) I need 
not to say I consider Philip's engagement 
excessively regrettable. He is a judge 
upon the Supreme Court bench with a 
divorced wife — and such a divorced wife ! 

Grace. Oh, but Philip has succeeded in 
keeping everything as quiet as possible. 

Sudley. {Acidly,) No, my dear! He 
has not succeeded in keeping his former 
wife as quiet as possible. We had not 
been in Cairo a week w^hen who should 
turn up but Vida Phillimore. She went 
ever;v^vhere and did everything no woman 
should ! 

Grace. {Unfeignedly interested.) Oh, 
w^hat did she do'? 

Slt)ley. She "did" Cleopatra at the tab- 
leaux at Lord Errington's! She "did" 
Cleopatra, and she did it robed only in 
some diaphanous material of a nature so 
transparent that — in fact she appeared to 
be draped in moonshine. (Miss Hene- 
age indicates the presence of Grace. 
She rises.) That was only the beginning. 
As soon as she heard of Philip's engage- 
ment, she gave a dinner in honor of it! 
Only divorcees were asked ! And she had 
a dummy — yes, my dear, a dummy — at 
the head of the table. He stood for 
Philip— that is he sat for Philip! {He 
rises, and goes up to table.) 

Miss Heneage. {Irritated and disgusted.) 
Ah! 

Mrs. Phillimore. {With dismay and 
pain.) Dear me! 

Miss Heneage. {Confident of the value of 
her opinion.) 1 disapprove of Mrs. 
Phillimore. 

Sudley. {Taking cigarette.) Of course 
you do, but has Philip taken to Egyptian 
cigarettes in order to celebrate my winter 
at Cairo *? 

Grace. Those are Cynthia's. 

Sudley. {Thinking that no one is worth 
knowing whom he does not know.) Who 
is "Cynthia"? 

Grace. Mrs. Karslake — She 's staying 
here. Cousin William. She'll be down 
in a minute. 

Sudley. {Shocked.) You don't mean to 
tell me—?—! 

Miss Heneage. Yes, William, Cynthia is 
Mrs. Karslake — Mrs. Karslake has no 



1 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



717 



New York house. I disliked the public- 
ity of a hotel in the circumstances, and 
accordingly when she became engaged to 
Philip, I invited her here. 

SuDLEY. {Suspicious and distrustful.) 
And may I ask who Mrs. Karslake is*? 

Miss Heneage. {With eonfidence.) She 
was a Deane. 

SuDLEY. {Walking about the room, sorry 
to be obliged to concede good birth to any 
but his own blood ) Oh, oh — well the 
Deanes are extremely nice people. {Go- 
ing to table.) Was her father J. Wil- 
liam Deane? 

Miss Heneage. {Nodding, still more se- 
cure.) Yes. 

SuDLEY, {Giving in with difficulty.) The 
family is an old one. J. William Deane's 
daughter? Surely he left a very consid- 
erable — 

Miss Heneage. Oh, fifteen or twenty mil- 
lions. 

SuDLEY. {Determined not to be dazzled.) 
If I remember rightly she w^as brought 
up abroad. 

Miss Heneage. In France and England — 
and I fancy brought up with a very gay 
set in very gay places. In fact she is 
what is called a "sporty" woman. 

SuDLEY. {Always ready to think the 
worst.) We might put up with that. 
But you don't mean to tell me Philip has 
the — the — the — assurance to marry a 
woman who has been divorced by — 

Miss Heneage. Not at all. Cynthia 
Karslake divorced her husband. 

SuDLEY. {Gloomily, since he has less fault 
to find than he expected.) She divorced 
him! Ah! {He sips his tea.) 

Miss Heneage. The suit went by default. 
And, my dear William, there are many 
palliating circumstances. Cynthia was 
married to Karslake only seven months. 
There are no — {glancing at GIrace) no 
hostages to Fortune! Ahem! 

Sudley. {Still unwilling to be pleased.) 
Ah ! What sort of a young woman is 
she? 

Grace. {With the superiority of one who 
is not too popular.) Men admire her. 

Miss Heneage. She's not conventional. 

Mrs. Phillimore. {Showing a faint sense 
of justice.) 1 am bound to say she has 
behaved discreetly ever since she arrived 
in this house. 

Miss Heneage. Yes, Mary — but I some- 
times suspect that she exercises a degree 
of self-control — 

Sudley, {Glad to have something against 



some one.)^ She claps on the lid, eh? 
And you think that perhaps some day 
she'll boil over? Well, of course fifteen 
or twenty millions — but who's Karslake? 

Grace. {Very superciliously.) He owns 
Cynthia K. She 's the famous mare. 

Miss Heneage. He's Henry Karslake's 
son. 

Sudley. {Beginning to make the best 
of it.) Oh! — Henry! — Very respectable 
family. Although I remember his father 
served a term in the senate. And so the 
wedding is to be to-morrow? 

Mrs. Phillimore. {Assenting.) To-mor- 
row. 

Sudley. {Rising, his respectability to the 
front when he thinks of the ceremony. 
Grace rises.) To-morrow. Well, my 
dear Sarah, a respectable family with 
some means. We must accept her. But 
on the whole, I think it will be best for 
me not to see the young woman. My dis- 
approbation would make itself apparent. 

Grace. {Whispering to Sudley.) Cyn- 
thia's coming. {He doesn't hear.) 

(Cynthia enters, absorbed in reading a 
newspaper. She is a young creature in 
her twenties, small and high-bred, full of 
the love of excitement and sport. Her 
manner is wide awake and keen and she 
is evidently in no fear of the opinion of 
others. Her dress is exceedingly elegant, 
but with the elegance of a woman whose 
chief interests lie in life out of doors. 
There is nothing horsey in her style, and 
her expression is youthful and ingenu- 
ous.) 

Sudley. {Sententiously and determinedly 
epigrammatic.) The uncouth modern 
young woman, eight feet high, with a 
skin like a rhinoceros and manners like a 
cave dweller — an habitue of the race- 
track and the divorce court — 

Grace. {Aside to Sudley.) Cousin Wil- 
liam! 

Sudley. Eh, oh! 

Cynthia. {Coming down, reading, im- 
mersed, excited, trembling. She lowers 
the paper to catch the light.) "Belmont 
favorite — six to one — Rockaway — Rose- 
bud, and Flying Cloud. Slow track — 
raw wind — hm, hm, hm — At the half, 
Rockaway forged ahead, when Rosebud 
under the lash made a bold bid for vic- 
tory — neck by neck — for a quarter — when 
Flying Cloud slipped by the pair and 
won on the post by a nose in one forty 
nine!" {Speaking with the enthusiasm 



718 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



of a sport.) Oh, I wish I'd seen the 
dear thing do it. Oh, it's Mr. Sudley! 
You must think me very rude. How do 
you do, Mr. Sudley? 

{She goes to Sudley.) 

Sudley. (Bowing without cordiality.) 
Mrs. Karslake. 

{Pause; Cynthia feels he should say 
sofnething. As he says nothing, she 
speaks again.) 

Cynthia. I hope Cairo was delightful? 
Did you have a smooth voyage? 

Sudley. {Pompously.) You must per- 
mit me, Mrs. Karslake — 

Cynthia. {With good temper, somewhat 
embarrassed, and talking herself into 
ease.) Oh, please don't welcome me to 
the family. All that formal part is over, 
if you don't mind. I 'm one of the tribe 
now ! You 're coming to our wedding 
to-morrow ? 

Sudley. My dear Mrs. Karslake, I think 
it might be wiser — 

Cynthia. {Still with cordial good tem- 
per.) Oh, but you must come! I mean 
to be a perfect wife to Philip and all his 
relations! That sounds rather miscel- 
laneous, but you know what I mean. 

Sudley. {Very sententiously.) I am 
afraid — 

Cynthia. {Gay and still covering her em- 
barrassment.) If you don't come, it'll 
look as if you were not standing by Philip 
when he 's in trouble ! You '11 come, 
won't you — but of course you will. 

Sudley. {After a self-important pause.) 
I will come, Mrs, Karslake {After a 
pause.) Good-afternoon. {In a tone of 
sorrow and light compassion.) Good- 
bye, Mary. Good-aftemoon, Sarah. 
(Sighing.) Grace, dear. (To Miss 
Hexeage.) At what hour did you say 
the alimony commences? 

Miss Heneage. (Quickly and command- 
ingly to cover his slip.) The ceremony is 
at three p. m., William. 

(Sudley goes toward the door.) 

Mrs. Phillimore. (With fatigued voice 
and manner as she rises.) 1 am going to 
my room to rest awhile. 

(Mrs. Phillimore goes up.) 

Miss Heneage. (To Sudley.) Oh, Wil- 
liam, one moment — I entirely forgot! 
I 've a most important social question to 
ask you! (She goes up slowly to the 
door with him.) In regard to the an- 
nouncements of the wedding — whom they 
shall be sent to and whom not. For in- 
stance — the Dudleys — 



(Exeunt Sudley and Miss Heneage, 
talking.) 
Cynthia. So that's Cousin William? 
Grace. Don't you like him? 
Cynthia. (Calmly sarcastic.) Like him? 
I love him. He 's so generous. He 
could n't have received me with more 
warmth if I 'd been a mulatto. 

(Thomas re-enters. Phillimore enters. 
Philip Phillimore is a self-centered, 
short-tempered, imperious member of the 
respectable fashionables of New York. 
He is well and solidly dressed and in man- 
ner and speech evidently a man of fam- 
ily. He is accustomed to being listened 
to in his home circle and from the bench, 
and it is practically impossible for him 
to believe that he can make a mistake.) 

Grace. (Outraged.) Really you know — 
(Cynthia crosses the stage and sits at 
the table.) Philip! 

(Philip nods to Grace absent-mind- 
edly. He is in his working suit and 
looks tired. He comes down silently, 
crosses to tea-table, and bends over 
and kisses Cynthia on forehead. 
He goes to his chair, which Thomas 
has moved to suit him. He sits, and 
sighs with satisfaction.) 
Philip. Ah, Grace! (Exit Grace.) 
Well, my dear, I thought I should never 
extricate myself from the court room. 
You look very debonnair ! 
Cynthia. The tea 's making. You '11 

have your glass of sherry? 
Philip. (The strain of the day has evi- 
dently been severe.) Thanks! (Taking 
it from Thomas; sighing.) Ah! 
Cynthia. I can see it 's been a tiring day 

with you. 
Philip. (As before.) Hm! 

(He sips the tea.) 
Cynthia Were the lawyers very long 

winded ? 
Philip. (Almost too tired for speech.) 
Prolix to the point of somnolence. It 
might be affirmed without inexactitude 
that the prolixity of counsel is the som- 
nolence of the judiciary. I am fatigued, 
ah! (A little suddenly, awaking to the 
fact that his orders have not been carried 
out to the letter.) Thomas! My Post 
is not in its usual place! 
Cynthia. It's here, Philip. 

(Thomas gets it.) 

Philip. Thanks, my dear. (Opening the 

"Post.") Ah! This hour with you — is 

— is really the — the — (absently) the one 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



719 



vivid moment of the day. {Reading.) 
Hm — shocking attack by the president on 
vested interests. Hm — too bad — but it 's 
to be expected. The people insisted on 
electing a desperado to the presidential 
office — they must take the hold-up that 
follows. {Pause; he reads ) Hm ! His 
English is lacking in idiom, his spelling 
in conservatism, his mind in balance, and 
his character in repose. 

Cynthia. {Amiable hut not very sympa- 
thetic.) You seem more fatigued than 
usual. Another glass of sherry, Philip *? 

Philip. Oh, I ought not to — 

Cynthia. I think you seem a little more 
tired than usual. 

Philip. Perhaps I am. {She pours out 
sherry. Philip takes the glass.) Ah, 
this hour is truly a grateful form of rest- 
ful excitement. {Pause.) You, too, find 
it — eh? {He looks at Cynthia.) 

Cynthia. {With veiled sarcasm.) Decid- 
edly. 

Philip Decidedly what, my dear? 

Cynthia. {As before.) Restful. 

Philip. Hm! Perhaps I need the calm 
more than you do. Over the case to-day 
I actually — eh — {sipping) slumbered. I 
heard myself do it. That 's how I know. 
A dressmaker sued on seven counts. 
{Reading newspaper.) Really, the in- 
sanity of the United States Senate — you 
seem restless, my dear. Ah — um — have 
you seen the evening paper? I see there 
has been a lightning change in the style 
or size of hats which ladies — 

{He sweeps a descriptive motion with 
his hand, giving paper to Cynthia, 
then moves his glass, reads, and 
sips. ) 

Cynthia. The lamp, Thomas. 

(Thomas blows out the alcohol lamp 
on the tea-table with difficulty. He 
blows twice. Each time he moves 
Philip starts. He blows again.) 

Philip. {Irritably.) Confound it, Thomas! 
What are you puffing and blowing at — ? 

Thomas. It 's out, ma'am — ^yes, sir. 

Philip. You 're excessively noisy, Thomas ! 

Thomas. {In a fluster.) Yes, sir — I am. 

Cynthia. {Soothing Thomas's wounded 
feelings.) We don't need you, Thomas. 

Thomas. Yes, ma'am. 

Philip. Puffing and blowing and shaking 
and quaking like an automobile in an 
ecstasy! {Exit Thomas.) 

Cynthia. {Not unsympathetically.) Too 
bad, Philip! I hope my presence isn't 
too agitating:' 



Philip. Ah— it 's just because I value this 
hour with you, Cynthia — this hour of tea 
and toast and tranquillity. It 's quite as 
if we were married — happily married — 
already. 

Cynthia. {Admitting that married life is 
a blank, begins to look through paper.) 
Yes, I feel as if we were married already. 

Philip. {Not recognizing her tone.) Ah! 
It 's the calm, you see. 

Cynthia. {As before.) The calm? Yes 
— yes, it 's — it 's the calm. 

Philip. {Sighing.) Yes, the calm — the 
Halcyon calm of — of second choice. 
Hm ! {He reads and turns over leaves of 
paper. Cynthia reads. Pause.) After 
all, my dear — the feeling which I have 
for you — is — is — eh — the market is in a 
shocking condition of plethora ! Hm — 
hm — and what are you reading? 

Cynthia. {Embarrassed.) Oh, eh — well 
■ — I — eh — I 'm just running over the 
sporting news. 

Philip. Oh! {He looks thoughtful.) 

Cynthia. {Beginning to forget Philip 
and to remember more interesting mat- 
ters.) I fancied Hermes would come in 
an easy winner. He came in nowhere. 
Nonpareil was ridden by Henslow — he ^s 
a rotten bad rider. He gets nervous. 

Philip. {Reading still.) Does he? Hm! 
I suppose you do retain an interest in 
horses and races. Hm — I trust some day 
the — ah — law will attract — Oh {turn- 
ing a page), here's the report of my 
opinion in that dressmaker's case — Hag- 
gerty vs. Phillimore. 

Cynthia. Was the case brought against 
you? {Puzzled.) 

Philip. {A little uncomfortable.) Oh — 
no. The suit was brought by Haggerty, 
Miss Haggerty, a dressmaker, against the 
— in fact, my dear, against the former 
Mrs. Phillimore. {Pause; he reads.) 

Cynthia. {Curious about the matter.) 
How did you decide it ? 

Philip. I was obliged to decide in Mrs. 
Phillimore's favor. Haggerty's plea was 
preposterous. 

Cynthia. Did you — did you meet the — the 
— former — ? 

Philip. No. 

Cynthia. I often see her at afternoon 
teas. 

Philip. How did you recognize — 

Cynthia. Why — {opening paper) be- 
cause Mrs. Vida Phillimore's picture ap- 
pears in every other issue of most of the 
evening papers, And I must confess I 



720 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



was curious. But, I 'm sure you find it 
veiy painful to meet her again. 

PhClir {Slowly, considering.) No, — 
would you find it so impossible to meet 
Mr.— 

Cyxthia. {Much excited and aroused.) 
Philip ! Don't speak of him. He 's 
nothing. He's a thing of the past. I 
never think of him. I forget him! 

Philip. {Somewhat sarcastic.) That's 
extraordinarily original of you to forget 
him. 

Cyxthia. {Gently, and wishing to drop 
the subject.) We each of us have some- 
thing to forget, Philip — and John Kars- 
lake is to me — Well, he 's dead ! 

Philip. As a matter of fact, my dear, he 
is dead, or the next thing to it — for he 's 
bankrupt. {Pause.) 

Cynthia. Bankrupt? {Excited and 
moved ) Let 's not speak of him. I 
mean never to see him or think about 
him or even hear of him! 

{He assents. She reads her paper. 
He sips his tea and reads his paper. 
She turns a page, starts and cries 
out.) 

Philip. God bless me ! 

Cyxthia. It's a picture of — of — 

Philip. John Karslake? 

Cyx^thia. Picture of him, and one of me, 
and in the middle between us "Cynthia 
K!" 

Philip. "Cynthia K"? 

Cynthia. {Excited.) My pet riding 
mare ! The best horse he has ! She 's 
an angel even in a photograph ! Oh ! 
{Reading.) "John Karslake drops a 
fortune at Saratoga." 

{Rises and goes up and down excitedly 
Philip takes paper and reads.) 

Philip. {Unconcerned, as the matter 
hardly touches him.) Hem — ah — Ad- 
vertises country place for sale — stables, 
famous mare "Cynthia K" — favorite 
riding mare of former Mrs. Karslake 
who is once again to enter the arena of 
matrimony with the well known and 
higlily respected judge of — 

Cynthia. {Sensitive and much dis- 
turbed.) Don't! Don't, Philip, please 
don't ! 

Philip. My dear Cynthia — take another 
paper — here's my Post! You'll find 
nothing disagreeable in the Post. 

(Cynthia takes the paper.) 

Cynthia {After reading, sits near table.) 
It 's much worse in the Post. "John 
Karslake sells the former Mrs. Karslake's 



jewels — the f anions necklace now at Tif- 
fany's, and the sporty ex-husband sells 
his wife's portrait by Sargent"! Philip, 
I can't stand this. 

{She puts the paper on table.) 
Philip. Really, my dear, Mr. Karslake is 
bound to appear occasionally in print — 
or even you may have to meet him. 

{Enter Thomas.) 

Cynthia. {Determined and distressed.) 

I won't meet him! I won't meet him. 

Every time I hear his name or "Cynthia 

K's" I 'm so depressed. 
Thomas. {Announcing with something 

like reluctance.) Sir, Mr. Fiddler. Mr. 

Karslake's trainer. 

{Enter Fiddler.) 

{He is an English horse trainer, a wide- 
awake stocky well-groomed little 
cockney. He knows his own mind 
and sees life altogether through a 
stable door. Well-dressed for his 
station, and not young.) 

Cyxthia. {Excited and disturbed.) Fid- 
dler? Tim Fiddler? His coming is out- 
rageous ! 

Fiddler. A note for you, sir. 

Cyxthia. {Impulsively.) Oh, Fiddler — 
is that you? 

Fiddler. Yes 'm ! 

Cyn^thia. {In a half whisper, still speak- 
ing on impulse.) How is she! Cynthia 
K? How's Planet II and the colt and 
Golden Rod? How's the whole stable? 
Are they well? 

Fiddler. No 'm — we 're all on the bum. 
{Aside.) Ever since you kicked us over! 

Cyxthia, {Reproving him, though 
pleased.) Fiddler! 

Fiddler, The horses is just simply gone to 
Egypt since you left, and so 's the 
guv'nor. 

Cyxthia. {Putting an end to Fiddler.) 
That will do. Fiddler. 

Fiddler. I 'm waiting for an answer, sir. 

Cyxthia. What is it, Philip ? 

Philip. {Uncomfortable.) A mere mat- 
ter of business. {Aside to Fiddler.) 
The answer is, Mr Karslake can come. 
The — the coast will be clear. 

{Exit Fiddler.) 

Cyxthia. {Amazed; rising.) You 're not 
going to see him? 

Philip. But Karslake, my dear, is an old 
acquaintance of mine. He argues cases 
before me. I will see that you do not 
have to meet him. 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



721 



(Cynthia crosses in excited dejection.) 

(Enter Matthew. He is a high church 
clergyman to a highly fashionable con- 
gregation. His success is partly due to 
his social position and partly to his ele- 
gance of speech, hut chiefly to his inher- 
ent amiability, which leaves the sinner in 
happy peace and smiles on the just and 
unjust alike.) 

Matthew. [Most amiably.) Ah, my "dear 
brother ! 

Philip. Matthew. {Meeting him.) 

Matthew. {Nodding to Philip.) Good 
afternoon, my dear Cynthia. How 
charming you look! (Cynthia sits at 
the tea-table. To Cynthia ) Ah, — why 
weren't you in your pew yesterday? I 
preached a most original sermon. 
{He lays his hat and cane on the divan.) 

Thomas. {Aside to Philip.) Sir, Mrs. 
Vida Phillimore's maid called you up on 
the telephone, and you 're to expect Mrs. 
Phillimore on a matter of business. 

Philip. {Astonished and disgusted.) 
Here, impossible! {To Cynthia.) Ex- 
cuse me, my dear! 

{Exit Philip, much embarrassed, fol- 
lowed by Thomas.) 

Matthew. {Coming down to chair, hap- 
pily and pleasantly self-important.) No, 
really, it was a wonderful sermon, my 
dear. My text was from Paul — "It is 
better to marry than to burn." It was a 
strictly logical sermon. I argued — that, 
as the grass withereth, and the flower 
f adeth, — there is nothing final in Nature ; 
not even Death ! And, as there is nothing 
final in Nature, not even Death ; — so then 
if Death is not final — why should mar- 
riage be final? {Gently.) And so the 
necessity of — eh — divorce ! You see f It 
was an exquisite sermon ! All New York 
was there! And all New York went 
away happy ! Even the sinners — if there 
were any! I don't often meet sinners — 
do you? 

Cynthia. {Indulgently, in spite of his 
folly, because he is kind.) You're such 
a dear, delightful Pagan! Here's your 
tea! 

Matthew. {Sipping his tea.) Why, my 
dear — ^you have a very sad expression ! 

Cynthia. {A little bitterly.) Why not? 

Matthew. {With sentimental sweetness.) 
I feel as if I were of no use in the world 
when I see sadness on a young face. 
Only sinners should feel sad. You have 
committed no sin ! 



Cynthia. (Impulsively.) Yes, I have! 

Matthew. Eh ? 

Cynthia. I committed the unpardonable 
sin — whe — when I married for love ! 

Matthew. One must not marry for any- 
thing else, my dear! 

Cynthia. Why am I marrying your 
brother? 

Matthew. I often wonder why? I won- 
der why you didn't choose to remain a 
free woman. 

Cynthia. (Going over the ground she has 
often argued with herself.) I meant to; 
but a divorcee has no place in society. 
I felt horridly lonely ! I wanted a friend. 
Philip was ideal as a friend — for months. 
Is n't it nice to bind a friend to you? 

Matthew. Yes — yes ! 

(He sets down the teacup.) 

Cynthia. (Growing more and more ex- 
cited and moved as she speaks.) To 
marry a friend — to marry on prudent, 
sensible grounds — a man — like Philip? 
That 's what I should have done first, in- 
stead of rushing into marriage — because 
I had a wild, mad, sensitive, sympathetic 
— passion and pain and fury — of, I don't 
know what— that almost strangled me 
with happiness! 

Matthew. (Amiable and reminiscent.) 
Ah — ah — in my youth — I, — I too! 

Cynthia. (Coming back to her manner of 
every day.) And besides — the day Philip 
asked me I was in the dumps ! And now 
— ^how about marrying only for love? 

(Re-enter VsiiAV.) 

Matthew.. Ah, my dear, love is not the 

only thing in the world ! 
Philip. (Speaking as he enters.) I got 

there ioo late, she 'd hung up. 
Cynthia. Who, Philip? 
Philip. Eh — a lady — eh — 

(Enter Thomas, flurried, with card on 
salver.) 

Thomas. A card for you, sir. Ahem — ■ 

ahem — Mrs. Phillimore — that was, sir. 
Philip. Eh? 

Thomas. She's on the stairs, sir. (He 
turns. Enter Vida. Thomas announces 
her as being the best way of meeting the 
difficulty.) Mrs. Vida Phillimore! 

(Vida comes in slowly, with the air of 
a spoiled beauty. She stops just in- 
side the door and speaks in a very 
casual manner. Her voice is lan- 
guorous and caressing. She is 
dressed in the excess of the French 



722 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



fashion and carries an outre parasol. 
She smiles and comes, undulating, 
to the middle of the stage. Exit 
Thomas. ) 

ViDA. How do you do, Philip. (Pause.) 
Don't tell me I 'm a surprise ! I had 
you called up on the 'phone and I sent 
up my card — and, besides, Philip dear, 
when you have the — the — habit of the 
house, as unfortunately I have, you can't 
treat yourself like a stranger in a strange 
land. At least, I can't — so here I am. 
My reason for coming was to ask you 
about that B. and 0. stock we hold in 
common. (To Matthew, condescend- 
ingly, the clergy being a class of unfor- 
tunates debarred by profession from the 
pleasures of the world.) How do you 
do? {Pause. She then goes to the real 
reason of her visit.) Do be polite and 
present me to your wife-to-be. 

Philip. (Awkwardly.) Cynthia — 

Cynthia. (Cheerfully, with dash, putting 
the table between her and Vida.) We 're 
delighted to see you, Mrs. Phillimore. I 
need n't ask you to make yourself at 
home, but will you have a cup of tea ? 
(MATTHEV7 sits near the little table.) 

Vida. (To Philip.) My dear, she's not 
in the least what I expected. I heard 
she was a dove ! She 's a very dashing 
kind of a dove! (To Cynthia; coming 
to tea-table.) My dear, I'm paying you 
compliments. Five lumps and quantities 
of cream. I find single life very thin- 
ning. (To Philip, very calm and ready 
to be agreeable to any man.) And how 
well you 're looking ! It must be the ab- 
sence of matrimonial cares — or is it a new 
angel in the house'? 

Cynthia. (Outraged at Vida's intrusion, 
but polite though delicately sarcastic.) 
It 's most amusing to sit in your place. 
And how at home you must feel here in 
this house where you have made so much 
trouble — I mean tea. (Rising.) Do you 
know it would be in much better taste if 
you would take the place you 're accus- 
tomed to"? 

Vida. (As calm as before.) My dear, 
I 'm an intruder only for a moment ; I 
shan't give you a chance to score off me 
again ! But I must thank you, dear 
Philip, for rendering that decision in my 
favor — 

Philip. I assure you — 

Vida. (Unable to resist a thrust at the 
close of this speech.) Of course, you 
would like to have rendered it against 



me. It was your wonderful sense of jus- 
tice, and that 's why I 'm so grateful — 
if not to you, to your Maker ! 

Philip. (He feels that this is no place 
for his future wife. Rises quickly and 
irascibly. To Cynthia.) Cynthia, I 
would prefer that you left us. 

(Matthew comes to the sofa and sits.) 

Cynthia. (Determined not to leave the 
field first, remains seated.) Certainly, 
Philip ! 

Philip. I expect another visitor who — 

Vida. (With flattering insistence, to Cyn- 
thia.) Oh, my dear — don't go! The 
truth is — I came to see you ! I feel most 
cordially towards you — and really, you 
know, people in our position should meet 
on cordial terms. 

Cynthia. (Taking it with apparent calm, 
but pointing her remarks.) Naturally. 
If people in our position couldn't meet, 
New York society would soon come to 
an end. 

(Enter Thomas.) 

Vida. (Calm, but getting her knife in 
too.) Precisely. Society's no bigger 
than a band-box. Why, it 's only a mo- 
ment ago I saw Mr. Karslake walking — 

Cynthia. Ah ! 

Thomas. (Announcing clearly. Every 
one changes place, in consternation, 
amusement or surprise. Cynthia moves 
to leave the stage, but stops for fear of 
attracting Karslake's attention.) Mr. 
John Karslake! 

(Enter Karslake. He is a powerful, gen- 
erous personality, a man of affairs, 
breezy, gay and careless. He gives the 
impression of being game for any fate inr- 
store for him. His clothes indicate sport- 
ing propensities and his taste in waist- 
coats and ties is brilliant. Karslake 
sees first Philip and then Matthew. 
Exit Thomas.) 

Philip. How do you do? 

John. ( Very gay and no respecter of per- 
sons.) Good-afternoon, Mr. Phillimore. 
H'ello — here's the church. (Crossing to 
Matthew and shaking hands. He slaps 
him on the back.) I hadn't the least 
idea — how are youf By George, your 
reverence, that was a racy sermon of 
yours on Divorce! What was your text? 
(Seeing Vida, and bowing very politely.) 
Galatians 4:2: **The more the merrier," 
or "Who next?" (Smiling.) As the 
whale said after Jonah! 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



723 



(Cynthia makes a sudden movement, 
and turns her cup over. John faces 
about quickly and they face each 
other. John gives a frank start. 
A pause.) 

John. {Bowing; astounded, in a low 
voice.) Mrs. Karslake — I was not 
aware of the pleasure in store for me. 
I understood you were in the country. 
(Recovering, crosses to chair.) Perhaps 
you '11 be good enough to make me a cup 
of tea "? — that is if the teapot was n't lost 
in the scrimmage. {Pause. Cynthia, 
determined to equal him in coolness, re- 
turns to the tea-tray.) Mr. Phillimore, I 
came to get your signature in that mat- 
ter of Cox vs. Keely. 

Philip. I shall be at your service, but 
pray be seated. 

{He indicates a chair by tea-tahle.) 

John. {Sitting beyond but not far from 
the tea-table.) And I also understood 
you to say you wanted a saddle horse. 

Philip. You have a mare called — eh — 
"Cynthia K"? 

John. {Promptly.) Yes — she's not for 
sale. 

Philip. Oh, but she 's just the mare I had 
set my mind on. 

John. {With a touch of humor.) You 
want her for yourself? 

Philip. {A little flustered.) I — eh — I 
sometimes ride. 

John. {He is sure of himself now.) 
She 's rather lively for you, Judge. Mrs. 
Karslake used to ride her. 

Philip. You don't care to sell her to me? 

John. She 's a dangerous mare. Judge, 
and she's as delicate and changeable as 
a girl. I 'd hate to leave her in your 
charge ! 

Cynthia. {Eagerly, but in a low voice.) 
Leave her in mine, Mr. Karslake ! 

John. {After slight pause.) Mrs. Kars- 
lake knows all about a horse, but — 
{Turning to Cynthia.) Cynthia K 's 
got rather tricky of late. 

Cynthia. {Haughtily.) You mean to say 
you think she'd chuck me'? 

John. {With polite solicitude and still 
humorous. To Philip.) I'd hate to 
have a mare of mine deprive you of a 
wife. Judge. (Rising.) She goes to 
Saratoga next week, C. W. 

ViDA. (Who has been sitting and talking 
to Matthew for lack of a better man, 
comes to talk to Karslake.) C. W. "? 

John. (Rising as she rises.) Creditors 
willing:. 



Vida. {Crossing and sitting left of tea- 
table.) I 'in sure your creditors are 
willing. 

John. Oh, they 're a breezy lot, my credit- 
ors. They're giving me a dinner this 
evening. 

Vida. (More than usually anxious to 
please. ) I regret I 'm not a breezy 
creditor, but I do think you owe it to me 
to let me see your Cynthia K! Can't 
you lead her around to my house? 

John. At what hour, Mrs. Phillimore? 

Vida. Say eleven? And you, too, might 
have a leading in my direction — 771 Fifth 
Avenue. 

(John bows. Cynthia hears and 
notes this.) 

Cynthia. Your cup of tea, Mr. Karslake. 

John. Thanks. (John gets tea and sips 
it.) I beg your pardon — ^you have for- 
gotten, Mrs. Karslake — very naturally, it 
has slipped from your memory, but I 
don't take sugar. 

(Cynthia, furious with him and her- 
self. He hands cup back. She 
makes a second cup.) 

Cynthia. (Cheerfully; in a rage.) Sorry! 

John. (Also apparently cheerful.) Yes, 
gout. It gives me a twinge even to sit in 
the shadow of a sugar maple ! First you 
riot, and then you diet! 

Vida. (Calm and amused; aside to Mat- 
thew.) My dear Matthew, he's a dar- 
ling! But I feel as if we were all taking 
tea on the slope of a volcano ! 

(Matthew sits.) 

Philip. It occurred to me, Mr. Karslake, 
you might be glad to find a purchaser for 
your portrait by Sargent? 

John. It 's not my portrait. It 's a por- 
trait of Mrs. Karslake, and to tell you 
the truth — Sargent 's a good fellow — 
I 've made up my mind to keep it — to 
remember the artist by. 

(Cynthia is wounded by this.) 

Philip. Hm ! 

(Cynthia hands second cup of tea to 
John.) 

Cynthia. (With careful politeness.) 
Your cup of tea, Mr. Karslake. 

JOPIN. (Rising and taking tea with cour- 
teous indifference.) Thanks — sorry to 
trouble you. 

(He drinks the cup of tea standing by 
the tea-table.) 

Philip. (To make conversation.) You're 
selling your country place? 

John. If I was long of hair — I 'd sell that. 

Cynthia. (Excited. Taken out of her- 



724 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



self by the news.) You're not really 
selling- your stable? 

John. {Finishing his tea, he places empty 
cup on tea-table and reseats himself.) 
Every gelding I've got — seven foals and 
a donkey! I don't mean the owner. 

Cynthia. {Still interested and forgetting 
the discomfort of the situation.) How 
did you ever manage to come such a 
cropper? 

John. Streak of blue luck ! 

Cynthia. {Quickly.) I don't see how 
it 's possible — 

John. You would if you'd been there. 
You remember the head man? {Sits.) 
Bloke? 

Cynthia. Of course ! 

John. Well, his wife divorced him for 
beating her over the head with a bottle 
of Fowler's Solution, and it seemed to 
prey on his mind. He sold me — 

Cynthia. {Horrified.) Sold a race? 

John. About ten races, I guess. 

Cynthia. {Incredulous.) Just because 
he 'd beaten his wife ? 

John. No. Because she divorced him. 

Cynthia. Well, I can't see why that 
should prey on his mind! 

{Suddenly remembers.) 

John. Well, I have known men that it 
stroked the wrong way. But he cost me 
eighty thousand. And then Urbanity 
ran third in the thousand dollar stakes 
for two-year-olds at Belmont. 

Cynthia. {She throws this remark in.) I 
never had faith in that horse. 

John. And, of course, it never rains mon- 
keys but it pours gorillas! So when I 
was down at St. Louis on the fifth, I laid 
seven to three on Fraternity — 

Cynthia. Crazy ! Crazy ! 

John. {Ready to take the opposite view.) 
I don't see it. With her record she ought 
to have romped it an easy winner. 

Cynthia. {Pure sport.) She hasn't the 
stamina ! Look at her barrel ! 

John. Well, anyhow. Geranium finished 
me! 

Cynthia. You did n't lay odds on Ge- 
ranium ! 

John. Why not? She's my own mare — 

Cynthia. Oh ! 

John. Streak o' bad luck — 

Cynthia. (Plainly anxious to say "I told 
you so.'') Streak of poor judgment! 
Do you remember the day you rode Billy 
at a six foot stone wall, and he stopped 
and you did n't, and there was a hornets' 
nest (Matthew rises) on the other side. 



and I remember you were hot just be- 
cause I said you showed poor judgment? 
{She laughs at the memory. A general 
movement of disapproval. She remem- 
bers the situation.) I beg your pardon. 

Matthew. {Rising to meet Vida. Has- 
tily.) It seems to me that horses are 
like the fourth gospel. Any conversa- 
tion about them becomes animated almost 
beyond the limits of the urbane! 

(Vida, disgusted by such plainness of 
speech, rises and goes to Philip, who 
waves her to a chair.) 

Philip. {Formally.) I regret that you 
have endured such reverses, Mr. Kars- 
lake. (John quietly bows.) 

Cynthia. {Concealing her interest, she 
speaks casually.) You haven't men- 
tioned your new English horse — Panto- 
mime. What did he do at St. Louis? 

John. {Sitting.) Fell away and ran 
fifth. 

Cynthia. Too bad. Was he fully accli- 
mated? Ah, well — 

John. We always differed — you remem- 
ber — on the time needed — 

Matthew. {Coming to Cynthia, speak- 
ing to carry off the situation as well as to 
get a tip. ) Is n't there a — eh — a race 
to-morrow at Belmont Park? 

John. Yes. I 'm going down in my auto. 

Cynthia. {Evidently wishing she might 
be going too.) Oh ! 

Matthew. And what animal shall you 
prefer? 

{Covering his personal interest with 
amiable altruism.) 

John. I 'm backing Carmencita. 

Cynthia. {Gesture of despair.) Carmen- 
cita ! Carmencita ! 

(Matthew goes to Vida.) 

John. You may remember we always dif- 
fered on Carmencita. 

Cynthia, {Disgusted at John's dunder- 
headedness.) But there's no room for 
difference. She 's a wild, headstrong, dis- 
satisfied, foolish little filly. The deuce 
could n't ride her — she 'd shy at her o\vn 
shadow^ — "Carmencita." Oh, very well, 
then, I '11 wager you — and I '11 give you 
odds too — "Decorum" will come in first, 
and I '11 lay three to one he '11 beat Car- 
mencita by five lengths ! How 's that for 
fair? 

John. {Never forgetting the situation.) 
Sorry I 'm not flush enough to take 
you. 

Cynthia. (Impetuouslii.) Philip, dear, 
you lend John enough for the w^ager. 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



725 



Matthew. {As nearly horrified as so soft 
a soul can he.) Ahem! Really — 

John. It 's a sporty idea, Mrs. Karslake, 
but perhaps in the circumstances — 

Cynthia. {Her mind on her wager.) In 
what circumstances'? 

Philip. {With a nervous laugh.) It does 
seem to me there is a certain impro- 
priety — 

Cynthia. {Bemembering the conventions, 
which, for a moment, had actuallif es- 
caped her.) Oh, I forgot. When horses 
are in the air — 

Matthew. {Pouring oil on troubled 
waters. Crossing, he speaks to Vida at 
hack of armchair, where she sits.) It 's 
the fourth gospel, you see. 

{Enter Thomas ivith a letter on a salver, 
which he hands to Philip. 

Cynthia. {Meekly.) You are quite 
right, Philip. The fact is, seeing Mr. 
Karslake again {laying on her indiffer- 
ence with a trowel) he seems to me as 
much a stranger as if I were meeting him 
for the first time. 

Matthew. {Aside to Yida.) We are in- 
deed taking tea on the slope of a vol- 
cano. 

Vida. {She is about to go, hut thinks she 
will have a last word with John.) I'm 
sorry your f ortmies are so depressed, Mr. 
Karslake. 

Philip. {Looking at the card that Thomas 
has just brought in.) Who in the world 
is Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby? 

{General move.) 

John. Oh — eh — Cates-Darby ? (Philip 
opens letter which Thomas has brought 
with card.) That's the English chap I 
bought Pantomime of. 

Philip. {To Thomas.) Show Sir Wil- 
frid Cates-Darby in. 

{Exit Thomas. The prospect of an 
Englishman with a handle to his 
name changes Vida's plans and in- 
stead of leaving the house, she goes 
to the sofa, and sits there.) 

John. He's a good fellow. Judge. Place 
neax Epsom. Breeder. Over here to 
take a shy at our races. 

{Enter Thomas.) 

Thomas. {Announcing.) Sir Wilfrid 
Cates-Darby. 

.{Enter Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby. He is 
a high-bred, sporting! Englishman. His 



manner, his dress and his diction are the 
perfection of English elegance. His 
movements are quick and graceful. He 
talks lightly and ivith ease. He is full 
of life and unsmiling good temper.) 

Philip. {To Sir Wilfrid and referring 
to the letter of introduction in his hand.) 
1 am Mr. Phillimore. I am grateful to 
Stanhope for giving me the opportunity 
of knowing you, Sir Wilfrid. I fear you 
find it warm*? 

Sir Wilfrid. {Delicately mopping his 
forehead.) Ah, well — ah — warm, no — 
hot, yes! Deuced extraordinary climate 
yours, you know, Mr. Phillimore. 

Philip. {Conventional.) Permit me to 
present you to — {The unconventional sit- 
uation pulls him up short. It takes him 
a moment to decide how to meet it. He 
makes up his mind to pretend that every- 
thing is as usual, and presents Cynthia 
first.) Mrs. Karslake. 

(Sir Wilfrid bows, surprised and 
doubtful.) 

Cynthia. How do you dof 

Philip. And to Mrs. Phillimore. (Vida 
bows nonchalantly, hut with a view to 
catching Sir Wilfrid's attention. Sir 
Wilfrid bows, and looks from her to 
Philip.) My brother — and Mr. Kars- 
lake you know. 

Sir Wilfrid. How do, my boy? {Half 
aside, to John.) No idea you had such 
a charming little wife— What <?— Eh ? 
(Karslake goes up to speak to Mat- 
thew and Philip in the further 
room.) 

Cynthia. You'll have a cup of tea, Sir 
Wilfrid? 

Sir Wilfrid. {At table.) Thanks, aw- 
fully. ( Very cheerfully. ) I 'd no idea 
old John had a wife! The rascal never 
told me! 

Cynthia. {Pouring tea and facing the 
facts.) I'm not Mr. Karslake's wife! 

Sir Wilfrid. Oh!— Eh?— I see— 

{Business of thinking it out.) 

Vida. {Who has been ready for some time 
to speak to him.) Sir Wilfrid, I 'm sure 
no one has asked you how you like our 
country? 

Sir Wilfrid. {Going to Vida and speak- 
ing, standing by her at sofa.) Oh, well, 
as to climate and horses, I say nothing. 
But I like your American humor. I'm 
acquiring it for home purposes. 

Vida. {Getting down to love as the basis 
of conversation.) Aren't you going to 



^26 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



acquire an American girl for home pur- 
poses? 

Sir Wilfrid. The more narrowly I look 
the agreeable project in the face, the 
more I like it. Ought n't to say that in 
the presence of your husband. 

{He casts a look at Philip, who has 
gone into the next room.) 

ViDA. {Cheerful and unconstrained.) 
He's not my husband! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Completely confused.) 
Oh — eh? — my brain must be boiled. 
You are — Mrs. — eh — ah — of course, now 
I see! I got the wrong names! I 
thought you were Mrs. Phillimore. {He 
sits by her.) And that nice girl Mrs. 
Karslake ! You 're deucedly lucky to be 
Mrs. Karslake. John 's a prime sort. I 
say, have you and he got any kids ? How 
many? 

ViDA. {Horrified at being suspected of 
maternity, but speaking very sweetly.) 
He 's not my husband. 

Sir Wilfrid. {His good spirits all gone, 
but determined to clear things up.) 
Phew! Awfully hot in here! Who the 
deuce is John's wife? 

ViDA. He has n't any. 

Sir Wilfrid. Who's Phillimore's wife? 

ViDA. He hasn't any. 

Sir Wilfrid. Thanks, fearfully! {To 
Matthew, whom he approaches ; suspect- 
ing himself of having lost his wits.) 
Would you excuse me, my dear and Rev- 
erend Sir — you 're a churchman and all 
that — ^would you mind straightening me 
out? 

Matthew. {Most gracious.) Certainly, 
Sir Wilfrid. Is it a matter of doc- 
trine? 

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, damme — beg your par- 
don, — no, it 's not words, it 's women. 

Matthew. {Ready to be outraged.) 
Women ! 

Sir Wilfrid. It 's divorce. Now, the lady 
on the sofa. — 

Matthew. Was my brother's wife ; he di- 
vorced her — incompatibility— -Rhode Is- 
land. The lady at the tea-table was Mr. 
Karslake's wife; she divorced him — de- 
sertion — Sioux Falls. One moment — she 
is about to marry my brother. 

Sir Wilfrid. {Cheerful again.) I'm 
out ! Thought I never would be ! 
Thanks! 

(ViDA laughs.) 

ViDA. {Not a whit discountenanced and 
ready to please.) Have you got me 
straightened out yet? 



Sir Wilfrid. Straight as a die! I say, 
you had lots of fun, didn't you? {Go- 
ing back to sofa.) And so she ^s Mrs. 
John Karslake? 

ViDA. .{Calm, but secretly disappointed.) 
Do you like her? 

Sir Wilfrid. My word! 

ViDA. {Fully expecting personal flattery.) 
Eh? 

Sir Wilfrid. She 's a box o' ginger ! 

ViDA. You haven't seen many American 
women ! 

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, haven't I? 

ViDA. If you '11 pay me a visit to-morrow 
— at twelve, you shall meet a most charm- 
ing young woman, who has seen you once, 
and who admires you — ah ! 

Sir Wilfrid. I 'm there — what ! 

ViDA. Seven hundred and seventy-one 
Fifth Avenue. 

Sir Wilfrid. Seven seventy-one Fifth 
Avenue — at twelve. 

Vida. At twelve. 

Sir Wilfrid. Thanks! {Indicating Cyn- 
thia.) She's a thoroughbred — you can 
see that with one eye shut. Twelve. 
{Shaking hands.) Awfully good of you 
to ask me. {He joins John.) I say, my 
boy, your former 's an absolute certainty. 
{To Cynthia.) I hear you're about to 
marry Mr. Phillimore, Mrs. Karslake? 
(Karslake crosses to Vida; they both 
go to sofa, where they sit.) 

Cynthia. To-morrow, 3 p. m., Sir Wil- 
frid. 

Sir Wilfrid. {Much taken with Cynthia, 
he addresses her.) Afraid I've run into 
a sort of family party, eh? {Indicating 
Vida.) The Past and the Future — aw- 
fully chic way you Americans have of 
asking your divorced husbands and wives- 
to drop in, you know — celebrate a chris- 
tenin', or the new bride, or — 

Cynthia. Do you like your tea strong? 

Sir Wilfrid. Middlin'. 

Cynthia. Sugar? 

Sir Wilfrid. One ! 

Cynthia. Lemon ? 

Sir Wilfrid. Just torture a lemon over it. 
{He makes a gesture as of twisting a 
lemon peel. She gives tea.) Thanks! 
So you do it to-morrow at three? 

Cynthia. At three, Sir Wilfrid. 

Sir Wilfrid. Sorry! 

Cynthia. Why are you sorry? 

Sir Wilfrid. Hate to see a pretty woman 
married. Might marry her myself. 

Cynthia. Oh, but I 'm sure you don't ad- 
mire American women. 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



727 



Sir Wilfrid. Admire you, Mrs. Kars- 
lake — 

Cynthia. Not enough to marry me, I 
hope. 

Sir Wilfrid. Marry you in a minute! 
Say the word. Marry you now — here. 

Cynthia. You don't think you ought to 
know me a little before — 

Sir Wilfrid. Know you? Do know you. 
(Cynthia covers her hair with her 
handkerchief. ) 

Cynthia. What color is my hair"? 

Sir Wilfrid. Pshaw ! 

Cynthia. You see! You don't know 
whether I 'm a chestnut or a strawberry 
roan! In the States w^e think a few 
months of friendship is quite necessary. 

Sir Wilfrid. Few months of moonshine! 
Never was a friend to a woman — thank 
God, in all my life. 

Cynthia. Oh — oh, oh! 

Sir Wilfrid. Might as well talk about be- 
ing a friend to a whiskey and soda. 

Cynthia. A woman has a soul, Sir Wil- 
frid. 

Sir Wilfrid. Well, good whiskey is spirits 
— dozens o' souls! 

Cynthia. You are so gross! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Changing seat to above 
table.) Gross *? Not a bit! Friendship 
between the sexes is all fudge ! I 'm no 
friend to a rose in my garden. I don't 
call it friendship — eh — eh — a warm, 
starry night, moonbeams and ilex trees, 
''and a spirit who knows how" and all 
that — eh — {Getting closer to her.) You 
make me feel awfully poetical, you 
know — (Philip comes down, glances 
nervously at Cynthia and Sir Wilfrid, 
and walks up again.) What's the mat- 
ter? But, I say — poetry aside — do you, 
eh — {Looking around to place Philip.) 
Does he — y' know — is he — does he go to 
the head? 

Cynthia. Sir Wilfrid, Mr. Phillimore is 
my sober second choice. 

Sir Wilfrid. Did you ever kiss him? I '11 
bet he fined you for contempt of court. 
Look here, Mrs. Karslake, if you 're mar- 
ryin' a man you don't care about — 

Cynthia. {Amused and excusing his au- 
dacity as a foreigner's eccentricity.) 
Really ! 

Sir Wilfrid. Well, I don't offer myself — 

Cynthia. Oh ! 

Sir Wilfrid. Not this instant — 

Cynthia. Ah ! 

Sir Wilfrid. But let me drop in to-mor- 
row at ten. 



Cynthia. What country and state of 
affairs do you think you have landed 
in? 

Sir Wilfrid. New York, by Jove! Been 
to school, too. New York is bounded on 
the North, South, East and West by the 
state of Divorce! Come, come, Mrs. 
Karslake, I like your country. You 've 
no fear and no respect — no can't and lots 
of can. Here you all are, you see — your 
former husband, and your new husband's 
former wife — sounds like Ollendoft:! 
Eh? So there you are, you see! But, 
jokin' apart — why do you marry him? 
Oh, well, marry him if you must! You 
can run around the corner and get a 
divorce afterwards — 

Cynthia. I believe you think they throw 
one in with an ice-cream soda ! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Rising.) Damme, my dear 
lady, a marriage in your country is no 
more than a — eh — eh — what do you call 
'em? A "thank you, ma'am." That's 
what an American marriage is — a "thank 
you, ma'am." Bump — bump — you 're 
over it and on to the next. 

Cynthia. You 're an odd fish ! What ? I 
believe I like you! 

Sir Wilfrid. 'Course you do ! You '11 see 
me when I call to-morrow — at ten? 
We '11 run down to Belmont Park, eh ? 

Cynthia. Don't be absurd ! 

ViDA. {She has finished her talk with 
John, and breaks in on Sir Wilfrid, who 
has hung about Cynthia too long to suit 
her.) To-morrow at twelve, Sir Wilfrid! 

Sir Wilfrid. Twelve! 

ViDA. {Shaking hands with John.) 
Don't forget, Mr. Karslake — eleven 
o'clock to-morrow. 

John. {Bowing assent.) I won't! 

ViDA. {Coming to the middle of the stage 
and speaking to Cynthia.) Oh, Mrs. 
Karslake, I 've ordered Tiffany to send 
you something. It 's a sugar bowl to 
sweeten the matrimonial lot! I suppose 
nothing would induce you to call ? 

Cynthia. {Distantly and careless of of- 
fending.) Thanks, no — that is, is "Cyn- 
thia K" really to be there at eleven? I 'd 
give a gold mine to see her again. 

ViDA. Do come! 

Cynthia. If Mr. Karslake will accommo- 
date me by his absence. 

ViDA. Dear Mr. Karslake, you '11 have to 
change your hour. 

John. Sorry, I 'm not able to. 

Cynthia. I can't come later for I 'm to be 
married. 



728 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



John. It 's not as bad as that with me, but 
I am to be sold up — Sheriff, you know. 
Can't come later than eleven. 

ViDA. {To Cynthia.) Any hour but 
eleven, dear. 

Cynthia. {Perfectly regardless of Vida, 
and ready to vex John if possible.) 
Mrs. Phillimore, I shall call on you at 
eleven — to see Cynthia K. I thank you 
for the invitation. Good-afternoon. 

Vida. {Aside to John, crossing to speak 
quietly to him.) It's mere bravado; she 
won't come. 

John. You don't know^ her. 

{Pause. There is general embarrass- 
ment. Sir Wilfrid plays with his 
eye-glass. John is angry; Cynthia 
is triumphant; Matthew is embar- 
rassed; Vida is irritated; Philip is 
puzzled; everybody is at odds.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {For the first time being a 
witness to the pretty complications of 
divorce, he speaks to Matthew.) Do 
you have it as w^arm as this ordinarily*? 

Matthew. {For whom these moments are 
more than usually painful, and wiping his 
brow.) It's not so much the heat as the 
humidity. 

John. {Looking at watch; lie is glad to 
be off.) 1 shall be late for my creditors' 
dinner. 

Sir Wilfrid. {Coming down.) Creditors' 
dmner. 

John. {Beading note.) Fifteen of my 
sporting" creditors have arranged to give 
me a blow-out at Sherry's, and I 'm ex- 
pected right away or sooner. And by 
the way, I was to bring my friends — if I 
had any. So now 's the time to stand by 
me! Mrs. Phillimore'? 

Vida. Of course ! 

John. {Ready to embarrass Cynthia, if 
possible, and speaking as if he had quite 
forgotten their former relations.) Mrs. 
Karslake — I beg your pardon. Judge? 
(Philip declines.) No? Sir Wilfrid? 

Sir Wilfrid. I 'm with you ! 

John. {To Matthew.) Your Rever- 
ence? 

]\lATTiiEW. I regTet — 

Sir Wilfrid. Is it the custom for cred- 
itors — 

John. Come on, Sir Wilfrid! (Thomas 
opens the door.) Good-night, Judge — 
Your Reverence — 

Sir Wilfrid. Is it the custom — 

John. Hang the custom ! Come on — I '11 
show you a gang of creditors worth hav- 
ing! 



{Exit Sir Wilfrid with John, pre- 
ceded by Vida. Matthew crosses 
the stage, smiling, as if pleased, in a 
Christian icay, with this display of 
generous gaiety. He looks at his 
watch. ) 
Matthew. Good gracious ! I had no idea 
the hour was so late. I 've been asked to 
a meeting with Maryland and Iowa, to 
talk over the divorce situation. {Exit. 
His voice is heard off the stage.) Good- 
afternoon ! Good-afternoon ! 

(Cynthia is evidently much, excited. 
The outer door slams. Philip comes 
down the stage slowly. Cynthia 
stands, her eyes wide, her breathing 
rapid, until Philip speaks, when she 
seems suddenly to realize her posi- 
tion. There is a long pause.) 
Philip. {With a superior air.) I have 
seldom witnessed a more amazing cata- 
clysm of jocundity ! Of course, my dear, 
this has all been most disagreeable for 
you. 
Cynthia. {Excitedly.) Yes, yes, yes! 
Philip. I saw how much it shocked your 

delicacy. 
Cynthia. {Distressed and moved.) Out- 
rageous. (Philip sits.) 
Philip. Do be seated, Cj^nthia. {Taking 
up paper. Quietly.) Very odd sort of 
an Englishman — that Cates-Darby! 
Cynthia. Sir Wilfrid? — Oh, yes! \ Philip 
settles down to paper. To herself.) 
Outrageous ! I 've a great mind to go at 
eleven — just as I said I would! 
Philip. Do sit down, Cynthia ! 
Cynthia. What? What? 
Philip. You make me so nervous — 
Cynthia. Sony — sorry. 

{She sits down and seeing the paper, 
she takes it, looking at the picture of 
John Karslake.) 
Philip. {Sighing with content.) Ah! 
now that I see him, I don't wonder you 
could n't stand him. There 's a kind of 
— ah — spontaneous— i nebriety about him. 
He is incomprehensible ! If I might with 
reverence cross question the Creator, I 
would say to him: "Sir, to what end or 
purpose did you create Mr. John Kars- 
lake?" I believe I should obtain no ade- 
quate answer! However {sighing) at 
last we have peace — and the Post! 
(Philip, settling himself, reads paper; 
C^ynthia looks at her paper, occasionally 
looking across at Philip.) Forget the 
dust of the arena — the prolixity of coun- 
sel — the involuntary fatuity of things in 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



729 



general. {Pause. He reads.) Compose 
yourself ! 

(Miss Heneage, Mrs. Phillimore and 
Grace enter.) 

(Cynthia sighs ivithout letting her sigh 
he heard. She tries to compose her- 
self. She glances at paper and then 
hearing Miss Heneage, starts 
slightly. Miss Heneage and Mrs. 
Phillimore stop at table.) 
Miss Heneage. {She carries a sheet of 
paper.) There, my dear Mary, is the 
announcement as I have now reworded it. 
I took William's suggestion. (Mrs. 
Phillimore takes and casually reads it.) 
I also put the case to him, and he was of 
the opinion that the announcement 
should be sent only to those people who 
are really in society. 

{She sits near table. Cynthia braces 
herself to bear the Phillimore con- 
versation.) 
Grace. I wish you'd make an exception 
of the Dudleys. 

(Cynthia rises and crosses to chair by 
the table.) 
Miss Heneage. And of course, that ex- 
cludes the Oppenheims— the Vance- 
Browns. 
Mrs. Phillimore. It 's just as well to be 

exclusive. 
Grace. I do wish you 'd make an excep- 
tion of Lena Dudley. 
Miss Heneage. We might, of course, in- 
clude those new Girardos, and possibly — 
possibly the Paddingtons. 
Grace. I do wish you would take in Lena 
Dudley. {They are now sitting.) 

Mrs. Phillimore. The mother Dudley is 
as common as a charwoman, and not 
nearly as clean. 
Philip. {Sighing, his own feelings as 
usual to the fore.) Ah! I certainly am 
f atig-ued ! 

(Cynthia begins to sloivly crush the 
newspaper she has been reading with 
both hands, as if the effort of self- 
repression were too much for her.) 
Miss Heneage. {Making the best of a 
gloomy future.) We shall have to ask 
the Dudleys sooner or later to dine, Mary 
— because of the elder girl's marriage to 
that dissolute French Marquis. 
Mrs. Phillimore. {Plaintively.) 1 don't 
like common people any more than I like 
common cats and of course in my time — 
Miss Heneage. I think I shall include the 
Dudleys, 



Mrs. Phillimore. You think you'll in- 
clude the Dudleys'? 
Miss Heneage. Yes, I think I will include 
the Dudleys! 

[Here Cynthia gives up. Driven des- 
perate by their chatter, she has 
slowly rolled her newspaper into a 
ball, and at this point tosses it vio- 
lently to the floor and bursts into hys- 
terical laughter.) 
Mrs. Phillimore. Why, my dear Cyn- 
thia — compose yourself. 
Philip. {Hastily.) What is the matter, 
Cynthia? {They speak together.) 

Miss Heneage. W^hy, Mrs. Karslake, 

what is the matter? 
Grace. {She comes quickly forward, say- 
ing.) Mrs. Karslake! 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene. Mrs. Vida Phillimore's boudoir. 
The room is furnished to please an empty- 
headed, pleasure-loving and fashionable 
woman. The furniture, the ornaments, 
what pictures there are, are all witness to 
taste up-to-date. Two French icindows 
open on to a balcony, from which the 
trees of Central Park can be seen. There 
is a table between them; a mirror and a 
scent bottle upon it. A lady's writing 
table stands between two doors, nearer 
centre of stage. There is another door 
near an open fireplace, which is filled with 
potted plants and andirons, not in use. 
Over it is a tall mirror. On the mantel- 
piece are French clock, candelabra, and 
vases. On a line with the fireplace, a 
lounge, gay with silk pillows. A florist's 
box, large and long, filled with American 
Beauty roses is on a low table near the 
head of the lounge. Small tables and 
light chairs are here and there. At rise of 
the curtain Benson is seen looking about 
her. She is a neat and pretty little Eng- 
lish lady's maid in black silk and a thin 
apron. She comes down the stage still 
looking about her, and inspects the flower 
box; then goes to the door of Vida's room 
and speaks to her. 

Benson. Yes, ma'am, the flowers have 
come. 

{She holds the door open.) 

(Vida, in a morning gown, enters, slowly. 
She is smoking a cigarette in as aesthetic 
a manner as she can, and is evidently 



730 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



turned out in her best style for con- 
quest.) 

ViDA. {Speaking with her hack to the 
audience, always calm and, though civil, a 
little disdainful of her servant.) Ter- 
ribly garish light, Benson. Pull down 
the — (Benson obeys.) Lower still — 
that will do. {As she speaks, she goes 
about the room, giving the furniture a 
push here and there, arranging vases, 
etc.) Men hate a clutter of chairs and 
tables. {Stopping and taking up hand 
mirror, standing with back to audience.) 
I really think I 'm too pale for this light. 

Benson. {Quickly, understanding what is 
implied.) Yes, ma'am. {Exit Benson. 
ViDA sits at the table. Knock at the 
door.) Come! 

{Enter Brooks.) 

Brooks. {An ultra-English footman, in 
plush and calves.) Any borders, m' lady? 

ViDA. {Incapable of remembering the last 
man, or of considering the new one.) 
Oh, — of course ! You 're the new — 

Brooks. Footman, m' lady. 

YiDA. {As a matter of form.) Your 
name ? 

Brooks. Brooks, m' lady. 

{Reenter Benson with rouge.) 

ViDA. {Carefully giving instructions while 
she keeps her eyes on the glass and is 
rouged by Benson.) Brooks, I am at 
home to Mr. Karslake at eleven, not to 
any one else till twelve, when I expect Sir 
Wilfrid Cates-Darby. 

(Brooks is inattentive, watching Ben- 
son.) 

Brooks. Yes, m' lady. 

ViDA. {Calm, but wearied by the ignorance 
of the lower classes.) And I regret to 
inform you. Brooks, that in America 
there are no ladies, except salesladies ! 

Brooks. {Without a trace of comprehen- 
sion.) Yes, m' lady. 

ViDA. I am at home to no one but the two 
names I have mentioned. (Brooks bows 
and goes out. She dabs on rouge while 
Benson holds glass.) Is the men's club 
room in order? 

Benson. Perfectly, ma'am. 

ViDA. Whiskev and soda? 

Benson. Yes, ma'am, and the ticker 's been 
mended. The British sporting papers 
arrived this morning. 

Yjda, {Looking at her watch which lies on 



the dressing table.) My watch has 
stopped. 

Benson. {Glancing at the French clock on 
the chimney-piece.) Five to eleven, 
ma'am. 

ViDA. {Getting promptly to work.) Hra, 
hm, I shall be caught. {Rises.) The 
box of roses, Benson! (Benson brings 
the box of roses, uncovers the flowers and 
places them at Vida's side.) My gloves 
— the clippers, and the vase! {Each of 
these things Benson places in turn within 
Vida's range where she sits on the sofa. 
She has the long box of roses at her side 
on a small table, a vase of water on the 
-floor by her side. She cuts the stems and 
places the roses in the vase. When she 
feels that she has reached a picturesque 
position, in which any onlooker would see 
in her a creature filled with the love of 
flowers and of her fellow man, she says:) 
There ! 

{The door opens and Brooks enters; Vida 
nods to Benson.) 

Brooks. {Announcing stolidly.) Sir John 
Karslake. 

{Enter John, dressed in very nobby riding 
togs.) 

{He comes in gaily and forcibly. 
Benson gives way as he comes down. 
Exeunt Brooks and Benson. John 
stops near the table. Yida, from 
this point on, is busied with her 
roses. ) 
Vida. {Languorously, but with a faint sug- 
gestion of humor.) Is that really you, 
Sir John? 
John. {Lively and far from being im- 
pressed by Vida.) I see now where we 
Americans are going to get our titles. 
Good-morning! You look as fresh as 
paint. {He takes chair.) 

Vida. {Facing the insinuation with gentle 
pain.) I hope you don't mean that? I 
never flattered myself for a moment 
you'd come. You're riding Cynthia K? 
John. {Who has laid his gloves and riding 
crop on the table.) Fiddler's going to 
lead her round here in ten minutes ! 
Vida. Cigars and cigarettes ! Scotch ? 

{She indicates that he will find them on 
a small table up stage.) 
John. Scotch ! 

{Going up quickly to the table and 
helping himself to Scotch and selt- 
zer.) 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



731 



ViDA. And now do tell me all about yier! 
{Putting in her last roses; she keeps 
one rosebud in her hand, of a size 
suitable for a man's buttonhole.) 

John. {As he drinks.) Ob, sbe 's an ador- 
able creature — delicate, high-bred, sweet- 
tempered — 

ViDA. {Showing her claws for a moment.) 
Sweet-tempered *? Oh, you're describing 
the horse ! By ^*her," I meant — 

John. {Irritated by the remembrance of 
his wife.) Cynthia Karslake*? I'd 
rather talk about the last tornado. 

{Sits.) 

ViDA. {Soothing the savage beast.) There 
is only one thing I want to talk about, 
and that is, you! Why were you un- 
happy? 

John. {Still cross.) Why does a dollar 
last such a short time ? 

ViDA. {With curiosity.) Why did you 
part? 

John. Did you ever see a schooner towed 
by a tug? Well, I parted from Cynthia 
for the same reason that the hawser parts 
from the tug — I could n't stand the tug. 

ViDA. {Sympathizing.) Ah! {Pause.) 

John. {Still cross.) Awful cheerful 
morning chat. 

ViDA. {Excusing her curiosity and coming 
back to love as the only subject for seri- 
ous conversation.) I must hear the story, 
for I 'm anxious to know why I 've taken 
such a fancy to you! 

John. {Very nonchalantly.) Why do I 
like you? 

ViDA. {Doing her best to charm.) I won't 
tell you — it would iSiatter you too much. 

John. {Not a bit impressed by Vida, but 
as ready to flirt as another.) Tell me ! 

Vida. There 's a rose for you. 

{Giving him the one she has in her 
hand. ) 

John. {Saying what is plainly expected 
of him.) 1 want more than a rose — 

Vida. {Putting this insinuation by.) You 
refuse to tell me — ? 

John. {Once more reminded of Cynthia, 
speaks with sudden feeling.) There's 
nothing to tell. We met, we loved, we 
married, we parted; or at least we wran- 
gled and jangled. {Sighing.) Ha! 
Why weren't we happy? Don't ask me, 
why ! It may have been partly my fault ! 

Vida. {With tenderness.) Never! 

John. {His mind on Cynthia.) But I 
believe it 's all in the way a girl 's brought 
up. Our girls are brought up to be 
ignorant of life — they 're ignorant of 



life. Life i§ a joke, and marriage is a 
picnic and a man is a shawl-strap — 
'Pon my soul, Cynthia Deane — no, I can't 
tell you ! 

{During the following, he walks about 
in his irritation.) 

Vida. ( Gently. ) Please tell me ! 

John. Well, she was an heiress, an Ameri- 
can heiress — and she 'd been taught to 
think marriage meant burnt almonds and 
moonshine and a yacht and three auto- 
mobiles, and she thought — I don't know 
what she thought, but I tell you, Mrs. 
Phillimore, marriage is three parts love 
and seven parts forgiveness of sins. 

Vida. {Flattering him as a matter of 
course.) She never loved you. 

John. ( On whom she has made no im- 
pression at all.) Yes, she did. For six 
or seven months there was not a shadow 
between us. It was perfect, and then 
one day she went off like a pistol-shot ! I 
had a piece of law work and could n't 
take her to see Flashlight race the Mary- 
land mare. The case meant a big fee, big 
Kudos, and in sails Cynthia, Flashlight 
mad! And will I put on my hat and 
take her? No — and bang she goes off like 
a stick o' dynamite — what did I marry 
her for? — and words — pretty high words, 
until she got mad, when she threw over a 
chair and said, oh, well, — marriage was a 
failure, or it was w^ith me, so I said she 'd 
better try somebody else. She said she 
would, and marched out of the room. 

Vida. {Gently sarcastic.) But she came 
back ! 

John. She came back, but not as you 
mean. She stood at the door and said, 
"Jack, I shall divorce you." Then she 
came over to my study table, dropped her 
wedding ring on my law papers, and went 
out. The door shut, I laughed ; the front 
door slammed, I damned. {Pause. He 
crosses to the window.) She never came 
back. 

{He comes back to where Vida sits. 
She catches his hands.) 

Vida. {Hoping for a contradiction.) 
She 's broken your heart. 

John. Oh, no! 

{He crosses to the chair by the lounge.) 

Vida. {Encouraged, begins to play the 
game again.) You '11 never love again ! 

John. (Speaking to her from the foot of 
her sofa.) Try me! Try me! Ah, no, 
Mrs. Phillimore, I shall laugh, live, love 
and make money again ! And let me tell 
you one thing — I 'm going to rap her on^ 



732 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



over the knuckles. She had a stick of a 
Connecticut hiwyer, and he — well, to cut 
a legal story short, since Mrs. Karslake 's 
been in Europe, I have been quietly test- 
ing the validity of the decree of divorce. 
Perhaps you don't understand? 

ViDA. {Letting her innate shrewdness ap- 
pear.) Oh, about a divorce, everything! 

John. I shall hear by this evening whether 
the divorce will stand or not. 

ViDA. But it 's to-day at three she mar- 
ries — you won't let her commit big- 
amy? 

John. {Shaking his head.) I don't sup- 
pose I 'd go as far as that. It may be 
the divorce will hold, but any\\^ay I hope 
never to see her again. 

{He sits beside her facing up the stage 
as she faces down.) 

ViDA. Ah, my poor boy, she has broken 
your heart. {Believing that this is her 
psychological moment, she lags her hand 
on his arm, but draws it back as soon as 
he attempts to take it.) Now don't make 
love to me. 

John. {Bold and amused, but never taken 
Jn.) Why not"? 

ViDA. {With immense gentleness.) Be- 
cause I like you too .much! {More 
gaily.) I might give in, and take a no- 
tion to like you still more ! 

John. Please do! 

ViDA. {With gush and determined to be 
womanly at all hazards.) Jack, I believe 
you'd be a lovely lover! 

John. {As before.) Try me! 

ViDA. {Not hoping much from his tone.) 
You charming, tempting, delightful fel- 
low, I could love you without the least 
effort in the world, — but, no ! 

John. {Playing the game.) Ah, well, 
now seriously! Between two people who 
have suffered and made their own mis- 
takes — 

ViDA. {Playing the game too, but not play- 
ing it well.) But you see, you don't 
really love me! 

John. {Still ready to say what is ex- 
pected.) Cynthia — Vida, no man can sit 
beside you and look into your eyes with- 
out feeling — 

Vida. {Speaking the truth as she sees if, 
seeing that her methods don't succeed.) 
Oh ! ' That 's not love ! That 's simply- 
well, my dear Jack, it 's beginning at the 
wrong end. And the truth is you hate 
Cynthia Karslake w^th such a whole- 
hearted hate, that you have n't a moment 
to think of any other woman, 



John. , {With sudden anger.) I hate her! 

Vida. {Very softly and most sweetly.) 
Jack — Jack, I could be as foolish about 
you as — oh, as foolish as anything, my 
dear! And perhaps some day — perhaps 
some day you '11 come to me and say, 
Vida, I am totally indifferent to Cynthia 
— and then — 

John. And then? 

Vida. {The ideal woman in mind.) Then, 
perhaps, you and I may join hands and 
stroll together into the Garden of Eden, 
It takes two to find the Garden of Eden, 
you know — and once we 're on the inside, 
we '11 lock the gate. 

John. {Gaily, and seeing straight through 
her veneer.) And lose the key under a 
rose-bush ! 

Vida. {Agreeing very softly.) Under a 
rose-bush! {Very soft knock.) Come! 
(John rises quickly.) 

{Enter Benson and Brooks.) 

Brooks. {Stolid and announcing.) Mj'- 
lady— Sir Wilf— 

(Benson stops him with a sharp move- 
ment and turns toward Vida.) 

Benson. {With intention.) Your dress- 
maker, ma'am, 

(Benson waves Brooks to go. Exit 
Brooks, very haughtily.) 

Vida. {Wonder ingly.) My dressmaker, 
Benson? {WitJt quick intelligence.) 
Oh, of course, show her up. Mr. Kars- 
lake, you won't mind for a few minutes 
using my men's club room? Benson will 
show you ! You '11 find cigars and the 
ticker, sporting papers, whiskey; and, 
if you want anything special, just 'phone 
down to my "chef." 

John. {Looking at his watch.) How 
long? 

Vida. {Very anxious to please.) Half a 
cigar ! Benson will call you. 

John. {Practical.) Don't make it too 
long. You see, there 's my sheriff's sale 
on at twelve, and those races this after- 
noon. Fiddler will be here in ten min- 

' {Door opens.) 
Vida. {To John.) Run along! {Exit 
John. Vida suddenly practical, and 
with a broad gesttire to Benson.) Ev- 
erything just as it was, Benson! (Ben- 
son whisks the roses out of the vase and 
replaces them in the box. She gives 
Vida scissors and empty vases, and when 
Vida finds herself in precisely the same 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



733 



position ichich preceded John's entrance, 
she says:) There! 

{Enter Brooks, as Vida takes a rose from 
the bc(sket.) 

Brooks. {Stolidh/.) Your ladyship's 
dressmaker ! M 'lady ! 

(Enter Sir Wilfrid in morning suit with 
hoiitonniere.) 

Vida. (With tender surprise and busy 
with the roses.) Is that really you, Sir 
Wilfrid ! I never flattered myself for 
an instant that you 'd remember to come. 
Sir Wilfrid. {Coming to her above end 
of sofa.) Come? 'Course I come! 
Keen to come see you. By Jove, you 
know, you look as pink and white as a 
huntin' mornin'. 
Vida. {Ready to make any man as happy 

as possible.) You'll smoke'? 
Sir Wilfrid. Thanks! {He watches her 
as she trims and arranges the flowers.) 
Awfully long fingers you have ! Wish I 
was a rose, or a ring, or a pair of shears ! 
I say, d' you ever notice what a devil of 
a fellow I am for originality, what? 
{Unlike John, he is evidently impressed 
by her.) You've got a delicate little den 
up here ! Not so much low livin' and 
high thinkin', as low lights and no 
thinkin' at all, I hope — eh? 

{By this time Vida has filled a vase 
with roses arid rises to sweep by him 
and if possible make another charm- 
ing picture to his eyes.) 
Vida. You don't mind my moving about? 
Sir Wilfrid. {Impressed.) Not if you 
don't mind my watchin'. {He sits on the 
sofa.) And sayin' how well you do it. 
Vida. It 's most original of you to come 
here this morning. I don't quite see why 
you did. 

{She places the roses here and there, 
as if to see their effect, and leaves 
them on a small table near the door 
through which her visitors entered.) 
Sir Wilfrid. Admiration. 
Vida. {Sauntering slowly toward the mir- 
ror as she speaks.) Oh, I saw that you 
admired her! And of course, she did 
say she was coming here at eleven ! But 
that was only bravado ! She won't come, 
and besides, I 've given orders to admit 
no one! 
Sir Wilfrid. May I ask you — 

{He throws this in in the middle of 
her speech, which flows gently and 
steadily on.) 



Vida. And indeed, if she came now, Mr. 
Karslake has gone, and her sole object in 
coming was to make him uncomfortable. 
{She goes toward the table: stopping a 
half minute at the mirror to see that she 
looks as she wishes to look.) Very dan- 
gerous symptom, too, that passionate de- 
sire to make one's former husband un- 
happy ! But, I can't believe that your 
admiration for Cynthia Karslake is so 
warm that it led you to pay me this visit 
a half hour too early in the hope of 
seeing — 

Sir Wilfrid. {Rising; most civil, but 
speaking his mind like a Briton.) I say, 
would you mind stopping a moment! 
{She smiles.) I'm not an American, 
you know; I was brought up not to in- 
terrupt. But you Americans, it 's differ- 
ent with you! If somebody didn't in- 
terrupt you, you 'd go on forever. 

Vida. {She passes him to tantalize.) My 
point is you come to see Cynthia — 

Sir Wilfrid. {He believes she means it.) 
I came liopin' to see — 

Vida. {As before.) Cynthia! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Perfectly single-minded 
and entirely taken in.) But I would 
have come even if I 'd known — 

Vida. {Evading him while he follows.) I 
don't believe it! 

Sir Wilfrid. {As before.) Give you my 
word I — 

Vida. {The same.) You're here to see 
her! And of course — 

Sir Wilfrid. {Determined to be heard 
because, after all, he 's a man.) May I 
have the — eh — the floor? (Vida sits in 
a chair.) 1 was jolly well bowled over 
with Mrs. Karslake, I admit that, and I 
hoped to see her here, but — 

Vida. {Talking nonsense and knowing it.) 
You had another object in coming. In 
fact, you came to see Cynthia, and you 
came to see me! What I really long to 
know, is why you wanted to see me! 
For, of course, Cynthia 's to be mar- 
ried at three! And, if she wasn't she 
would n't have you ! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Not intending to wound; 
merely speaking the flat truth.) Well, I 
mean to jolly well ask her. 

Vida. {Indignant.) To be your wife? 

Sir Wilfrid. Why not? 

Vida. {As before.) And you came here, 
to my house — in order to ask her — 

Sir Wilfrid. {Truthful even on a subtle 
point.) Oh, but that 's only my first rea- 
son for coming, you know. 



■34 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



ViDA. {Concealing her hopes.) Well, 
now I am curious — what is the second? 

Sir Wilfrid. [Simply.) Are you feelin' 
pretty robust? 

ViDA. I don't know! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Crossing to buffet.) Will 
you have something, and then I '11 tell 
you! 

ViDA. {Gaily.) Can't I support the news 
without — 

Sir Wilfrid. {Trying to explain his state 
of mind, a thing he has never been able 
to do.) Mrs. Phillimore, you see it's 
this way. Whenever you're lucky, 
you 're too lucky. Now, Mrs. Karslake 
is a nipper and no mistake, but as I told 
you, the very same evenin' and house 
where I saw her — 

{He attempts to take her hand.) 

ViDA. {Gently rising and affecting a ten- 
der surprise.) What! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Rising with her.) That's 
it ! — You 're over ! 

{He suggests with his right hand the 
movement of a horse taking a hur- 
dle.) 

ViDA. {Very sweetly.) You don't really 
mean — 

Sir Wilfrid. {Carried away for the mo- 
ment by so much true womanliness.) I 
mean, I stayed awake for an hour last 
night, thinkin' about you. 

ViDA. {Speaking to be contradicted.) 
But, you 've just told me — that Cynthia — 

Sir WilfriDu {Admitting the fact.) 
Well, she did — she did bowl my wicket, 
but so did you — 

Vida. {Taking him very gently to task.) 
Don't you think there 's a limit to — 

{She sits.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {Roused by so much loveli- 
ness of soul.) Now, see here, Mrs. Phil- 
limore ! You and I are not bottle babies, 
eh, are we? You 've been married and — 
I — I 've knocked about, and we both know 
there 's a lot of stuff talked about — eh, 
eh, well, you know: — the one and only — 
that a fellow can't be awfully well 
smashed by two at the same time, don't 
you know ! All rubbish ! You know it, 
and the proof of the puddin 's in the 
eatin', I am! 

Vida. {As before.) May I ask where I 
come in? 

Sir Wilfrid. Well, now, Mrs. Phillimore, 
I '11 be frank with you, Cynthia 's my 
favorite, but you 're runnin' her a close 
second in the popular esteem! 

Vida. {Laughing, determined not to take 



offense.) What a delightful, original, 
fantastic person you are! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Frankly happy that he 
has explained everything so neatly.) I 
knew you 'd take it that way ! 

Vida. And what next, pray? 

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, just the usual, — eh, — 
thing, — the — eh — the same old question, 
don't you know. Will you have me if 
she don't? 

Vida. {A shade piqued, but determined 
not to risk showing it.) And you call 
that the same old usual question? 

Sir Wilfrid. Yes, I know% but — but will 
you? I sail in a week; we can take the 
same boat. And — eh — eh — my dear Mrs. 
— may n't I say Vida, I 'd like to see you 
at the head of my table. 

Vida. {With velvet irony.) With Cyn- 
thia at the foot? 

Sir Wilfrid. {Practical, as before.) 
Never mind Mrs. Karslake, — I admire 
her — she 's — but you have your own 
points ! And you 're here, and so 'm I ! — 
damme, I offer myself, and my affections, 
and I 'm no icicle, my dear, tell you that 
for a fact, and, and in fact what 's your 
answer! — (Vida sighs and shakes her 
head.) Make it, yes! I say, you know, 
my dear Vida — 

{He catches her hands.) 

Vida. {She slips them from him.) Un- 
hand me, dear villain! And sit further 
away from your second choice! What 
can I say ? I 'd rather have you for a 
lover than any man I know! You must 
be a lovely lover! 

Sir Wilfrid. I am! 

{He makes a second effort to catch 
her fingers.) 

Vida. Will you kindly go further away 
and be good! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Quite forgetting Cyn- 
thia. ) Look here, if you say yes, we '11 
be married — 

Vida. In a month! 

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, no — this evening! 

Vida. {Incapable of leaving a situation 
unadorned.) This evening! And sail 
in the same boat with you? And shall 
we sail to the Garden of Eden and stroll 
into it and lock the gate on the inside 
and then lose the key — under a rose- 
bush? 

Sir Wilfrid. {Pausing, and after consid- 
eration, saying.) Yes; yes, I say — 
that 's too clever for me ! 

{He draws nearer to her to bring the 
understanding to a crisis.) 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



735 



ViDA. {A soft knock at the door.) My 

maid — come ! 
Sir Wilfrid. (Swinging out of his chair 

and going to sofa.) Eh? 

{Enter Benson.) 

Benson. {To Vida.) The new footman, 
ma'am — he 's made a mistake. He 's 
told the lady you 're at home. 

Vida. What lady? 

Benson. Mrs. Karslake ; and she 's on the 
stairs, ma'am. 

Vida. Show her in. 

(Sir Wilfrid has been turtung over 
the roses. On hearing this, he faces 
about with a long stemmed one in his 
hand. He uses it in tJie following 
scene to point his remarks.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {To Benson, who stops.) 
One moment! {To Vida.) I say,. eh — 
I'd rather not see her! 

Vida. {Very innocently.) But you came 
here to see her. 

Sir Wilfrid. {A little flustered.) I'd 
rather not. Eh, — I fancied I 'd find you 
and her together — but her — {coming a 
step nearer) findin' me with you looks 
so dooced intimate, — no one else, d 'ye 
see, I believe she 'd — draw conclusions — 

Benson. Pardon me, ma'am — but I hear 
Brooks coming! 

Sir Wilfrid. {To Benson.) Hold the 
door! 

Vida. So you don't want her to know — ? 

Sir Wilfrid. ( To Vida. ) Be a good girl 
now — run me off somewhere! 

Vida. {To Benson.) Show Sir Wilfrid 
the men's room. 

{Enter Brooks.) 

Sir Wilfrid. The men's room! Ah! 
Oh! Eh! 

Vida. (Beckoning him to go at once.) 
Sir Wil— 

(He hesitates, then as Brooks comes 
on, he flings off with Benson.) 

Brooks. Lady Karslake, milady! 

Vida. Anything more inopportune! I 
never dreamed she'd come — (Enter 
Cynthia, veiled. She comes down 
quickly.) My dear Cynthia, you don't 
mean to say — (Languorously.) 

Cynthia. (Rather short, and visibly agi- 
tated. ) Yes, I 've come. 

Vida. (Polite, but not urgent.) Do take 
off your veil. 

Cynthia. (Doing as Vida asks.) Is no 
one here? 

Vida. (As before.) Won't you sit down? 



Cynthia. (Agitated and suspicious.) 
Thanks, no — That is, yes, thanks. 
Yes ! You have n't answered my ques- 
tion? 

(Cynthia waves her hand through the 
smoke, looks at the smoke suspi- 
ciously, looks for the cigarette.) 

Vida. (Playing innocence in the first de- 
gree.) My dear, what makes you imag- 
ine that any one 's here ! 

Cynthia. You 've been smoking. 

Vida. Oh, puffing away! 

(Cynthia sees the glasses on the 
table.) 

Cynthia. And drinking — a pair of 
drinks? (She sees John's gloves on the 
table at her elbow.) Do they fit you, 
dear? (Vida smiles; Cynthia picks up 
crop and looks at it and reads her own 
name.) "Jack, from Cynthia." 

Vida. (without taking the trouble to dou- 
ble for a mere woman.) Yes, dear; it's 
Mr. Karslake's crop, but I 'm happy to 
say he left me a few minutes ago. 

Cynthia. He left the house? (Vida 
smiles.) I wanted to see him. 

Vida. (With a shade of insolence.) To 
quarrel ? 

Cynthia. (Frank and curt.) I wanted 
to see him. 

Vida. (Determined to put Cynthia in the 
wrong.) And I sent him away because 
I did n't want you to repeat the scene of 
last night in my house. 

Cynthia. (Looks at John's riding crop 
and is silent.) Well, I can't stay. I'm 
to be married at three, and I had to play 
truant to get here! 

(Enter Benson.) 

Benson. (To Vida.) There's a person, 
ma'am, on the sidewalk. 

Vida. What person, Benson? 

Benson. A person, ma'am, with a horse. 

Cynthia. (Happily agitated.) It 's Fid- 
dler with Cynthia K. 

(She goes up rapidly and looks out 
back through the window.) 

Vida. [To Benson.) Tell the man I'll 
be down in five minutes. 

Cynthia. (Looking down from the bal- 
cony with delight.) Oh, there she is! 

Vida. (Aside to Benson.) Go to the 
club room, Benson, and say to the two 
gentlemen I can't see them at present — 
I '11 send for them when — 

Benson. (Listening.) I hear some one 
coming. 

Vida. Quick ! 



730 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



(Benson leaves the door, which opens, 
and John enters. John comes in 
slowly, carelessly. Vida whispers 
to Benson.) 

Benson. {Crosses, goes close to John 
and whispers.) Beg par — 

Vida. {Under her breath.) Go back! 

John. {Not understanding.) I beg par- 
don! 

Vida. {As before.) Go back! 

John. {The same.) Can't! I've a date! 
With the sheriff! 

Vida. {A little cross.) Please use your 
eyes. 

John. {Laughing and flattering Vida.) 
I am using my eyes. 

Vida. {Fretted.) Don't you see there's 
a lovely creature in the room? 

John. {Again taking the loud upper- 
hand.) Of course there is. 

Vida. Hush ! 

John. {Teasingly.) But what I want to 
know is — 

Vida. Hush ! 

John. {Delighted at getting a rise.) — is 
when we're to stroll in the Garden of 
Eden— 

Vida. Hush ! 

John. — and lose the key. {To put a 
stop to this, she lightly tosses her hand- 
kerchief into his face.) By George, talk 
about attar of roses! 

Cynthia. {Up at window, excited and 
moved at seeing her mare once more.) 
Oh, she's a darling! {She turns.) A 
perfect darling! (John starts; he sees 
Cynthia at the same instant that she 
sees him.) Oh! I didn't know you 
were here. {Pause; then with ^Hake-it- 
or-leave-it" frankness.) I came to see 
you! 

(John looks extremely dark and 
angry; Vida rises.) 

Vida. {To Cynthia, most gently, and 
seeing there 's nothing to be made of 
John.) Oh, pray feel at home, Cyn- 
thia, dear! {Stands by door; to John.) 
When I 've a nice street frock on, I '11 
ask you to present me to Cynthia K. 

{Exit Vida.) 

Cynthia. {Agitated and frank.) Of 
course, I told you yesterday I was com- 
ing here. 

John. {Irritated.) And I was to deny 
myself the privilege of being here? 

Cynthia. {Curt and agitated.) Yes. 

John. {Beady to fight.) And you 
guessed I would do that? 

Cynthia. No. 



John. What? 

Cynthia. {Above table. She speaks 
with agitation, frankness and good will.) 
Jack — I mean, Mr. Karslake, — no, I 
mean. Jack! I came because — well, you 
see, it 's my wedding day ! — and — and — 
I — I — was rude to you last evening. 
I 'd like to apologize and make peace 
with you before I go — 

John. {Determined to be disagreeable.) 
Before 3'ou go to your last, long home! 

Cynthia. I came to apologize. 

John. But you '11 remain to quarrel ! 

Cynthia. {Still frank and kind.) I will 
not quarrel. No ! — and I 'm only here 
for a moment. I 'm to be married at 
three, and just look at the clock! Be- 
sides, I told Philip I was going to 
Louise's shop, and I did — on the way 
here; but, you see, if I stay too long 
he '11 telephone Louise and find I 'm not 
there, and he might guess I was here. 
So you see I 'm risking a scandal. And 
now, Jack, see here, I lay my hand on 
the table, I 'm here on the square, and, 
— what I want to say is, why — Jack, 
even if we have made a mess of our 
married life, let 's put by anger and 
pride. It 's all over now and can't be 
helped. So let 's be human, let 's be rea- 
sonable, and let 's be kind to each other ! 
Won't you give me your hand? (John 
refuses.) 1 wish you every happiness! 

John. {Turning away, the past ran- 
kling.) I had a client once, a murderer; 
he told me he murdered the man, and he 
told me, too, that he never felt so kindly 
to anybody as he did to that man after 
he 'd killed him ! 

Cynthia. Jack ! 

John. {Unforgiving.) You murdered my 
happiness ! 

Cynthia. I won't recriminate! 

John. And now I must put by anger and 
pride! I do! But not self-respect, not 
a just indignation — not the facts and my 
clear memory of them ! 

Cynthia. Jack ! 

John. No ! 

Cynthia. {With growing emotion, and 
holding out her hand.) I give you one 
more chance ! Yes, I 'm determined to 
be generous. I forgive everything you 
ever did to me. I 'm ready to be friends. 
I wish you every happiness and every — 
every — horse in the world! I can't do 
more than that! {She offers her hand 
again.) You refuse? 

John. {Moved, but surly.) I like wild- 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



737 



cats and J like Christians, but I don't 
like Christian wildcats! Now I'm close 
hauled, trot out your tornado! Let the 
Tiger loose! It's the tamer, the man 
in the cage that has to look lively and 
use the red hot crowbar! But by Jove, 
I 'm out of the cage ! I 'm a mere spec- 
tator of the married circus! 

{He puffs vigorously.) 

Cynthia. Be a game sport then! Our 
marriage was a wager; you wagered you 
could live with me. You lost; you paid 
with a divorce; and now is the time to 
show your sporting blood. Come on, 
shake hands and part friends. 

John. Not in this world! Friends with 
you, no! I have a proper pride. I 
don't propose to put my pride in my 
pocket. 

Cynthia. {Jealous and plain spoken.) 
Oh, I wouldn't ask you to put your 
pride in your pocket while Vida's hand- 
kerchief is there. (John looks angered.) 
Pretty little bijou of a handkerchief! 
(Cynthia takes handkerchief out.) 
And she is charming, and divorced, and 
reasonably well made up. 

John. Oh, well, Vida is a woman. {Toy- 
ing with handkerchief.) I 'm a man, a 
handkerchief is a handkerchief, and as 
some old Aristotle or other said, what- 
ever concerns a woman, concerns me ! 

Cynthia. {Not oblivious of him, hut in a 
low voice.) Insufferable! Well, yes. 
{She sits. She is too much wounded to 
make any further appeal.) You 're per- 
fectly right. There 's no possible har- 
mony between divorced people! I with- 
draw my hand and all good feeling. No 
wonder I couldn't stand you. Eh? 
However, that 's pleasantly past ! But 
at least, my dear Karslake, let us have 
some sort of beauty of behavior! If we 
cannot be decent, let us endeavor to be 
graceful. If we can't be moral, at least 
we can avoid being vulgar. 

John. Well — 

Cynthia. If there 's to be no more mar- 
riage in the world — 

John. {Cynical.) Oh, but that's not it; 
there 's to be more and more and more ! 

Cynthia. {With a touch of bitterness.) 
Very well ! I repeat then, if there 's to 
be nothing but marriage and divorce, 
and remarriage, and redivorce, at least, 
at least, those who are divorced can 
avoid the vulgarity of meeting each other 
here, there, and everywhere ! 

John. Oh, that 's where you come out ! 



Cynthia. I thought so yesterday, and to- 
day I know it. It's an insufferable 
thing to a woman of any delicacy of 
feeling to find her husband — 

John. Ahem — former ! 

Cynthia. Once a husband always — 

John. {Still cynical.) Oh, no! Oh, 
dear, no. 

Cynthia. To find her — to find the man 
she has once lived with — in the house of 
— making love to — to find you here! 
(John smiles and rises.) You smile, — • 
but I say, it should be a social axiom, no 
woman should have to meet her former 
husband. 

John. {Cynical and cutting.) Oh, I 
don't know ; after I 've served my term 
I don't mind meeting my jailor. 

Cynthia. (John takes a chair near Cyn- 
thia. ) It 's indecent — at the horse- 
show, the opera, at races and balls, to 
meet the man who once — It 's not civi- 
lized ! It 's fantastic ! It 's half baked ! 
Oh, I never should have come here! 
{He sympathizes^ and she grows irra- 
tional and furious.) But it's entirely 
your fault ! 

John. My fault? 

Cynthia. {Working herself into a rage.) 
Of course. What business have you to 
be about — to be at large. To be at all! 

John. Gosh ! 

Cynthia. {As before.) To be where I 
am ! Yes, it 's just as horrible for you 
to turn up in my life as it would be for 
a dead person to insist on coming back 
to life and dinner and bridge! 

John. Horrid idea! 

Cynthia. Yes, but it 's you w^ho behave 
just as if you were not dead, just as if 
I 'd not spent a fortune on your funeral. 
You do ; you prepare to bob up at after- 
noon teas, — and dinners — and embarrass 
me to death with your extinct person- 
ality! 

John. Well, of course we were married, 
but it didn't quite kill me. 

Cynthia. {Angry and plain spoken.) 
You killed yourself for me — I divorced 
you. I buried you out of my life. If 
any human soul was ever dead, you are! 
And there 's nothing I so hate as a gib- 
bering ghost. 

John. Oh, I say! 

Cynthia. {With hot anger.) Go gibber 
and squeak where gibbering and squeak- 
ing are the fashion! 

John. {Laughing and pretending to a 
coldness he does not feel.) And so, my 



738 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



dear child, I 'm to abate myself as a nui- 
sance! Well, as far as seeing you is 
concerned, for my part it 's just like see- 
ing a horse who 's chucked you once. 
The bruises are 0. K., and you see him 
with a sort of easy curiosity. Of course, 
you know, he '11 jolly well chuck the next 
man! — Permit me! (John picks up 
gloves, handkerchief and parasol and 
gives her these as she drops them one by 
one in her agitation.) There's pleasure 
in "the thought. 

Cynthia. Oh ! 

John. And now, may I ask you a very 
simple question? Mere curiosity on my 
part, but, why did you come here this 
morning ? 

Cynthia. I have already explained that 
to you. 

John. Not your real motive. Permit me ! 

Cynthia. Oh ! 

John. But I believe I have guessed your 
real — permit me — your real motive! 

Cynthia. Oh ! 

John. {With mock sympathy.) Cynthia, 
I am sorry for you. 

Cynthia. H'm? 

John. Of course we had a pretty lively 
case of the fever — the mutual attraction 
fever, and we were married a very short 
time. And I conclude that 's what ^s the 
matter with you! You see, my dear, 
seven montlis of married life is too short 
a time to cure a bad case of the fancies. 

Cynthia. {In angry surprise.) What? 

John. {Calm and triumphant.) That's 
my diagnosis. 

Cynthia. {Slowly and gathering herself 
together.) I don't think I understand. 

John. Oh, yes, you do; yes, you do. 

Cynthia. {With blazing eyes.) What 
do you mean? 

John. Would you mind not breaking my 
crop! Thank you! I mean {With po- 
lite impertinence.) that ours was a case 
of premature divorce, and, ahem, you 're 
in love with me still. 

{He pauses. Cynthia has one mo- 
ment of fury, then she realizes at 
what a disadvantage this places her. 
She makes an immense effort, re- 
covers her calm, thinks hard for a 
moment more, and then, has sud- 
denly an inspiration.) 

Cynthia. Jack, some day you '11 get the 
blind staggers from conceit. No, I 'm 
not in love with you, Mr. Karslake, but 
I shouldn't be at all surprised if she 
were. She's just your sort, you know. 



She's a man-eating shark, and you '11 be 
a toothsome mouthful. Oh, come now, 
Jack, what a silly you are ! Oh, yes, you 
are, to get off a joke like that; me — in 
love with — {She looks at him.) 

John. Why are you here? {She laughs 
and begins to play her game.) Why are 
you here? 

Cynthia. Guess! {She laughs.) 

John. Why are you — 

Cynthia. {Quickly.) Why am I here! 
I '11 tell you. I 'm going to be married. 
I had a longing, an irresistible longing 
to see you make an ass of yourself just 
once more! It happened! 

John. {Uncertain and discomfited.) I 
know better! 

Cynthia. But I came for a more serious 
purpose, too. I came, my dear fellow, 
to make an experiment on myself. I 've 
been with you thirty minutes; and — 
{She sighs with content.) It 's all right! 

John. What 's all right? 

Cynthia. {Calm and apparently at peace 
with the world.) I'm immune. 

John. Immune ? 

Cynthia. You 're not catching any more ! 
Yes, you see, I said to myself, if I fly 
into a temper — 

John. You did! 

Cynthia. If I fly into a temper when I 
see him, well that shows I 'm not yet so 
entirely convalescent that I can afford to 
have Jack Karslake at my house. If I 
remain calm I shall ask him to dinner. 

John. {Routed.) Ask me if you dare! 

{He rises.) 

Cynthia. {Getting the whip hand for 
good.) Ask you to dinner? Oh, my 
dear fellow. (John rises.) I'm goings 
to do much more than that. {She rises.) 
We must be friends, old man ! We must 
meet, we must meet often, we must show 
New York the way the thing should be 
done, and, to show you I mean it — I 
want you to be my best man, and give me 
away when I 'm married this afternoon. 

John. {Incredulous and impatient.) You 
don't mean that! {He puts back chair.) 

Cynthia. There you are! Always sus- 
picious ! 

John. You don't mean that! 

Cynthia. {Hiding her emotion under a 
sportswoman^ s manner.) Don't I? I 
ask you, come ! And come as you are ! 
And I '11 lay my wedding gown to Cyn- 
thia K that you won't be there! If 
you 're there, you get the gown, and if 
you 're not, I get Cynthia K ! — 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



739 



John. {Determined not to be worsted.) 
I take it! 

Cynthia. Done! Now, then, we'll see 
which of us two is the real sporting 
goods! Shake! {They shake hands on 
it.) Would you mind letting me have a 
plain soda? (John goes to the table, 
and, as he is rattled and does not regard 
what he is about, he fills the glass three- 
fourths full with whiskey. He comes to 
Cynthia and gives her this. She looks 
him in the eye with an air of triumph.) 
Thanks. {Maliciously, as Vida enters.) 
Your hand is a bit shaky. I think you 
need a little King William. 

(John shrugs his shoulders, and as 
Vida immediately speaks, Cynthia 
defers drinking.) 

Vida. ( To Cynthia. ) My dear, I 'm 
sorry to tell you your husband — I mean, 
my husband — I mean Philip — he's ask- 
ing for you over the 'phone. You must 
have said you were coming here. Of 
course, I told him you were not here, 
and hung up. 

{Enter Benson.) 

Benson. {To Vida.) Ma'am, the new 
footman 's been talking with Mr. Phiili- 
more on the wire. (Vida makes a ges- 
ture of regret.) He told Mr. Phillimore 
that his lady was here, and if I can be- 
lieve my ears, ma'am, he 's got Sir Wil- 
frid on the 'phone now! 

{Enter Sir Wilfrid.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {Comes from room, per- 
plexed and annoyed.) I say y' know — 
extraordinary country; that old chap, 
Phillimore, he 's been damned imperti- 
nent over the wire ! Says I 've run off 
with Mrs. Karslake — talks about "Lou- 
ise" ! Now who the dooce is Louise ? 
He 's comin' round here, too — I said 
Mrs. Karslake wasn't here — {Seeing 
Cynthia.) Hello! Good job! What a 
liar I am! 

Benson. {To Vida.) Mr. Fiddler, ma'am, 
says the mare is gettin' very restive. 
(John hears this and moves at once. 
Exit Benson.) 

John. {To Vida.) If that mare's rest- 
ive, she '11 break out in a rash. 

Vida. (To John.) Will you take me? 

John. Of course. {They go to the door.) 

Cynthia. {To John.) Tata, old man! 
Meet you at the altar! If I don't, the 
mare 's mine ! 

(Sir Wilfrid looks at her amazed.) 



Vida. {To Cynthia.) Do the honors, 

dear, in my absence! 
John. Come along, come along, never 
mind them! A horse is a horse! 

{Exeunt John and Vida, gaily and in 
haste. At the same moment Cyn- 
thia drinks what she supposes to be 
her glass of plain soda. As it is 
whiskey straight, she is seized with 
astonishment and a fit of coughing. 
Sir Wilfrid relieves her of the 
glass.) 
Sir Wilfrid. {Indicating contents of 
glass.) I say, do you ordinarily take it 
as high up — as seven fingers and two 
thumbs? 
Cynthia. {Coughs.) Jack poured it out. 
Just shows how groggy he was! And 
now. Sir Wilfrid — 

{She gets her things to go.) 
Sir Wilfrid. Oh, you can't go! 

{Enter Brooks.) 

Cynthia. I am to be married at three. 

Sir Wilfrid. Let him wait. {Aside to 
Brooks, whom he meets near the door.) 
If Mr. Phillimore comes, bring his card 
up. 

Brooks. {Going.) Yes, Sir Wilfrid. ^ 

Sir Wilfrid. {To Brooks, as before.) 
To me! {He tips' him.) 

Brooks. {Bowing.) To you. Sir Wilfrid. 

{Exit Brooks.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {Returning to Cynthia.) 
I 've got to have my innings, y' know ! 
{He looks at her more closely.) I say, 
you 've been crying ! — 

Cynthia. King William! 

Sir Wilfrid. You are crying! Poor lit- 
tle gal! 

Cynthia. {Tears in her eyes.) 1 feel all 
shaken and cold. 

{Enter Brooks, with card.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {Astonished and sympa- 
thetic.) Poor little gal. 

Cynthia. {As before.) I didn't sleep a 
wink last night. {With disgust.) Oh, 
what is the matter with me? 

Sir Wilfrid. Why, it's as plain as a 
pikestaff! You— (Brooks has brought 
salver to Sir VVilfrid. A card lies 
upon it. Sir Wilfrid takes it and says 
aside to Brooks.) Phillimore? (Brooks 
assents. Aloud to Cynthia, calmly de- 
ceitful.) Who's Waldorf Smith? 
(Cynthia shakes her head. To Brooks, 



740 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



returning card to salver.) Tell the gen- 
tleman Mrs. Karslake is not here ! 

{Exit Brooks.) 

Cynthia. {Aware that she has no busi- 
ness where she is.) I thought it was 
Philip ! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Telling the truth as if it 
were a lie.) So did I! {With cheerful 
confidence.) And now, Mrs. Karslake, 
I '11 tell you why you 're cryin'. {He 
sits beside her.) You're marryin' the 
wrong man ! I 'm sorry for you, but 
you 're such a goose. Here you are, 
marryin' this legal luminary. What 
for? You don't know! He don't know! 
But I do ! You pretend you 're marry- 
in' him because it 's the sensible thing ; 
not a bit of it. You 're marryin' Mr. 
Phillimore because of all the other men 
you ever saw he 's the least like Jack 
Karslake. 

Cynthia. That 's a very good reason. 

Sir Wilfrid. There 's only one good rea- 
son for marrying, and that is because 
you '11 die if you don't ! 

Cynthia. Oh, I 've tried that I 

Sir Wilfrid. The Scripture says: "Try! 
try ! again !" I tell you, there 's nothing 
like a w'im! 

Cynthia. What's that? W'im? Oh, 
you mean a whim! Do please try and 
say WMm! 

Sir Wilfrid. {For the first time empha- 
sizing his H in the word.) W/^im. You 
must have a w'im — w'im for the chappie 
you marry. 

Cynthia. I had — for Jack. 

Sir Wilfrid. Your w'im was n't wimmy 
enough, my dear ! if you 'd had more of 
it, and tougher, it would ha' stood y' 
know ! Now, I 'm not proposin' ! 

Cynthia. {Diverted at last from her own 
distress.) I hope not! 

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, I will later ! It 's not 
time yet! As I was saying — 

Cynthia. And pray, Sir Wilfrid, when 
will it be time? 

Sir Wilfrid. As soon as I see you have 
a w'im for me! {Rising, he looks at his 
watch.) And now, I'll tell you what 
we '11 do ! We 've got just an hour to 
get there in, my motor's on the corner, 
and in fifty minutes we '11 be at Belmont 
Park. 

Cynthia. (Her sporting blood fired.) 
Belmont Park! 

Sir Wilfrid. We '11 do the races, and 
dine at Martin's — 

Cynthia. {Tempted.) Oh, if I only * 



could ! I can't ! I 've got to be mar- 
ried ! You 're awfully nice ; I 've al- 
most got a "w'im" for you already. 

Sir Wilfrid. {Delighted.) There you 
are ! I '11 send a telegram ! 

{She shakes her head. He sits and 
writes at the table.) 

Cynthia. No, no, no! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Reads what he writes.) 
"Off with Cates-Darby to races. Please 
postpone ceremony till seven-thirty." 

Cynthia. Oh, no, it 's impossible ! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Accustomed to have things 
go his way.) No more than breathin'! 
You can't get a w'im for me, you know, 
unless we 're together, so together we '11 
be! 

{Enter John Karslake.) 

And to-morrow you'll wake up with a 
jolly little w'im — {Reads.) "Postpone 
ceremony till seven-thirty." There. {He 
puts on her cloak. /Sees John.) Hello! 

John. {Surly.) Hello! Sorry to dis- 
turb you. 

Sir. Wilfrid. {Cheerful as possible.) 
Just the man! {diving him the tele- 
graph form.) Just step round and send 
it, my boy. Thanks! (John reads it.) 

Cynthia. No, no, I can't go! 

Sir Wilfrid. Cockety-coo-coo-can't. I 
say, you must! 

Cynthia. {Positively.) No! 

John. {Astounded.) Do you mean 
you 're going — 

Sir Wilfrid. {Very gay.) Off to the 
races, my boy! 

John. {Angry and outraged.) MrSc 
Karslake can't go with you there! 

(Cynthia starts, amazed at his as- 
sumption of marital authority, and 
delighted that she will have an op- 
portunity of outraging his sensi- 
bilities.) 

Sir Wilfrid. Oho! 

John. An hour before her wedding ! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Gay and not angry.) 
May I know if it 's the custom — 

John. {Jealous and disgusted.) It's 
w^orse than eloping — 

Sir Wilfrid. Custom, y' know, for the 
husband, that was, to dictate — 

John. {Thoroughly vexed.) By George, 
there 's a limit ! 

Cynthia. What? What? What? {Gath- 
ers up her things.) What did I hear 
you say? 

Sir Wilfrid. Ah! 

John. (Angry.) I say there's a limit — 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



741 



Cynthia. {More and more determined to 
arouse and excite John.) Oli, there's 
a limit, is there? 

John. There is! I bar the way! It 
means reputation — it means — 

Cynthia. {Enjoying her opportunity.) 
We shall see what it means! 

Sir Wilfrid. Aha! 

John. {To Cynthia.) I'm here to pro- 
tect your reputation — 

Sir Wilfrid. {To Cynthia.) We-'ve 
got to make haste, you know. 

Cynthia. Now, I 'm ready — 

John. {To Cynthia.) Be sensible. 
You 're breaking off the match — 

Cynthia. {Excitedly.) What's that to 
you? 

Sir Wilfrid. It 's boots and saddles ! 

John. {He takes his stand between them 
and the door.) No thoroughfare! 

Sir Wilfrid. Look here, my boy — ! 

Cynthia. {Cat citing at the opportunity 
of putting John in an impossible posi- 
tion.) Wait a moment, Sir Wilfrid! 
Give me the wire! {Facing him.) 
Thanks! {Site takes the telegraph form 
from him and tears it up.) There! Too 
rude to chuck him by wire! But you, 
Jack, you 've taken on yourself to look 
after my interests, so I '11 just ask you, 
old man, to run down to the Supreme 
Court and tell Philip — nicely, you know 
— I 'm off with Sir Wilfrid and where ! 
Say I '11 be back by seven, if I 'm not 
later ! And make it clear. Jack, I '11 
marry him by eight-thirty or nine at the 
latest! And mind you're there, dear! 
And now. Sir Wilfrid, we 're off. 

John. {Staggered and furious, giving 
icay as they pass him.) I'm not the 
man to — to carry — 

Cynthia. {Quick and dashing.) Oh, yes, 
you are. 

John. — a message from you. 

Cynthia. {Triumphant.) Oh, yes, you 
are ; you 're just exactly the man ! 

{Exeunt Cynthia and Sir Wilfrid.) 

John. Great miracles of Moses! 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene. — The same as that of Act First, but 
the room has been cleared of too much 
furniture, and arranged for a wedding 
ceremo7iy. The curtain rises on Mrs. 
Phillimore reclining on the sofa, Miss 
Hexeage is seated left of table, Sudley 
is seated at its right, while Grace is on 



the sofa. There are cushions of flowers, 
alcove of flowers, flowers in vase, pink 
and white hangings, wedding bell of roses, 
calla lilies, orange blossoms, a ribbon of 
white stretched in front of an altar of 
flowers; two cushions for the couple to 
kneel on; two candelabra at each side 
of back of arch on pedestals. The cur- 
tain rises. There is a momentary silence, 
that the audience may take in these sym- 
bols of marriage. Every member of the 
Phillimore family is irritable, with sup- 
pressed irritation. 

Sudley. {Impatiently.) All very well, 
my dear Sarah. But you see the hour. 
Twenty to ten ! We have been here since 
half -past two. 

Miss Heneage. You had dinner? 

Sudley. I did not come here at two to 
have dinner at eight, and be kept waiting 
until ten! And, my dear Sarah, when 
I ask where the bride is — 

Miss Heneage. {With forced composure.) 
I have told you all I know. Mr. John 
Karslake came to the house at lunch 
time, spoke to Philip, and they left the 
house together. 

Grace. Where is Philip ? 

Mrs. Phillmore. {Feebly irritated.) I 
don't wish to be censorious or to express 
an actual opinion, but I must say it's 
a bold bride who keeps her future 
mother-in-law waiting for eight hours. 
However, I will not venture to — 

(Mrs. Phillimore reclines again and 
fades away into silence.) 

Grace. {Sharply and decisively.) I do! 
I'm sorry I went to the expense of a 
silver ice-pitcher. 

(Mrs. Phillimore sighs. Miss Hen- 
eage keeps her temper with an ef- 
fort which is obvious.) 

{Enter Thomas.) 

Sudley. {To Mrs. Phillimore.) For my 
part, I don't believe Mrs. Karslake means 
to return here or to marry Philip at all ! 
Thomas. {To Miss Heneage.) Two tel- 
egrams for you, ma'am ! The choir boys 
have had their supper. 

{Slight movement from every one; 
Thomas steps back.) 
Sudley. {Bises.) At last we shall know ! 
Miss Heneage. From the lady! Prob- 
ably! 

(Miss Heneage opens telegram. She 
reads first one at a glance, laying 
it on salver again with a glance at 



742 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



SuDLEY. Thomas passes salver to 
SuDLEY, who takes telegram.) 
Grace. There 's a toot now. 
Mrs. Phillimore. {Feebly confused.) I 
don't wish to intrude, but really I can't 
imagine Philip marrying at midnight. 
{As SuDLEY reads, Miss Heneage 
opens the second telegram, but does 
not read it.) 
SuDLEY. {Reads.) "Accident, auto struck" 
— something ! "Gasoline" — did some- 
thing — illegible, ah! {Reads.) "Home 
by nine forty-five! Hold the church!" 
{General movement from all.) 
Miss Heneage. {Profoundly shocked.) 
"Hold the church!" William, she still 
means to marry Philip ! and to-night, 
too! 
SuDLEY. It 's from Belmont Park. 
Grace. {Making a great discovery.) She 

went to the races! 
Miss Heneage. This is from Phihp! 
(Miss Heneage reads second telegram.) 
"I arrive at ten o'clock. Have dinner 
ready." (Miss Heneage motions to 
Thomas to withdraw. Exit Thomas. 
Miss Heneage looks at her watch.) 
They are both due now. {Movement.) 
What's to be done? 

{She rises. Sudley shrugs shoulders.) 
SuDLEY. {Rising.) After a young woman 
has spent her wedding day at the races? 
Why, I consider that she has broken the 
engagement, — and when she comes, tell 
her so. 
Miss Heneage. I '11 telephone Matthew. 
The choir boys can go home — her maid 
can pack her belongings — and when the 
lady arrives — 

{Very distant toot of an auto-horn is 
heard coming nearer and nearer. 
Grace flies up stage and looks out 
of door. Mrs. Phillimore does not 
know what to do, or where to go. 
Sudley moves about excitedly. 
Miss Heneage stands ready to make 
herself disagreeable.) 
Grace. {Speaking rapidly and with ex- 
citement.) I hear a man's voice. Cates- 
Darby and brother Matthew. 

{Loud toot. Laughter and voices off 
back heard faintly. Grace looks out 
of the door, and leaves it rapidly.) 
Miss Heneage. Outrageous! 
Sudley. Disgraceful ! 

Mrs. Phillimore. {Partly rising as voices 
and horn are heard.) Shocking! I 
shall not take any part at all, in the — 
eh — {She fades away.) 



Miss Heneage. {Interrupting her.) Don'1; 
trouble yourself. 

{Voices and laughter grow louder. 
Cynthia's voice is heard.) 

(Sir Wilfrid appears at the hack. He 
turns and waits for Cynthia and Mat- 
thew. He carries wraps. He speaks to 
Cynthia, who is still off of stage. 
Matthew's voice is heard and Cyn- 
thia's. Cynthia appears at back, fol- 
lowed by Matthew. As they appear, 
Cynthia speaks to Matthew. Sir 
Wilfrid carries a newspaper and a par- 
asol. The hat is the one she wore in 
Act Second. She is in get-up for auto. 
Goggles, veil, an exquisite duster in latest 
Paris style. All three come down rap- 
idly. As she appears, Sudley and Miss 
Heneage exclaim, and there is a general 
movement.) 

Sudley. 'P on my word ! 
Grace. Hah ! 

Miss Heneage. {Rising with shocked pro- 
priety.) Shocking! 

(Grace remains standing above sofa. 
Sudley moves toward her. Miss 
Heneage sits down again. Mrs. 
Phillimore reclines on sofa. Cyn- 
thia begins to speak as soon as she 
appears and speaks fluently to the 
end.) 
Cynthia. No! I never was so surprised 
in my life, as when I strolled into the 
paddock and they gave me a rousing re- 
ception — old Jimmy Withers, Debt Gol- 
lup, Jack Deal, Monty Spiffles, the Gov- 
ernor and Buckeye. All of my old ad- 
mirers! They simply fell on my neck, 
and, dear Matthew, what do you think I 
did? I turned on the water main! 
{Movements and murmurs of disappro- 
bation from the family. Matthew indi- 
cates a desire to go.) Oh, but you can't 
go! 
Matthew. I '11 return in no time ! 
Cynthia. I 'm all ready to be married. 
Are they ready? (Matthew waves a 
pious, polite gesture of recognition to 
the family.) I beg everybody's pardon! 
{She takes off her wrap and puts it on 
the back of a chair.) My goggles are so 
dusty, I can't see who's who! {To Sir 
Wilfrid.) Thanks! You have carried 
it well! 

{Takes parasol from Sir Wilfrid.) 
Sir Wilfrid. {Aside to Cynthia.) When 

may I—? 
Cynthia. See you next Goodwood! 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



743 



Sir Wilfrid. {Imperturhably.) Oh, I 'm 
coming back! 

(Cynthia comes down.) 

Cyxthia. Not a bit of use in coming 

back ! I shall be married before you get 

here! Ta! Ta! Goodwood! 

Sir Wilfrid. {As before.) I'm coming 

back. 

{He goes out quickly. More murmurs 
of disapprobation from family. 
Slight pause.) 
Cynthia. {Beginning to take off her gog- 
gles, and coming down slowly.) I do 
awfully apologize for being so late ! 
Miss Heneage. {Importantly.) Mrs. 

Karslake — 
SuDLEY. {Importantly.) Ahem! 

(Cynthia lays down her goggles, and 

sees their severity.) 

Cynthia. Dear me! {She surveys the 

flowers, and for a moment pauses.) Oh, 

good heavens! Why, it looks like a 

smart funeral ! 

(Miss Heneage moves; then speaks in 
a perfectly ordinary natural tone, 
but her expression is severe. Cyn- 
thia immediately realizes the state 
of affairs in its fullness.) 
Miss Henage, {To Cynthia.) After 
what has occurred, Mrs. Karslake — 

(Cynthia glances at table.) 
Cynthia. {Sits at table, composed and 
good tempered.) I see you got my wire 
— so you know where I have been. 
Miss Heneage. To the race-course ! 
SuDLEY. With a rowdy Englishman. 

(Cynthia glances at Sudley, uncer- 
tain whether he means to be disagree- 
able, or whether he is only naturally 
so.) 
Miss Heneage. We concluded you desired 

to break the engagement! 
Cynthia. {Indifferently.) No! No! Oh! 

No! 
Miss Heneage. Do you intend, despite of 

our opinion of you — 
Cynthia. The only opinion that would 
have any weight with me would be Mrs. 
Phillimore's. 

{Site turns expectantly to Mrs. Phil- 

LIMORE. ) 

Mrs. Phillimore. I am generally asleep 
at this hour, and accordingly I will not 
venture to express any — eh — any — actual 
opinion. 

{She fades away. Cynthia smiles.) 

Miss Heneage. {Coldly.) You smile. 
We simply inform you that as regards 
usj the alliance is not grateful. 



Cynthia. {Affecting gaiety and uncon- 
cern.) And all this because the gasoline 
gave out. 

Sudley. My patience has given out ! 

Grace. So has mine. I 'm going. 

{Exit Grace.) 

Sudley. {Vexed beyond civility. To 
Cynthia.) My dear young lady: You 
come here, to this sacred — eh — eh — spot 
— altar! — odoriferous of the paddock! — 
speaking of Spiffles and Buckeye, — hav- 
ing practically eloped ! — having created 
a scandal, and disgraced our family! 

Cynthia. {As before.) How does it dis- 
grace you ? Because I like to see a high- 
bred, clean, nervy, sweet little four-legged 
gee play the antelope over a hurdle ! 

Miss Heneage. Sister, it is high time that 
you — {Turns to Cynthia.) 

Cynthia. {With quiet irony.) Mrs. 
Phillimore is generally asleep at this 
hour, and accordingly she will not ven- 
ture to express — 

Sudley. {Spluttering with irritation.) 
Enough, madam — I venture to — to — to — 
to say, you are leading a fast life. 

Cynthia. {With powerful intention.) 
Not in this house ! For six heavy weeks 
have I been laid away in the grave, and 
I Ve found it very slow indeed trying 
to keep pace with the dead ! 

Sudley. {Despairingly.) This comes of 
horses ! 

Cynthia. {Indignant.) Of what? 

Sudley. C-c-caring for horses! 

Miss Heneage. {With sublime morality.) 
What Mrs. Karslake cares for is — men. 

Cynthia. {Angry and gay.) What 
would you have me care for? The Or- 
nithorhyncus Paradoxus? or Pithacan- 
thropus Erectus? Oh, I refuse to take 
you seriously. 

(Sudley begins to prepare to leave; 
he buttons himself into respectability 
and his coat.) 

Sudley. My dear madam, I take myself 
seriously — and madam, I — I retract what 
I have brought with me {he feels in his 
waistcoat pocket) as a graceful gift, — 
an Egyptian scarab — a — a — sacred bee- 
tle, which once ornamented the person of 
a — eh — mummy. 

Cynthia. {Getting even with him.) It 
should never be absent from your pocket, 
Mr. Sudley. 

(Sudley walks away in a rage.) 

Miss Heneage. {Rising. To Sudley.) 
I 've a vast mind to withdraw mj^ — 

(Cynthia moves.) 



744 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



Cynthia. {Interrupts; maliciously.) Your 
wedding present? The little bronze cat! 
Miss Heneage. {Moves, angrily.) Oh! 
{Even Mrs. Phillimore comes mo- 
mentarily to life, and expresses si- 
lent indignation.) 
Sudley. {Loftily.) Sarah, I'm going. 

{Enter Philip at hack with Grace. Philip 
looks dusty and grim. Grace^ as they 
come in, speaks to him. Thilip shakes 
his head. They pause up stage.) 

Cynthia. {Emotionally.) I shall go to 
my room! However, all I ask is that 
you repeat to Philip — 

{She comes suddenly on Philip^ and 

speaks to him in a low tone.) 

Sudley. {To Miss Heneage, determined 

to win.) As I go out, I shall do myself 

the pleasure of calling a hansom for 

Mrs. Karslake — 

(Philip comes down two or three 
steps.) 
Philip. As you go out, Sudley, have a 
hansom called, and when it comes, get 
into it. 
Sudley. {Furious, and speaking to 
Philip.) Eh, — eh, — my dear sir, I leave 
you to your fate. 

(Philip angrily points him the door. 
Sudley goes out.) 
Miss Hexeage. {With weight.) Philip, 

you 've not heard — 
Philip. {Interrupts.) Everything — from 
Grace! (Cynthia goes to the table.) 
My sister has repeated your words to 
me — and her own ! I Ve told her what 
I think of her. 

(Philip looks witheringly at Grace.) 
Grace. I shan't wait to hear any more. 

{Exit Grace, indignantly.) 
Philip. Don't make it necessary for me 
to tell you what I think of you. (Philip 
gives his arm to his mother. Miss Hen- 
eage goes towards the door.) Mother, 
with your permission, I desire to be 
alone. I expect both you and Grace, 
Sarah, to be dressed and ready for the 
ceremony a half hour from now. 

{As Philip and Mrs. Phillimore are 
about to cross, Miss Hexeage 
speaks.) 
Miss Heneage. I shall come or not as I 
see fit. And let me add, my dear nephew, 
that a fool at forty is a fool indeed. 
{Exit Miss Heneage, high and mighty, 
and much pleased with her quota- 
tion.) 
Mrs. Phillimore. {Stupid and weary as 



usual, to Philip, as he leads her to the 
door.) My dear son — I won't venture 
to express — 

(Cynthia goes to the table.) 

Philip. {Soothing a silly mother.) No, 
mother, don't! But I shall expect you, 
of course, at the ceremony. {Exit Mrs. 
Phillimore. Philip takes the tone and 
assumes the attitude of the injured hus- 
band.) It is proper for me to tell you 
that I followed you to Belmont. I am 
aware — I know with whom — in fact, / 
know all! {Pauses. He indicates the 
whole censorious universe.) And now 
let me assure you — I am the last man in 
the world to be jilted on the very eve of 
— of — everything with you. I won't be 
jilted. (Cynthia is silent.) You un- 
derstand? I propose to marry you. I 
won't be made ridiculous. 

Cynthia. {Glancing at Philip.) Philip, 
I did n't mean to make you — 

Philip. Why, then, did you run off to 
Belmont Park with that fellow? 

Cynthia. Philip, I — eh — 

Philip. {Sitting at the table.) What mo- 
tive? What reason? On our wedding 
day? Why did you do it? 

Cynthia. I '11 tell you the truth. I was 
bored. 

Philip, Bored? In my company? 

(Philip, in a gesture, gives up.) 

Cynthia. I was bored, and then — and be- 
sides, Sir Wilfrid asked me to go. 

Philip. Exactly, and that was why you 
went. Cynthia, when you promised to 
marry me, you told me you had forever 
done with love. You agreed that mar- 
riage was the rational coming together 
of two people. 

Cynthia. I know, I know! 

Philip. Do you believe that now? 

Cynthia. I don't know what I believe. 
My brain is in a whirl! But, Philip, I 
am beginning to be — I 'm afraid — yes, I 
am afraid that one can't just select a 
great and good man {she indicates him) 
and say: I will be happy with him. 

Philip. {With dignity.) I don't see why 
not. You must assuredly do one or the 
other: You must either let your heart 
choose or your head select. 

Cynthia. {Gravely.) No, there 's a third 
scheme; Sir Wilfrid explained the theory 
to me. A woman should marry whenever 
she has a whim for the man, and then 
leave the rest to the man. Do you see? 

Philip. {Furious.) Do I see? Have I 
ever seen anything else? Marry for 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



745 



whim! That's the New York idea of 
marriage. 

Cynthia. {Giving a cynical opinion.) 
New York ought to know. 

Philip. Marry for whim and leave the 
rest to the divorce court! Marry for 
whim and leave the rest to the man. 
That was the former Mrs. Phillimore's 
idea. Only she spelled "whim" differ- 
ently; she omitted the "w." {He rises 
in his anger.) And no^" you — you take 
up with this preposterous — (Cynthia 
moves uneasily.) But, nonsense! It's 
impossible! A woman of your mental 
calibre — No. Some obscure, primitive, 
female feeling is at work corrupting 
your better judgment! What is it you 
feel? 

Cynthia. Philip, you never felt like a 
fool, did you? 

Philip. No, never. 

Cynthia. {Politely.) I thought not. 

Philip. No, but whatever your feelings, 
I conclude you are ready to marry me. 

Cynthia. {Uneasy.) Of course, I came 
back. I am here, am I not ? 

Philip. You are ready to marry me? 

Cynthia. {Twisting in the coils.) But 
you have n't had your dinner. 

Philip. Do I understand you refuse? 

Cynthia. Couldn't we defer — ? 

Philip. You refuse? 

Cynthia. {A slight pause; trapped and 
seeing no way out.) No, I said I'd 
marry you. I 'm a woman of my word. 
I will. 

Philip. {Triumphant.) Ah! Very good, 
then. Run to your room. (Cynthia 
turns to Philip.) Throw something 
over you. In a half hour I '11 expect 
you here! And, Cynthia, my dear, re- 
member! I cannot cuculate like a wood 
pigeon, but — I esteem you! 

Cynthia. {Hopelessly.) I think I'll go, 
Philip. 

Philip. I may not be fitted to play the 
love-bird, but — 

Cynthia. {As before.) I think I'll go, 
Philip. 

Philip. I '11 expect you, — in half an hour. 

Cynthia. {With leaden despair.) Yes. 

Philip. And, Cynthia, don't think any 
more about that fellow, Cates-Darby. 

Cynthia. {Amazed and disgusted hy his 
misapprehension. ) No. 

{Exit Cynthia.) 

(Thomas enters from the opposite door.) 

Philip. {Not seeing Thomas and clum- 



sily defiant.). And if I had that fellow, 

Cates-Darby, in the dock — ! 
Thomas. Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby. 
Philip. Sir what — what — wh-who? 

{Enter Sir Wilfrid, in evening dress. 
Philip looks Sir Wilfrid in the face and 
speaks to Thomas.) 

Tell Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby I am not 
at home to him. 

(Thomas embarrassed.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {Undaunted.) My dear 
Lord Eldon — 

Philip. {Speaks to Thomas, as before.) 
Show the gentleman the door. 

{Pause. Sir Wilfrid glances at door 
with a significant gesture.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {Goes to the door, examines 
it and returns to Philip.) Eh, — I ad- 
mire the door, my boy ! Fine, old carved 
mahogany panel; but don't ask me to 
leave by it, for Mrs. Karslake made me 
promise I 'd come, and that 's why I 'm 
here. (Thomas exits.) 

Philip. Sir, you are — impudent — ! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Interrupting.) Ah, you 
put it all in a nutshell, don't you? 

Philip. To show your face here, after 
practically eloping with my wife ! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Pretending ignorance.) 
When were you married? 

Philip. We're as good as married. ■ 

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, pooh, pooh ! You can't 
tell me that grace before soup is as good 
as a dinner! {He takes cigar-case out.) 

Philip. Sir — I — demand — 

Sir Wilfrid. {Calmly carrying the situa- 
tion.) Mrs. Karslake is not married. 
That 's why I 'm here. I am here f oi- the 
same purpose you are ; to ask Mrs. Kars- 
lake to be my wife. 

Philip. Are you in your senses? 

Sir Wilfrid. {Touching up his American 
cousin in his pet vanity.) Come, come. 
Judge — you Americans have no sense of 
humor. {He takes a small jewel-case 
from his pocket.) There's my regards 
for the lady — and {reasonably) , if I must 
go, I will. Of course, I would like to 
see her, but — if it is n't your American 
custom — 

{Enter Thomas.) 

Thomas. Mr. Karslake. 
Sir Wilfrid. Oh, well, I say; if he can 
come, I can ! 

{Enter John Karslake in evening dress, 
carrying a large and very smart bride's 



746 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



bouquet whicli he hands to Philip. 
Philip takes it because he is n't up to 
dropping it, but gets it out of his hands 
as soon as he can. Philip is transfixed; 
John comes to the front of the stage. 
Deep down he is feeling wounded and 
unhappy. But, as he knows his coming 
to the ceremony on whatever pretext is a 
social outrage, he carries it off by assum- 
ing an air of its being the most natural 
thing in the world. He controls the ex- 
pression of his deeper emotion, but the 
pressure of this keeps his face grave, and 
he speaks with force.) 

John. My compliments to the bride, 
Judge. 

Philip. {Angry.) And yon, too, have 
the effrontery? 

Sir Wilfrid. There you are ! 

John. {Pretending ease.) Oh, call it 
friendship — (Thomas goes out.) 

Philip. {Puts bouquet on table. Ironi- 
cally.) I suppose Mrs. Karslake — 

John. She wagered me I wouldn't give 
her away, and of course — 

{Throughout this scene John hides the 
emotions he will not show behind a 
daring irony. He has Philip on his 
left, walking about in a fury; Sir 
Wilfrid sits on the edge of the table, 
gay and undisturbed.) 

Philip. {Taking a step toward John.) 
You will oblige me — both of you — by 
immediately leaving — 

John. {Smiling and going to Philip.) 
Oh, come, come, Judge — suppose I am 
here? Who has a better right to attend 
his wife's obsequies! Certainly, I come 
as a mourner — for you! 

Sir Wilfrid. I say, is it the custom? 

John. No, no — of course it 's not the cus- 
tom, no. But we '11 make it the custom. 
After all, — what 's a divorced wife among 
friends ? 

Philip. Sir, your humor is strained ! 

John. Humor, — Judge ? 

Philip. It is, sir, and I '11 not be bantered ! 
Your both being here is — it is — gentle- 
men, there is a decorum which the stars 
in their courses do not violate. 

John. Now, Judge, never you mind what 
the stars do in their divorces ! Get down 
to earth of the present day. Rufus 
Choate and Daniel Webster are dead. 
You must be modern. You must let 
peroration and poetry alone! Come 
along now. Why should n't I give the 
lady away? 



Sir Wilfrid. Hear! Hear! Oh, I beg 
your pardon ! 

John. And why shouldn't we both be 
here? American marriage is a new 
thing. We 've got to strike the pace, and 
the only trouble is. Judge, that the judi- 
ciary have so messed the thing up that a 
man can't be sure he is married until he 's 
divorced. It 's a sort of marry -go-round, 
to be sure ! But let it go at that ! Here 
we all are, and we 're ready to marry my 
wife to you, and start her on her way to 
him ! 

Philip. {Brought to a standstill.) Good 
Lord ! Sir, you cannot trifle with monog- 
amy! 

John. Now, now, Judge, monogamy is 
just as extinct as knee-breeches. The 
new woman has a new idea, and the new 
idea is — well, it 's just the opposite of 
the old Mormon one. Their idea is one 
man, ten wives and a hundred children. 
Our idea is one woman, a hundred hus- 
bands and one child. 

Philip. Sir, this is polyandry. 

John. Polyandry? A hundred to one it 's 
polyandry ; and that 's it. Judge ! Uncle 
Sam has established consecutive poly- 
andry, — but there 's got to be an interval 
between husbands! The fact is, Judge, 
the modern American marriage is like a 
wire fence. The woman 's the wire — the 
posts are the husbands. {He indicates 
himself, and then Sir Wilfrid and 
Philip.) One — two — three! And if you 
cast your eye over the future you can 
count them, post after post, up hill, down 
dale, all the way to Dakota! 

Philip. All very amusing, sir, but the fact 
remains — 

John. {Going to Philip. Philip moves 
away.) Now, now. Judge, I like you. 
But you 're asleep ; you 're living in the 
dark ages. You want to call up Central. 
"Hello, Central! Give me the present 
time, 1906, New York!" | 

Sir Wilfrid. Of course you do, and — | 
there you are! 

Philip. {Heavily.) There I am not, sir! 
And — {To John) as for Mr. Karslake's 
ill-timed jocosity, — sir, in the future — 

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, hang the future! 

Philip. I begin to hope, Sir Wilfrid, that 
in the future I shall have the pleasure of 
hanging you! {To John.) And as to 
you, sir, your insensate idea of giving 
away your own — your former — my — 
your — oh ! Good Lord ! This is a night- 
mare! {He turns to go in despair.) 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



747 



{Enter Matthew, who, seeing Philip, 
speaks as he comes in from door.) 

Matthew {To Philip.) My dear 
brother, Aunt Sarah Heneage refuses to 
give Mrs. Karslake away, unless you 
yourself, — eh — 

Philip. {As he exits.) No more! I'll 
attend to the matter! 

{Exit. The choir hoys are heard prac- 
ticing in the next room.) 

Matthew. {Mopping his hrow.) How 
do you both do? My aunt has made me 
very warm. {He rings the hell.) You 
hear our choir practicing — sweet angel 
boys! Hm! Hm! Some of the family 
will not be present. I am very fond of 
you, Mr. Karslake, and I think it ad- 
mirably Christian of you to have waived 
your — eh — your — eh — that is, now that I 
look at it more narrowly, let me say, that 
in the excitement of pleasurable anticipa- 
tion, I forgot, Karslake, that your pres- 
ence might occasion remark — 

{Enter Thomas.) 

Thomas! I left, in the hall, a small 
handbag or satchel containing my sur- 
plice. 

Thomas. Yes, sir. Ahem! 

Matthew. You must really find the hand- 
bag at once. 

(Thomas turns to go, when he stops 
startled. ) 

Thomas. Yes, sir. {Announcing in con- 
sternation.) Mrs. Vida Phillimore. 

{Enter Vida Phillimore, in full evening 
dress. She steps gently to Matthew.) 

Matthew. {Always piously serene.) Ah, 
my dear child! Now this is just as it 
should be! That is, eh — {He comes to 
the front of the stage with her; she point- 
edly looks away from Sir Wilfrid.) 
That is, when I come to think of it — 
your presence might be deemed inauspi- 
cious. 

Vida. But, my dear Matthew, — I had to 
come. {Aside to him.) I have a reason 
for being here. 

(Thomas enters.) 

Matthew. But, my dear child — 
Thomas. {With sympathetic intention.) 
Sir, Mr. Phillimore wishes to have your 
assistance, sir — with Miss Heneage im- 
mediately! 
Matthew. Ah! {To Vida.) One mo- 



ment ! I '11 return. ( To Thomas. ) Have 
you found the bag with my surplice? 
{He goes out with Thomas, speaking. 
Sir Wilfrid comes to Vida. John 
watches the door.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {To Vida.) You're just 
the person I most want to see ! 

Vida. {With affected iciness.) Oh, no. 
Sir Wilfrid, Cynthia isn't here yet! 
{Crossing to table. John comes toward 
her and she speaks to him, with obvious 
sweetness.) Jack, dear, I never was so 
ravished to see any one. 

Sir Wilfrid. {Taken aback.) By Jove! 

Vida. {Very sweet.) I knew I should 
find you here! 

John. {Annoyed but civil.) Now don't 
do that! 

Vida. {As before.) Jack! 

{They sit down.) 

John. {Civil but plain spoken.) Don't 
do it! 

Vida. {In a voice dripping with honey.) 
Do what. Jack? 

John. Touch me with your voice ! I have 
troubles enough of my own. 

{He sits not far from her, the table is 
between them.) 

Vida. And I know who your troubles are ! 
Cynthia ! 

{From this moment Vida gives up 
John as an object of the chase and 
lets him into her other game.) 

John. I hate her. I don't know why I 
came. 

Vida, You came, dear, because you could 
n't stay away — you 're in love with her. 

John. All right, Vida, what I feel may 
be love — but all I can say is, if I could 
get even with Cynthia Karslake — 

Vida. You can, dear — it 's as easy as pow- 
dering one's face; all you have to do is 
to be too nice to me! 

John. {Looks inquiringly at Vida.) Eh! 

Vida. Don't you realize she 's jealous of 
you? Why did she come to my house 
this morning? She's jealous — and all 
you have to do — 

John. If I can make her wince, I '11 make 
love to you till the Heavenly cows come 
home! 

Vida. Well, you see, my dear, if you make 
love to me it will {she delicately indi- 
cates Sir Wilfrid) cut both ways at 
once! 

John. Eh,— what! Not Cates-Darby? 
{Starting.) Is that Cynthia? 

Vida. Now don't get rattled and forget to 
make love to me. 



748 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



John. I've got the jumps. {Trying to 
accept her instructions.) Vida, I adore 
you. 

Vida. Oh, you must be more convincing; 
that won't do at all. 

John. {Listening.) Is that she now? 

{Enter Matthew, wlio goes to the inner 
room.) 

Vida. It 's Matthew. And, Jack, dear, 
you 'd best get the hang of it before 
Cynthia comes. You might tell me all 
about your divorce. That 's a sympa- 
thetic subject. Were you able to under- 
mine it? 

John. No. I 've got a wire from my law- 
yer this morning. The divorce holds. 
She 's a free woman. She can marry 
whom she likes. {The organ is heard, 
very softly played.) Is that Cynthia? 
{He rises quickly.) 

Vida. It 's the organ ! 

John. {Overwhelmingly excited.) By 
George! I should never have come! I 
think I '11 go. 

{He crosses to go to the door.) 

Vida. {She rises and follows him re- 
monstratingly.) When I need you? 

John. I can't stand it. 

Vida. Oh, but, Jack — 

John. Good-night ! 

Vida. I feel quite ill. {Seeing that she 
must play her last card to keep him, pre- 
tends to faintness; sways and falls into 
his arms.) Oh! 

John. {In a rage, hut h eaten.) I be- 
lieve you 're putting up a fake. 

{The organ swells as Cynthia enters 
sweepingly, dressed in full evening dress 
for the wedding ceremony. John, not 
knowing what to do, holds Vida up as a 
horrid necessity.) 

Cynthia. {Speaking as she comes on, to 
Matthew.) Here I am. Ridiculous to 
make it a conventional thing, you know. 
Come in on the swell of the music, and 
all that, just as if I 'd never been mar- 
ried before. Where 's Philip ? 

{She looks for Philip and sees John 
with Vida in his arms. She stops 
short.) 

John. {Uneasy and embarrassed.) A 
glass of water! I beg your pardon, 
Mrs. Karslake — {The organ plays on.) 

Cynthia. {Ironical and calm.) Vida! 

John. She has fainted. 

Cynthia. {Ashefore.) Fainted? {With- 
out pause.) Dear, dear, dear, terrible! 



So she has. (Sir Wilfrid takes flowers 
from a vase and prepares to sprinkle 
Vida's forehead with the water it con- 
tains.) No, no, not her forehead. Sir 
Wilfrid, her frock! Sprinkle her best 
Paquin ! If it 's a real faint, she will 
not come to! 
Vida. {As her Paris importation is about 
to suffer comes to her senses.) I almost 
fainted. 
Cynthia. Almost ! 

Vida. {Using the stock phrase as a mat- 
ter of course, and reviving rapidly.) 
Where am I? (John glances at Cyn- 
thia sharply.) Oh, the bride! I beg 
every one's pardon. Cynthia, at a crisis 
like this, I simply couldn't stay away 
from Philip! 
Cynthia. Stay away from Philip? 

(John and Cynthia exchange 
glances.) 
Vida. Your arm, Jack; and lead me 
where there is air. 

(John and Vida go into the further 
room; John stands left of her. The 
organ stops. Sir Wilfrid comes 
down. He and Cynthia are prac- 
tically alone on the stage. John 
and Vida are barely within sight. 
You first see him take her fan and 
give her air; then he picks up a 
book and reads from it to her.) 
Sir Wilfrid. I 've come back. 
Cynthia. {To Sir Wilfrid.) Asks for 
air and goes to the green-house. (Cyn- 
thia crosses stage. Sir Wilfrid offers 
her a seat.) I know why you are here. 
It 's that intoxicating little whim you 
suppose me to have for you. My re- 
grets ! But the whim 's gone flat ! Yes, 
yes, my gasoline days are over. I 'm g&- 
ing to be garaged for good. However, 
I 'm glad you 're here ; you take the edge 
off— 
Sir Wilfrid. Mr. Phillimore? 
Cynthia. {Sharply.) No, Karslake. I'm 
just waiting to say the words 

{Enter Thomas.) 

"love, honor and obey" to Phillimore — 
{looks up back) and at Karslake! (Cyn- 
thia sees Thomas.) What is it? Mr. 
Phillimore? 
Thomas. Mr. Phillimore will be down in 
a few minutes, ma'am. He 's very sorry, 
ma'am, {lowers his voice and comes 
nearer Cynthia, mindful of the respecta- 
bilities) but there 's a button off his waist- 
coat. 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



749 



Cynthia. {Excited^ with irony. Rising.) 
Button olf his waistcoat! 

{Exit Thomas.) 

Sir Wilfrid. (Delightedly.) Ah! So 
much the better for me. (Cynthia 
looks up back.) Now, then, never mind 
those two! (Cynthia moves restlessly.) 
Sit down. 

Cynthia. I can't. 

Sir Wilfrid. You 're as nervous as — 

Cynthia. Nervous ! Of course I 'm "nerv- 
ous ! So would you be nervous if you 'd 
had had a runaway and smash up, and 
you were going to try it again. (Look- 
ing up hack. Sir Wilfrid is uneasy.) 
And if some one doesn't do away with 
those calla lilies — the odor makes me 
faint! (Sir Wilfrid moves.) No, it's 
not the lilies ! It 's the orange blossoms ! 

Sir Wilfrid. Orange blossoms. 

Cynthia. The flowers that grow on the 
tree that hangs over the abyss. (Sir 
Wilfrid gets the vase of orange blos- 
soms.) They smell of six o'clock in the 
evening. When Philip's fallen asleep, 
and the little boys are crying the winners 
outside, and I 'm crying inside, and dy- 
ing inside and outside and everywhere. 
(Sir Wilfrid comes down.) 

Sir Wilfrid. Sorry to disappoint you. 
They 're artificial. ( Cynthia shrugs 
her shoulders. ) That 's it ! They 're 
emblematic of artificial domesticity! 
And I 'm here to help you balk it. (He 
sits; Cynthia half rises and looks to- 
ward John and Vida.) Keep still now, 
I 've a lot to say to you. Stop looking — 

Cynthia. Do yon think I can listen to 
you make love to me when the man who 
— who — whom I most despise in all the 
world, is reading poetry to the woman 
who — who got me into the fix I 'm in ! 

Sir Wilfrid. (Leaning over the chair in 
which she sits.) What do you want to 
look at 'em for? (Cynthia moves.) 
Let 'em be and listen to me ! Sit down ; 
for damme, I 'm determined. 

(Cynthia at the table.) 

Cynthia. (Half to herself.) I won't 
look at them! I won't think of them. 
Beasts ! 

(Sir Wilfrid interposes between her 
and her view of John.) 

(Enter Thomas.) 

Sir Wilfrid. Now, then — (He sits.) 

Cynthia. Those two here! It's just as 

if Adam and Eve should invite the snake 

to their golden wedding. (She sees 



Thomas.) . What is it, what's the mat- 
ter? 

Thomas. Mr. Phillimore's excuses, ma'am. 
In a very short time — 

(Thomas exits.) 

Sir Wilfrid. I 'm on to you ! You hoped 
for more buttons! 

Cynthia. I 'm dying of the heat ; fan 
me. (Sir Wilfrid fans Cynthia.) 

Sir Wilfrid. Heat ! No ! You 're dying 
because you 're ignorin' nature. Cer- 
tainly you are ! You 're marryin' Philli- 
more! (Cynthia appears /awf.) Can't 
ignore nature, Mrs. Karslake. Yes, you 
are ; you 're f orcin' your f eelin's. ( Cyn- 
thia glances at him.) And what you 
want to do is to let yourself go a bit — up 
anchor and sit tight ! I 'm no seaman, 
but that's the idea! (Cynthia moves 
and shakes her head.) So just throw 
the reins on nature's neck, jump this fel- 
low Phillimore and marry me! 

(He leans over to Cynthia.) 

Cynthia. (Naturally, but with irrita- 
tion.) You propose to me here, at a 
moment like this? When I'm on the 
last lap — just in sight of the goal — the 
gallows — the halter — the altar, I don't 
know what its name is! No, I won't 
have you! (Looking toward Karslake 
and Vida.) And I won't have you stand 
near me! I won't have you talking to 
me in a low tone! (As before.) Stand 
over there — stand where you are. 

Sir Wilfrid. I say — 

Cynthia. I can hear you — I 'm listening ! 

Sir Wilfrid. Well, don't look so hurried 
and worried. You've got buttons and 
buttons of time. And now my offer. 
You have n't yet said you would — 

Cynthia. Marry you? I don't even 
know you! / 

Sir Wilfrid. (Feeling sure of being ac- 
cepted.) Oh, — tell you all about myself. 
I 'm no duke in a pickle o' debts, d 'ye 
see? I can marry where I like. Some 
o' my countrymen are rotters, ye know. 
They 'd marry a monkey, if poppa-up- 
the-tree had a corner in cocoanuts ! And 
they do marry some queer ones, y' know. 
(Cynthia looks up, exclaims and 
turns. — Sir Wilfrid turns.) 

Cynthia. Do they? 

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, rather. That's what's 
giving your heiresses such a bad name 
lately. If a fellah 's in debt he can't 
pick and choose, and then he swears that 
American gals are awfully fine lookers, 
but they're no good when it comes to 



750 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



continuin' the race! Fair dolls in the 
drawin'-room, but no good in the nurs- 
ery. 

Cynthia. {Thinking of John and Vida 
and nothing else.) I can see Vida in the 
nursery. 

Sir Wilfrid. You understand when you 
want a brood mare, you don't choose a 
Kentucky mule. 

Cynthia. I think I see one. 

Sir Wilfrid. Well, that's what they're 
saying over there. They say your gals 
run to talk {He plainly remembers Vida^s 
volubility.) , and I have seen gals here 
that would chat life into a wooden In- 
dian ! That 's what you Americans call 
being clever. — All brains and no stuffin'! 
In fact, some of your American gals are 
the nicest boys I ever met. 

Cynthia. So that's what you think? 

Sir Wilfrid. Not a bit what / think — 
what my countrymen think ! 

Cynthia. W^hy are you telling me? 

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, just explaining my 
character. I 'm the sort that can pick 
and choose — and what I want is heart. 

Cynthia. {Always having Vida and 
John in mind.) No more heart than a 
dragon-fly ! 

{The organ begins to play softly.) 

Sir Wilfrid. That 's it, dragon-fly. Cold 
as stone and never stops buzzing about 
and showin' off her colors. It 's that 
American dragon-fly girl that I 'm afraid 
of, because, d' ye see, I don't know what 
an American expects when he marries; 
yes, but you 're not listening ! 

Cynthia. I am listening. I am! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Speaking directly to her.) 
An Englishman, ye see, when he marries 
expects three things; love, obedience and 
five children. 

Cynthia. Three things ! I make it seven ! 

Sir Wilfrid. Yes, my dear, but the point 
is, will you be mistress of Traynham? 

Cynthia. {Who has only half listened to 
him.) No, Sir Wilfrid, thank you, I 
won't. {She turns to see John crossing 
the drawing-room at back, with Vida, 
apparently absorbed in what she says.) 
It 's outrageous ! 

Sir Wilfrid. Eh? Why, you're cryin'l 

Cynthia. {Almost sobbing.) I am not. 

Sir Wilfrid. You 're not crying because 
you 're in love with me ? 

Cynthia. I 'm not crying — or if I am, 
I 'm crying because I love my country. 
It 's a disgrace to America — cast-off hus- 
bands and wives getting together in a 



parlor and playing tag under a palm- 
tree. 

(John with intention and determined 
to stab Cynthia, kisses Vida's 
hand.) 

Sir Wilfrid. Eh! Oh! I'm damned! 
{To Cynthia.) What do you think that 
means ? 

Cynthia. I don't doubt it means a wed- 
ding here, at once — after mine! 

(Vida and John come down.) 

Vida. {Affecting an impossible intimacy 
to wound Cynthia and tantalize Sir 
Wilfrid.) Hush, Jack— I 'd much 
rather no one should know anything 
about it until it 's all over ! 

Cynthia. {Starts and looks at Sir Wil- 
frid.) What did I tell you? 

Vida. ( To Cynthia. ) Oh, my dear, he 's 
asked me to champagne and lobster at 
your house — his house! Matthew is 
coming! (Cynthia starts, but controls 
herself.) And you're to come. Sir Wil- 
frid. (Vida speaks, intending to convey 
the idea of a sudden marriage cere- 
mony.) Of course, my dear, I would 
like to wait for your wedding, but some- 
thing rather — rather important to me is 
to take place, and I know you '11 excuse 
me. {Organ stops.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {Piqued at being forgot- 
ten.) All very neat, but you haven't 
given me a chance, even. 

Vida. Chance? You 're not serious ? 

Sir Wilfrid. I am! 

Vida. {Striking while the iron is hot.) 
1 '11 give you a minute to offer yourself. 

Sir Wilfrid. Eh? 

Vida. Sixty seconds from now. 

Sir Wilfrid. {Uncertain.) There 's such 
a thing as bein' silly. 

Vida. {Calm, and determined.) Fifty 
seconds left. 

Sir Wilfrid. I take you — count fair. 
{He hands her his watch and goes to 
where Cynthia stands.) I say, Mrs. 
Karslake — 

Cynthia. {Overwhelmed with grief and 
emotion.) They're engaged; they's go- 
ing to be married to-night, over cham- 
pagne and lobster at my house ! 

Sir Wilfrid. Will you consider your — 

Cynthia. {Hastily, to get rid of Mm.) 
No, no, no, no! Thank you. Sir Wil- 
frid, I will not. 

Sir Wilfrid. {Calm and not to be laid 
low.) Thanks awfully. {Crosses to 
Vida. Cynthia walks away.) Mr^. 
Phillimore— 



LANGDON MITCPIELL 



751 



ViDA. {She gives him hack his watch.) 
Too late! {To Karslake.) Jack, dear, 
we must be off. 

Sir Wilfrid. {Standing and making a 
general appeal for information.) I say, 
is it the custom for American girls — that 
sixty seconds or too late? Look here! 
Not a bit too late. I '11 take you around 
to Jack Karslake's, and I 'm going to ask 
you the same old question again, you 
know. {To ViDA.) By Jove, you know 
in your country it 's the pace that kills. 
{Exeunt Sir Wilfrid and Vida.) 

John. {Gravely to Cynthia, who comes 
to the front of the stage.) Good-night, 
Mrs. Karslake, I 'm going ; I 'm sorry I 
came. 

Cynthia. Sorry? Why are you sorry? 
(John looks at her; she ivinces a little.) 
You've got what you wanted. {Pause.) 
I would n't mind your marrying Vida — 

John. {Gravely.) Oh, wouldn't you? 

Cynthia. But I don't think you showed 
good taste in engaging yourselves here. 

John. Of course, I should have preferred 
a garden of roses and plenty of twilight. 

Cynthia. {Rushing into speech.) I'll 
tell you what you have done — you 've 
thrown yourself away! A woman like 
that! No head, no heart! All languor 
and loose — loose frocks — she 's the typi- 
cal, worst thing America can do ! She 's 
the regular American marriage worm! 

John. I have known others — 

Cynthia. {Quickly.) Not me. I'm not 
a patch on that woman. Do you know 
anything about her life? Do you know 
the things she did to Philip? Kept him 
up every night of his life — forty days 
out of every thirty — and then, without 
his knowing it, put brandy in his coffee 
to make him lively at breakfast. 

John. {Banteringly.) I begin to think 
she is just the woman — 

Cynthia. {Unable to quiet her jealousy.) 
She is no^the woman for you! A man 
with your bad temper — your airs of au- 
thority — your assumption of — of — every- 
thing. What you need is a good, old- 
fashioned, bread poultice woman! 

(Cynthia comes to a full stop and 
faces John.) 

John. {Sharply.) Can't say I've had 
any experience of the good old-fashioned 
bread poultice. 

Cynthia. I don't care what you say! If 
you marry Vida Phillimore — you shan't 
do it. {Tears of rage choking her.) 
J^o^ I liked your father and for his sake, 



I '11 see that his son does n't make a 
donkey of himself a second time. 

John. {Too angry to he amused.) Oh, I 
thought I was divorced. I begin to feel 
as if I had you on my hands still. 

Cynthia. You have! You shall have! 
If you attempt to marry her, I '11 follow 
you— and I '11 find her— I '11 tell Vida— 
{He turns to her.) 1 will. I '11 tell Vida 
just what sort of a dance you led me. 

John. {Quickly on her last word hut 
speaking gravely.) Indeed! Will you? 
And why do you care what happens to 
me? 

Cynthia. {Startled hy his tone.) 1 — I — 
ah — 

John. {Insistently and with a faint 
hope.) Why do you carel 

Cynthia. I don't. Not in your sense — 

John. How dare you then pretend — 

Cynthia. I don't pretend. 

John. {Interrupting her; proud, serious 
and strong.) How dare you look me in 
the face with the eyes that I once kissed, 
and pretend the least regard for me? 
(Cynthia recoils and looks away. Her 
own feelings are revealed to her clearly 
for the first time.) I begin to under- 
stand our American women now. Fire- 
flies — and the fire they gleam with is so 
cold that a midge couldn't warm his 
heart at it, let alone a man. You 're not 
of the same race as a man! You mar- 
ried me for nothing, divorced me for 
nothing, because you are nothing ! 

Cynthia. ( Wounded to the heart. ) Jack ! 
What are you saying? 

John. {With unrestrained emotion.) 
What, — you feigning an interest in me, 
feigning a lie — and in five minutes — 
{Gesture indicating altar.) Oh, you've 
taught me the trick of your sex — ^you 're 
the woman who 's not a woman ! 

Cynthia. {Weakly.) You 're saying ter- 
rible things to me. 

John. {Low and with intensity.) You 
haven't been divorced from me long 
enough to forget — what you should be 
ashamed to remember. 

Cynthia. {Unable to face him and pre- 
tending not to understand him.) I don't 
know what you mean. 

John. {More forcibly and with manly 
emotion.) You're not able to forget 
me ! You know you 're not able to for- 
get me; ask yourself if you are able to 
forget me, and when j'our heart, such as 
it is, answers "no," then — {The organ is 
plainly heard.) Well, then, prance 



752 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



gaily up to the altar and marry that, if 
you can ! 

{He exits quickly. Cynthia crosses 
to arm-chair and sinks into it. She 
trembles as if she were overdone. 
Voices are heard ?veaking in the 
next room. Enter Matthew and 
Miss Heneage. Enter Philip. 
Cynthia is so sunk in the chair they 
do not see her. Miss Heneage goes 
up to sofa hack and waits. They all 
are dressed for an evening reception 
and Philip in the traditional bride- 
groom's rig.) 
Matthew. {As he enters.) I am sure 
you will do your part, Sarah — in a spirit 
of Christian decorum. {Tc Philip.) 
It was impossible to find my surplice, 
Philip, but the more informal the bet- 
ter. 
Philip. {With pompous responsibility.) 
Where's Cynthia? 

(Matthew gives glance around room.) 
Matthew. Ah, here's the choir! {Re 
goes to meet it. Choir boys come in 
very orderly; divide and take their 
places, an even number on each side of 
the altar of flowers. Matthew vaguely 
superintends. Philip gets in the way of 
the bell. Moves out of the way. Enter 
Thomas.) Thomas, I directed you — 
One moment, if you please. 

{He indicates table and chairs. 

Thomas hastens to move the chairs 

and the table against the wall. 

Philip comes down.) 

Philip. {Looking for her.) Where's 

Cynthia? 

(Cynthia rises. Philip sees her when 
she moves and crosses toward her, 
but stops. The organ stops.) 
Cynthia. {Faintly.) Here I am. 

(Matthew comes down. The organ 

plays softly.) 

Matthew. {Coming to Cynthia.) Ah, 

my very dear Cynthia, I knew there was 

something. Let me tell you the words of 

the hymn I have chosen: 

"Enduring love; sweet end of strife! 
Oh, bless this happy man and wife!" 

I 'm afraid you feel — eh — eh ! 

Cynthia. {Desperately calm.) I feel 

awfully queer — I think I need a scotch. 

{The organ stops. Philip remains 

uneasily at a little distance. Mrs. 

Phillimore and Grace enter back 

slowly, as cheerfully as if they were 



going to hear the funeral service 
read. They remain near the door- 
way.) 

Matthew. Really, my dear, in the pomp 
and vanity — I mean — ceremony of this — 
this unique occasion, there should be suf- 
ficient exhilaration. 

Cynthia. {As before.) But there isn't! 

{She sits.) 

Matthew. I don't think my Bishop 
would approve of — eh — anything before! 

Cynthia. {Too agitated to know how 
much she is moved.) I feel very queer. 

Matthew, {Piously sure that everything 
is for the best.) My dear child — 

Cynthia. However, I suppose there 's 
nothing for it — now — but — to — ^to — 

Matthew. Courage ! 

Cynthia. {Desperate and with sudden 
explosion.) Oh, don't speak to me. I 
feel as if I 'd been eating gunpowder, 
and the very first word of the wedding 
service would set it off! 

Matthew. My dear, your indisposition is 
the voice of nature. 

(Cynthia speaks more rapidly and 
with growing excitement, Matthew 
going toward the choir boys.) 

Cynthia. Ah, — that 's it — nature! (Mat- 
thew shakes his head.) I've a great 
mind to throw the reins on nature's neck. 

Philip. Matthew ! 

{He moves to take his stand for the 
ceremony.) 

Matthew. {Looking at Philip. To Cyn- 
thia.) Philip is ready. 

(Philip comes down. The organ 
plays the wedding march.) 

Cynthia. {To herself, as if at bay.) 
Ready? Ready? Ready? 

Matthew. Cynthia, you will take Miss^ 
Heneage's arm. (Miss Heneage comes 
down near table.) Sarah! (Matthew 
indicates to Miss Heneage wit ere Cyn- 
thia is. Miss Heneage advances a step 
or two. Matthew goes up and speaks 
in a low voice to choir.) Now please 
don't forget, my boys. When I raise my 
hands so, you begin, "Enduring love, 
sweet end of strife." (Cynthia has 
risen. On the table is her long lace 
cloak. She stands by this table. Mat- 
thew assumes sacerdotal importance and 
takes his position inside the altar of 
flowers.) Ahem! Philip! {He indi- 
cates to Philip that he take his posi- 
tion.) Sarah! (Cynthia breathes fast, 
and supports herself on table. Miss 
Heneage goes toward her and stands for 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



753 



a moment looking at Cynthia.) The 
ceremony will now begin. 

( The organ plays Mendelssohn^s wed- 
ding march. Cynthia turns and 
faces Miss Heneage. Miss Hene- 
AGE comes to Cynthia slowly, and 
extends her hand in her readiness 
to lead the bride to tJie altar.) 
Miss Heneage. Mrs. Karslake! 
Philip. Ahem ! 

(Matthew steps forward two or -three 
steps. Cynthia stands turned to 
stone. ) 
Matthew. My dear Cynthia. I request 
you — to take your place. (Cynthia 
moves one or two steps across as if to 
go up to the altar. She takes Miss 
Heneage's hand and slowly they walk 
toward Matthew.) Your husband to 
be — is ready, the ring is in my pocket. 
I have only to ask you the — eh — neces- 
sary questions — and — eh — all will be 
blissfully over in a moment. 

{The organ is louder.) 
Cynthia. {At this moment^ just as she 
reaches Philip, she stops, faces round, 
looks him, Matthew and the rest in the 
face and cries out in despair.) Thomas! 
Call a hansom! (Thomas exits and 
leaves door open. Miss Heneage 
crosses the stage. Mrs. Phillimore 
rises. Cynthia grasps her cloak on ta- 
ble. Philip turns and Cynthia comes 
forward and stops.) I can't, Philip — I 
can't. {Whistle of hansom is heard off; 
the organ stops.) It is simply a case of 
throwing the reins on nature's neck — up 
anchor — and sit tight! (Matthew 
crosses to Cynthia.) Matthew^, don't 
come near me ! Yes, yes, I distrust you. 
It 's your business, and you 'd marry me 
if you could. 
Philip. {Watching her in dismay as she 
throws on her cloak.) Where are you 
going? 
Cynthia. I 'm going to Jack. 
Philip. What for? 

Cynthia. To stop his marrying Vida. 
I 'm blowing a hurricane inside, a horri- 
ble, happy hurricane! I know myself — 
I know what 's the matter with me. If 
I married you and Miss Heneage — 
what 's the use of talking about it — he 
must n't marrv' that woman. He shan't. 
(Cynthia has now all her wraps on; 
goes up rapidly. To Philip.) Sorry! 
So long! Good-night and see you later. 
(Cynthia goes to door rapidly; Mat- 
thew, in absolute amazement, 



throws^ up his arms. Philip is 
rigid. ' Mrs. Phillimore sinks into 
a chair. Miss Heneage is super- 
cilious and unmoved. Grace is the 
same. The choir, at Matthew's 
gesture, mistakes it for the concerted 
signal, and bursts lustily into the 
Epithalamis. 

"Enduring love — SAveet end of strife! 
Oh, bless this happy man and wife!" 



ACT FOURTH. 

The scene is laid in John Karslake's 
study and smoking-room. There is a 
bay window on the right. A door on the 
right leads to stairs, and the front door 
of house, while a door at the back leads 
to the dining-room. A fireplace is on the 
left and a mantel. A bookcase contains 
law books and sporting books. A full- 
length portrait of Cynthia is on the 
wall. Nothing of this portrait is seen by 
the audience except the gilt frame and a 
space of canvas. A large table with 
writing materials is littered over with 
law books, sporting books, papers, pipes, 
crops, and a pair of spurs. A wedding 
ring lies on it. There are three very low 
easy-chairs. The general appearance of 
the room is extremely gay and garish in 
color. It has the easy confusion of a 
man's room. There is a small table on 
which is a woman's sewing-basket. The 
sewing-basket is open. A piece of rich 
fancy work lies on the table, as if a lady 
had just risen from sewing. On the cor- 
ner are a lady's gloves. On a chair-back 
is a lady's hat. It is a half hour later 
than the close of Act Third. Curtains 
are drawn over the window. A lamp on 
the table is lighted. Electric lights about 
the room are also lighted. One chair is 
conspicuously standing on its head. 

{Curtain rises on Nogam, who busies him- 
self at a table, at the back. The door at 
the back is half open.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {Coming in door.) Eh — 
what did you say your name was? 

Nogam. Nogam, sir. 

Sir Wilfrid. Nogam? I've been here 
thirty minutes. Where are the cigars? 
(Nogam motions to a small table near 
the entrance door where the cigars are.) 
Thank you. Nogam, Mr. Karslake was 
to have followed us here, immediately. 
{He lights a cigar.) 



r54 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



NOGAM. Mr. Karslake just now 'phoned 
from his club (Sir Wilfrid comes down 
the stage.), and he's on his way home, 
sir. 

Sir Wilfrid. Nogam, why is that chair 
upside down? 

Nogam. Our orders, sir. 

ViDA. {Speaking as she comes on.) Oh, 
Wilfrid! (Sir Wilfrid turns. Vida 
comes slowly down the stage.) I can't 
be left longer alone with the lobster! 
He reminds me too much of Phillimore! 

Sir Wilfrid. Karslake 's coming; stopped 
at his club on the w^ay! {To Nogam.) 
You haven't heard anything of Mrs. 
Karslake—? 

Nogam. {Surprised.) No, sir! 

Sir Wilfrid. {In an aside to Vida, as 
they move to appear to he out of No- 
GAm's hearing.) Deucedly odd, ye know 
— for the Reverend Matthew declared she 
left Phillimore's house before he did, — 
and she told him she was coming here ! 

(Nogam evidently takes this in.) 

Vida. Oh, she '11 turn up. 

Sir Wilfrid. Yes, but I don't see how the 
Reverend Phillimore had the time to get 
here and make us man and wife, don't 
y' know — 

Vida. Oh, Matthew had a fast horse and 
Cynthia a slow one — or she 's a woman 
and changed her mind ! Perhaps she 's 
gone back and married Phillimore. And 
besides, dear, Matthew was n't in the 
house four minutes and a half; only just 
long enough to hoop the hoop. {She 
twirls her 7iew wedding ring gently about 
her finger.) Wasn't it lucky he had a 
ring in his pocket? 

Sir Wilfrid. Rather. 

Vida. And are you aware, dear, that 
Pliillimore bought and intended it for 
Cynthia? Do come {she goes up to the 
door through which she entered), I'm 
desperately hungry ! Whenever I 'm 
married that's the effect it has! 

(Vida goes out. Sir Wilfrid sees her 
through door, hut stops to speak to 
Nogam.) 

Sir Wilfrid. We '11 give Mr. Karslake 
ten minutes, Nogam. If he does not 
come then, you might serve supper. 

{He follows Vida.) 

Nogam. {To Sir Wilfrid.) Yes, sir. 

{Door opens.) 

{Enter Fiddler.) 

Fiddler. {Easy and husiness-like.) 
Hello, Nogam, where 's the guv'nor? 



That mare 's off her oats, and I 've got 
to see him. 
Nogam. He '11 soon be here. 
Fiddler. Who was the parson I met leav- 
ing the house? 
Nogam. {Whispering.) Sir W^ilfrid and 
Mrs. Phillimore have a date with the 
guv'nor in the dining-room, and the rev- 
erend gentleman — 

{He makes a gesture as of giving an 
ecclesiastical hlessing.) 
Fiddler. {Amazed.) He hasn't spliced 
them? (Nogam assents.) He has? 
They're married? Never saw a parson 
could resist it! 
Nogam. Yes, but I 've got another piece 
of news for you. Who do you think the 
Rev. Philhmore expected to find here? 
Fiddler. {Proud of having the knowl- 
edge.) Mrs. Karslake? I saw her 
headed this way in a hansom with a 
balky horse only a minute ago. If she 
hoped to be in at the finish — 

(Fiddler is ahout to set chair on its 
legs.) 
Nogam. {Quickly.) Mr. Fiddler, sir, 

please to let it alone. 
Fiddler. {Putting chair down in sur- 
prise.) Does it live on its blooming 
head? 
Nogam. Don't you remember? She threw 
it on its head when she left here, and he 
won't have it up. Ah, that 's it — hat, 
sewing-basket and all, — the whole rig is 
to remain as it was when she handed him 
his knock-out. {A hell rings outside.) 
Fiddler. There 's the guv'nor — I hear 

him! 
Nogam. I '11 serve the supper. ( Taking 
letter from pocket and putting it on 
mantel.) Mr. Fiddler, would you mind 
giving this to the guv'nor? It 's from 
his lawyer — his lawyer could n't find him 
and left it with me. He said it was very 
important. {Bell rings again. Speaking 
off to Sir Wilfrid.) I'm coming, sir! 
(Nogam goes out, and shuts door. 
Enter John Karslake. He looks 
downhearted, his hat is pushed over 
his eyes. His hands are in his pock- 
ets. He enters slowly and heavily. 
He sees Fiddler, wJio salutes, for- 
getting the letter. John slowly sit?i 
in armchair at the study tahle.) 
John. {Speaking as he walks to hit) 
chair.) Hello, Fiddler! 

{Pause. John throws himself into ^ 
chair, keeping his hat on. Thrown 
down his gloves ^ sighing.) 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



Fiddler. Came in to see you, sir, about 
Cyntliia K. 

John. [Drearily.) Damn Cynthia K! — 

Fiddler. Couldn't have a word with you? 

JoHX. {Grumpy.) Ko! 

Fiddler. Yes, sir. 

John. Fiddler. 

Fiddler. Yes, sir. 

John. Mrs. Karslake — (Fiddler nods.) 
You used to say she was our mascot? 

Fiddler. Yes, sir. 

John. Well, she 's just married herself to 
a — a sort of a man ! 

Fiddler. Sorry to hear it, sir. 

John. Well, Fiddler, between you and 
me, we 're a pair of idiots. 

Fiddler. Yes, sir! 

John. And now it 's too late ! 

Fiddler. Yes, sir — oh, beg your pardon, 
sir — your lawyer left a letter. 

(John takes the letter; opens it and 
reads it, indifferently at first.) 

John. {As he opens letter.) What's he 
got to say, more than what his wire said? 
— Eh — {as he reads, he is dumbfounded) 
what? — Will explain. — Error in wording 
of telegram. — Call me up. — {Turning to 
telephone quickly.) The man can't 
mean that she 's still — Hello ! Hello ! 
(John listens.) 

Fiddler. Would like to have a word with 
you, sir — 

John. Hello, Central! 

Fiddler. That mare — 

John. {Looks at letter; speaks into 
'phone.) 33246a 38 ! Did you get it? 

Fiddler. That mare, sir, she 's got a touch 
of malaria — 

John. {At the 'phone.) Hello, Central — 
33246a— 381— Clayton Osgood— yes, yes, 
and say, Central — get a move on 
you! 

Fiddler. If you think wtII of it, sir, I '11 
give her a tonic — 

John. {Still at the 'phone.) Hello! Yes 
— yes — Jack Karslake. Is that you, 
Clayton ? Yes — yes — well — 

Fiddler. Or if you like, sir, I '11 give 
her — 

John. {Turning on Fiddler.) Shut up! 
{To 'phone.) What was that? Not you 
— not you — a technical error? You 
mean to say that Mrs. Karslake is still — 
my — Hold the wire, Central — get off 
the wire ! Get off the wire ! Is that 
you, Clayton? Yes, yes — she and I are 
still — I got it! Good-bye! 

{He hangs up the receiver and falls 
hack in the chair. For a moment he 



is overcome. He takes up the tele-' 
phone book.) 
Fiddler. All very well, Mr. Karslake, but 

I must know if I 'm to give her a — 
John. {Turning over the leaves of the 

telephone book in hot haste.) What's 

Phillimore's number? 
Fiddler. If you 've no objections, I think 

I '11 give her a — 
John. {As before.) L— M— N— 0— P— 

It 's too late ! She 's married by this ! 

Married! — and — my God — I — I am the 

cause. Phillimore — 
Fiddler. I '11 give her — 
John. Give her wheatina! — give her 

grape nuts — give her away! (Fiddler 

moves away.) Only be quiet! Philli- 
more! 

{Enter Sir Wilfrid.) 

Sir Wilfrid. Hello! We'd almost given 
you up! 

John. {Still in his agitation unable to 
find Phillimore's number.) Just a mo- 
ment ! I 'm trying to get Phillimore on 
tlie 'phone to — to tell Mrs. Karslake — 

Sir Wilfrid. No good, my boy — she 's on 
her way here! (John drops book and 
looks up dumbfounded.) The Reverend 
Matthew was here, y' see — and he said — 

John. {Rising, he turns.) Mrs. Kars- 
lake is coming here? (Sir Wilfrid 
nods.) To this house? Here? 

Sir Wilfrid. That 's right. 

John. Coming here ? You 're sure ? ( Sir 
Wilfrid nods assent.) Fiddler, I want 
you to stay here, and if Mrs. Karslake 
comes, don't fail to let me know! Now 
then, for Heaven's sake, what did Mat- 
thew say to you? 

Sir Wilfrid. Come along in and I '11 tell 
you. 

John. On your life now. Fiddler, don't 
fail to let me — 

{Exeunt John and Sir Wilfrid.) 

Vida. {Voice off'.) Ah, here you are! 

Fiddler. Phew ! 

{There is a moment's pause, and Cyn- 
thia enters. She comes in very 
quietly, almost shyly, and as if she 
were uncertain of her welcome.) 

Cynthia. Fiddler! Where is he? Has 
he come? Is he here? Has he gone? 

Fiddler. {Rattled.) Nobody's gone, 
ma'am, except the Reverend Matthew 
Phillimore. 

Cynthia. Matthew? He's been here and 
gone? (Fiddler nods assent.) You 



756 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



don't mean I 'm too late ? He 's married 
them already"? 

Fiddler. Nogam says he married them ! 

Cynthia. He 's married them ! Man-ied ! 
Married before I could get here! {Sit- 
ting in armchair.) Married in less time 
than it takes to pray for rain! Oh, well, 
the church — the church is a regular quick 
marriage counter. {Voices of Vida and 
John lieard in light-li carted laughter.) 
Oh! 

Fiddler. I '11 tell Mr. Karslake — 

Cynthia. {Rising and going to the door 
through which John left the stage; she 
turns the key in the lock and takes it 
out.) No — I wouldn't see him for the 
world! {She comes down with key to 
the work-table.) If I'm too late, I'm 
too late! and that 's the end of it! {Site 
lays key on table and remains standing 
near it. ) I 've come, and now I '11 go ! 
{Long pause. Cynthia looks about the 
room and changes her tone.) Well, Fid- 
dler, it 's all a good deal as it used to be 
in my day. 

Fiddler. No, ma'am — everything changed, 
even the horses. 

Cynthia. {Absent-mindedly.) Horses — 
how are the horses? 

{Throughout this scene she gives tJie 
idea that she is saying good-bye to 
her life with John.) 

Fiddler. Ah, when husband and wife 
splits, ma'am, it 's the horses that suffer. 
Oh, yes, ma'am, we 're all changed since 
you give us the go-by, — even the guv'nor. 

Cynthia. How 's he changed? 

Fiddler. Lost his sharp for horses, and 
ladies, ma'am — gives 'em both the boiled 
eye. 

Cynthia. I can't say I see any change; 
there 's my portrait — I suppose he sits 
and pulls faces at me. 

Fiddler. Yes, ma'am, I think I 'd better 
tell him of your bein' here. 

Cynthia. {Gently but decidedly.) No, 
Fiddler, no! {She again looks about 
her.) The room's in a terrible state of 
disorder. However, your new mistress 
will attend to that. {Pause.) Why, 
that 's not her hat ! 

Fiddler. Yours, ma'am. 

Cynthia. Mine! {She goes to the table 
to look at it.) Is that my work-basket? 
{Pause.) My gloves? (Fiddler as- 
sents.) And I suppose — {She hurriedly 
goes to the writing-table.) My — yes, 
there it is: my wedding ring! — just 
where I dropped it! Oh, oh, oh, he 



keeps it like this — hat, gloves, basket and 
ring, everything just as it was that crazy, 
mad day when I — {Glances at Fiddler 
and breaks off.) But for Heaven's sake. 
Fiddler, set that chair on its feet ! 

Fiddler. Against orders, ma'am. 

Cynthia. Against orders? 

Fiddler. You kicked it over, ma'am, the 
day you left us. 

Cynthia. No wonder he hates me with 
the chair in that state! He nurses his 
wrath to keep it warm. So, after all, 
Fiddler, everything is changed, and that 
chair is the proof of it. I suppose Cyn- 
thia K is the only thing in the world that 
cares a whinney whether I 'm alive or 
dead. {She breaks down and sobs.) 
How is she. Fiddler? 

Fiddler. Off her oats, ma'am, this eve- 
ning. 

Cynthia. Off her oats! Well, she loves 
me, so I suppose she will die, or change, 
or — or something. Oh, she '11 die, 
there 's no doubt about that — she '11 die. 
(Fiddler, who has been watching his 
chance, takes the key off the table while 
she is sobbing, tiptoes up the stage, un- 
locks the door and goes out. After he 
has done so, Cynthia rises and dries her 
eyes.) There — I 'm a fool — I must go — 
before — before — he — 

{As she speaks her last word John 
comes on.) 

John. Mrs. Karslake! 

Cynthia. {Confused.) 1 — I — I just heard 
Cynthia K was ill — (John assents. 
Cynthia tries to put on a cheerful and 
indifferent manner.) I — I ran round — 
I — and — and — {Pausing, she turns and 
comes down.) Well, I understand it's 
all over. 

John. {Cheerfully.) Yes, it's all over. 

Cynthia. How is the bride? 

John. Oh, she 's a wonder. 

Cynthia. Indeed! Did she paw the 
ground like the war horse in the Bible? 
I 'm sure when Vida sees a wedding ring 
she smells the battle afar off. As for 
you, my dear Karslake, I should have 
thought once bitten, twice shy! But, 
you know best. 

{Enter Vida.) 

Vida. Oh, Cynthia, I've just been 
through it again, and I feel as if I were 
eighteen. There 's no use talking about 
it, my dear, with a woman it 's never tlie 
second time! And how nice you were. 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



757 



Jack, — be never even laughed at us! 
{Enter Sir Wilfrid, with hat and cane. 
ViDA kisses John.) That's the wages 
of virtue ! 

Sir Wilfrid. {In time to see her kiss 
John.) I say, is it the custom? Every 
time she does that, my boy, you owe me 
a thousand pounds. {Seeing Cynthia, 
who approaches them, he looks at her 
and John in turn. ) ' Mrs. Karslake. 
{To John.) And then you say it's- not 
an extraordinary country ! 

(Cynthia is m.ore and more puzzled.) 

ViDA. {To John.) See you next Derby, 
Jack. {Crossing to door. To Sir Wil- 
frid.) Come along, Wilfrid! We really 
ought to be going. {To Cynthia.) I 
hope, dear, you have n't married him ! 
Phillimore 's a tomb ! Good-bye, Cyn- 
thia — I'm so happy! {As she goes.) 
Just think of the silly people, dear, that 
only have this sensation once in a life- 
time! 

{Exit Vida. John follows Vida off.) 

Sir Wilfrid. {To Cynthia.) Good-bye, 
Mrs. Karslake. And I say, ye know, if 
you have married that dull old Phillimore 
fellah, why, when you 've divorced him, 
come over and stay at Traynham! I 
mean, of course, ye know, bring your 
new husband. There '11 be lots of horses 
to show you, and a whole covey of jolly 
little Cates-Darbys. Mind you come! 
{With real delicacy of feeling and for- 
getting his wife.) Never liked a woman 
as much in my life as I did you! 

Vida. {Outside; calling him.) Wilfrid, 
dear! 

Sir Wilfrid. {Loyal to the woman who 
has caught him.) — except the one 
that 's calling me ! 

{Reenter John. Sir Wilfrid nods to him 
and goes off. John shuts the door and 
crosses the stage. A pause.) 

Cynthia. So you 're not married ? 

John. No. But I know that you imag- 
ined I was. {Pause.) 

Cynthia. I suppose you think a woman 
has no right to divorce a man — and still 
continue to feel a keen interest in his 
affairs? 

John. Well, I 'm not so sure about that, 
but I don't quite see how — 

Cynthia. A woman can be divorced — and 
still — (John assents; she hides her em- 
barrassment.) Well, my dear Karslake, 
you 've a long life before you, in which 
to learn how such a state of mind is pos- 



sible ! So I won't stop to explain. Will 
you be kind^ enough to get me a cab"? 

{She moves to the door.) 

John. Certainly. I was going to say } 
am not surprised at your feeling an in-, 
terest in me. I 'm only astonished that, 
having actually married Phillimore, you 
come here — 

Cynthia. {Indignantly.) I'm not mar- 
ried to him! {A pause.) 

John. I left you on the brink — made me 
feel a little uncertain. 

Cynthia. {In a matter-of-course tone.) 
1 changed my mind — that 's all. 

John. {Taking his tone from her.) Of 
course. {A pause.) Are you going to 
marry him? 

Cynthia. I don't know. 

John. Does he know you — 

Cynthia. I told him I was coming here. 

John. Oh! He'll turn up here, then — 
eh? (Cynthia is silent.) And you'll 
go back with him, I suppose? 

Cynthia. {Talking at random.) Oh — 
yes — I suppose so. I — I have n't thought 
much about it. 

John. {Changing his tone.) Well, sit 
down; do. Till he comes — talk it over. 
{He places the armchair more comfort- 
ably for her.) This is a more comfort- 
able chair! 

Cynthia. {Shamefacedly.) You . never 
liked me to sit in that one! 

John. Oh, well — it 's different now. 
(Cynthia crosses and sits down, near 
the upset chair. There is a long pause. 
John crosses the stage.) You don't 
mind if I smoke? 

Cynthia. {Shaking her head.) No. 

John. {He lights his pipe and sits on 

arm of chair.) Of course, if you find 

my presence painful, I '11 — skiddoo. 

{He indicates the door. Cynthia 

shakes her head. John smokes pipe 

and remains seated.) 

Cynthia. {Suddenly and quickly.) It's 
just simply a fact, Karslake, and that 's 
all there is to it — if a woman has once 
been married — that is, the first man she 
marries — then — she may quarrel, she may 
hate him — she may despise him — but 
she '11 always be jealous of him with 
other women. Always! 

(John takes this as if he were simply 
glad to have the information.) 

John. Oh — Hm! ah — yes — yes. 

{A pause.) 

Cynthia. You probably felt jealous of 
Phillimore. 



'58 



THE NEW YOKK IDEA 



John. {Ueasonably , sweetly, and in 
doubt.) N-o! I felt simply: Let him 
take his medicine. {Apologetically.) 

Cynthia. Oh ! 

John. I beg your pardon — I meant — 

Cynthia. You meant what you said! 

John. {Comes a step to her.) Mrs. Kars- 
lake-, I apologize — I won't do it again. 
But it 's too late for you to be out alone 
— Philip will be here in a moment — and 
of course, then — 

Cynthia. It is n't what you say — it 's — 
it 's — it 's everything. It 's the entire 
situation. Suppose by any chance I 
don't marry Phillimore ! And suppose I 
were seen at two or three in the morning 
leaving my former husband's house! 
It 's all wrong. I have no business to be 
here ! I 'm going ! You 're perfectly 
horrid to me, you know — and — the whole 
place — it 's so familiar, and so — so as- 
sociated with — with — 

John. Discord and misery — I know — 

Cynthia. Not at all with discord and 
misery! With harmony and happiness 
— with — with first love, and infinite hope 
— and — and — Jack Karslake, — if you 
don't set that chair on its legs, I think 
I '11 explode. 

(John crosses the stage rapidly and 
sets chair on its legs. His tone 
changes.) 

John. {While setting chair on its legs.) 
There! I beg your pardon. 

Cynthia. (Nervously.) 1 believe I hear 
Philip. (Rises.) 

John. (Going up to the window.) N-o! 
That 's the policeman trying the front 
door! And now, see here, Mrs. Kars- 
lake, — you 're only here for a short min- 
ute, because you can't help yourself, but 
I want you to understand that I 'm not 
trying to be disagreeable — I don't want 
to revive all the old unhappy — 

Cynthia. Very well, if you don't — give 
me my hat. (John does so.) And my 
sewing! And my gloves, please! (She 
indicates the several articles which lie 
on the small table.) Thanks! (Cyn- 
thia throws the lot into the fireplace, 
and returns to the place she has left near 
table.) There! I feel better! And 
now — all I ask is — 

John. (Laughs.) My stars, what a 
pleasure it is ! 

Cynthia. What is? 

John. Seeing you in a whirlwind! 

Cynthia. (Wounded by his seeming in- 
di^erence.) Oh! 



John. No, but I mean, a real pleasure! 
Why not ? Time 's passed since you and 
I were together — and — eh — 

Cynthia. And you 've forgotten what a 
vile temper I had! 

John. (Reflectively.) Well, you did kick 
the stuffing out of the matrimonial 
buggy— 

Cynthia. (Pointedly but with good tem- 
per. ) It was n't a buggy ; it was a break 
cart — (She stands back of the arm- 
chair.) It's all very well to blame me! 
But when you married me, I 'd never had 
a bit in my mouth ! 

John. Well, I guess I had a pretty hard 
hand. Do you remember the time you 
threw both your slippers out of the win- 
dow? 

Cynthia. Yes, and do you remember the 
time you took my fan from me by force ? 

John. After you slapped my face with 
it! 

Cynthia. Oh, oh ! I hardly touched your 
face! And do you remember the day 
you held my wrists? 

John. You were going to bite me! 

Cynthia. Jack ! I never ! I showed my 
teeth at you ! And I said I would bite you ! 

John. Cynthia, I never knew you to break 
your word! (He laughs casually.) 
And anyhow — they were awfully pretty 
teeth! (Cynthia^, though bolt upright, 
has ceased to seem pained.) And I say 
— do you remember, Cyn — 

(He leans over the armchair to talk to 
her.) 

Cynthia. (After a pause.) You oughtn't 
to call me "Cyn" — it 's not nice of you. 
It 's sort of cruel. I 'm not — Cyn to you 
now. 

John. Awfully sorry; didn't mean to be" 
beastly, Cyn. (Cynthia turns quickly. 
John stamps his foot.) Cynthia! 
Sorry. I '11 make it a commandment : 
thou shalt not Cyn ! ! 

(Cynthia laughs and wipes her eyes.) 

Cynthia. How can you, Jack? How can 
you? 

John. Well, hang it, my dear child, I — 
I 'm sorry, but you know I always got 
foolish with you. Your laugh 'd make a 
horse laugh. W^hy, don't you remember 
that morning in the park before break- 
fast — when you laughed so hard your 
horse ran away with you ! 

Cynthia. Ido, Ido! (Both laugh. The 
door opens.) 

(NoGAM enters.) 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



759 



But what was it started me laughing? 
{Laughing, sits down and laughs again,) 
That morning. Wasn't it somebody we 
met? (Laughs ) Was n't it a man on a 
horse? (Laughs.) 

John. (Laughing too.) Of course! You 
didn't know him in those days! But I 
did! And he looked a sight in the sad- 
dle! 

(NoGAM, trying to catch their atten- 
tion, comes to right of table.) 

Cynthia. Who was it? 

John. Phillimore ! 

Cynthia. He 's no laughing matter now. 
(/Sees NoGAM.) Jack, he 's here ! 

John. Eh? Oh, Nogam? 

NoGAM. Mr. Phillimore, sir — 

John. In the house? 

Nogam. On the street in a hansom, sir — 
and he requests Mrs. Karslake — 

John. That '11 do, Nogam. (Exit No- 
gam. Pause. John from near the win- 
dow. Cynthia faces audience.) Well, 
Cynthia? 

(He speaks almost gravely and with 
finality. ) 

Cynthia. (Trembling.) Well? 

John. It 's the hour of decision ; are you 
going to marry him? (Pause.) Speak 
up! 

Cynthia. Jack, — I — I — 

John. There he is — you can join him. 

(He points to the street.) 

Cynthia. Join Phillimore — and go home 
— with him — to his house, and Miss Hen- 
eage and — 

John. The door's open. 

(He points to the door.) 

Cynthia. No, no! It's mean of you to 
suggest it! 

John. You won't marry — 

Cynthia. Phillimore — no; never. (Runs 
to window.) No; never, never. Jack. 

John. (He calls out of the window, hav- 
ing opened it.) It's all right, Judge. 
You needn't wait. 

(Pause. John comes down. John 
bursts into laughter. Cynthia looks 
dazed. He closes door.) 

Cynthia. Jack! (John laughs.) Yes, 
but I 'm here. Jack. 

John. Why not? 

Cynthia. You '11 have to take me round 
to the Holland House! 

John. Of course, I will! But, I say 
Cynthia, there 's no hurry. 

Cynthia. Why, I — I — can't stay here. 

John. No, of course you can't stay here. 
But you can have a bite, though. (Cyn- 



thia shakes her head. John places the 
small chair which was upset, next to 
table.) Oh, I insist. Just look at your- 
self — you 're as pale as a sheet and — 
here, here. Sit right down. I insist! 
By George, you must do it ! 

(Cynthia crosses to chair beside table 
and sits.) 

Cynthia. (Faintly.) I am hungry. 

John. Just wait a moment. 

(Exit John.) 

Cynthia. I don't want more than a nib- 
ble! {Pause.) I am sorry to give you 
so much trouble. 

John. No trouble at all. (He can be 
heard off the stage, busied with glasses 
and a tray.) A hansom of course, to 
take you round to your hotel? 

(Speaking as he comes down.) 

Cynthia. (To herself.) I wonder how I 
ever dreamed I could marry that man. 

John. (By table by this time.) Can't 
imagine ! There ! 

Cynthia. I am hungry. Don't forget the 
hansom. 

(She eats; he waits on her, setting this 
and that before her.) 

John. (Going to door; opens it and 
speaks off.) Nogam, a hansom at once. 

Nogam. (Off stage.) Yes, sir. 

John. (Back to above table; from here 
on he shows his feelings for her.) . How 
does it go? 

Cynthia. (Faintly.) It goes all right. 
Thanks! (Hardly eating at all.) 

John. You always used to like anchovy. 
(Cynthia nods and eats.) Claret? 
(Cynthia shakes her head.) Oh, but 
you must! 

Cynthia. (Tremulously.) Ever so little. 
(He fills her glass and then his.) 
Thanks ! 

John. Here's to old times. 

(Raising glass.) 

Cynthia. (Very tremulous.) Please not! 

John. Well, here 's to your next hus- 
band. 

Cynthia. (Very tenderly.) Don't! 

John. Oh, well, then, what shall the toast 
be? 

Cynthia. I'll tell you — (pause) you can 
drink to the relation I am to you ! 

John. (Laughing.) Well — what relation 
are you? 

Cynthia. I 'm your first wife once re- 
moved ! 

John. (Laughing, he drinks.) I say,. 
you 're feeling better. 

Cynthia. Lots. 



760 



THE NEW YORK IDEA 



John. {Reminiscent.) It's a good deal 
like those mornings after the races — is n't 
HI 

Cynthia. (Nodding.) Yes. Is that the 
hansom? (Half rises.) 

John. {Going up to the window.) No. 

Cynthia. {Sitting again.) What is that 
sound? 

John. Don't you remember? 

Cynthia. No. 

John. That 's the rumbling of the early 
milk wagons. 

Cynthia. Oh, Jack. 

John. Do you recognize it now? 

Cynthia. Do I ? We used to hear that — 
just at the hour, didn't we — when we 
came back from awfully jolly late sup- 
pers and things! 

John. H'm! 

Cynthia. It must be fearfully late. I 
must go. 

{She rises, crosses to chair, where she 
has left her cloak. She sees that 
John will not help her and puts it 
on herself.) 

John. Oh, don't go — why go? 

Cynthia. {Embarrassed ayid agitated.) 
All good things come to an end, you 
know. 

John. They don't need to. 

Cynthia. Oh, you don't mean that ! And, 
you know, Jack, if I were caught — seen 
at this hour, leaving this house, you 
know — it 's the most scandalous thing 
any one ever did my being here at all. 
Good-bye, Jack! {Pause; almost in 
tears. ) I 'd like to say, I — I — I — well, 
I shan't be bitter about you hereafter, 
and — {Pause.) Thank you awfully, 
old man, for the fodder and all that ! 

{She turns to go out.) 

John. Mrs. Karslake — wait — 

Cynthia. {Stopping to hear.) Well? 

John. {Serious.) I 've rather an ugly bit 
of news for you. 

Cynthia. Yes? 

John. I don't believe you know that I 
have been testing the validity of the de- 
cree of divorce which you procured. 

'Cynthia. Oh, have you? 

.John. Yes; you know I felt pretty 
warmly about it. 

•Cynthia. Well? 

John. Well, I 've been successful. 
{Pause.) The decree 's been declared in- 
valid. Understand ? 

•Cynthia. {Looking at him a moment; 
then speaking.) Not — precisely. 

John. (Pause.) I'm awfully sorry — 



I 'm awfully sorry, Cynthia, but, you 're 

my wife still. (Pause.) 

Cynthia. ( With rapture. ) Honor bright ? 

(She sinks into the armchair.) 

John. (Nodding, half laughingly.) Crazy 

country, isn't it? 
Cynthia. {Nodding. Pause.) Well, 

Jack — what 's to be done ? 
John. (Gently.) Whatever you say. 
NoGAM. (Quietly enters.) Hansom, sir. 
(Exits. Cynthia rises.) 
John. Why don't you finish your supper? 
(Cynthia hesitates.) 
Cynthia. The — the — hansom — 
John. Why go to the Holland? After 

all — you know, Cyn, you 're at home 

here. 
Cynthia. No, Jack, I 'm not — I 'm not at 

home here — unless — unless — 
John. Out with it! 
Cynthia. (Bursting into tears.) Unless 

I — unless I 'm at home in your heart. 

Jack! 
John. What do you think? 
Cynthia. I don't believe you want me to 

stay. 
John. Don't you? 
Cynthia. No, no, you hate me still. You 

never can forgive me. I know you can't. 

For I can never forgive myself. Never, 

Jack, never, never! 

(She sobs and he takes her in his 
arms. ) 
John. (Very tenderly.) Cyn! I love 

you! (Strongly.) And you've got to 

stay! And hereafter you can chuck 

chairs around till all 's blue ! Not a word 

now. (He draws her gently to a chair.) 
Cynthia. (Wiping her tears.) Oh, Jack! 

Jack! 
John. I 'm as hungry as a shark. We '11 

nibble together. 
Cynthia. Well, all I can say is, I feel 

that of all the improprieties I ever com- 
mitted this — this — 
John. This takes the claret, eh? Oh, 

Lord, how happy I am! 
Cynthia. Now don't say that! You'll 

make me cry more. 

(She wipes her eyes. John takes out 

the wedding ring from his pocket; he 

lifts a wine glass, drops the ring 

into it and offers her the glass.) 

John. Cynthia ! 

Cynthia. (Looking at it and wiping her 

eyes.) What is it? 
John. Benedictine ! 
Cynthia. Why, you know I never take 

it. 



LANGDON MITCHELL 



761 



John. Take this one for my sake. 
Cynthia. That 's not benedictine. ( With 

gentle curiosity.) What is it? 
John. (He slides the ring out of the glass 



and puts his arm about Cynthia. He 
slips the ring on to her finger and, as he 
kisses her hand, says.) Your wedding 
ring! 



THE WITCHING HOUR 

BY 

Augustus Thomas 



Copyright, 1916, by Augustus Thomas 
All Rights Resee\'ed 

Reprinted hy permission of Mr. Augustus Thomas. 



THE WITCHING HOUR 

The Witching Hour represents the play that reflects a phase of modern in- 
terest, in this case telepathy. It also represents Mr. Thomas's work in the most 
significant period, so far, of his career. Augustus Thomas was born in St. Louis, 
Missouii, January 8, 1859, the son of Dr. Elihu B. Thomas. His father was as- 
sociated with the theatre, being director for a time of the St. Charles Theatre in 
New Orleans. Mr. Thomas tells us, in his brief reminiscences, that after his 
father returned to St. Louis in 1865, Dr. Thomas told him much concerning the 
actors with whom he had come in contact. Augustus Thomas was taken to the 
theatre early in his life and has grown up in its atmosphere. He was educated 
in the public schools of St. Louis, was a page in the Forty-first Congress and up 
to his twenty-second year was in the service of the freight department of various 
railroads, where, he tells us, he learned much about human nature. Later on, he 
became a special writer on newspapers in St. Louis, Kansas City, and New York, 
and was for a time editor and proprietor of the Kansas City Mirror. 

He began to write plays when he was fourteen years old. By the time he 
was seventeen he had organized an amateur company which he took on circuit. 
It was at this time that such early efforts as Alone (1875), or A Big Rise (1875), 
his earliest plays known by name, were written. In 1882 he dramatized Mrs. 
Burnett's Editha's Burglar, and organized a professional company which he took 
around the country playing this and other plays. In 1887 a four-act play by the 
title of The Burglar became a success in New York and from that time Mr. 
Thomas has devoted himself to play writing. He is now the Art Director of the 
Charles Frohman interests. 

Mr. Thomas has written fifty-two plays. He stands in our drama for literary 
craftsmanship combined with practical knowledge of the stage and for a serious 
interest in the furtherance of dramatic progress. His work is not the result of 
accidental inspiration, but he has proceeded on a basis of logical deduction from 
observed facts to an establishment of fundamental principles in dramatic con- 
struction. His art is native, too; his first significant play, Alabama, produced 
April 1, 1891, at the Madison Square Theatre, New York, had as its theme the 
reunited country. In Mizzoura (1893) pictured in a less significant though 
amusing manner the customs of that State. Arizona, produced first, June 12, 
1899, at Hamlin 's Grand Opera House, Chicago, is a better play than any of the 
ones which preceded it, and Mr. Thomas may be said to have entered into his most 
significant period with this play. It was laid at the time of the Spanish-Amer- 
ican War, but the war itself was of little significance. The play portrayed Amer- 

765 



7fiG INTRODUCTION 



lean life in its picturesque Western form, not the "bad man" type of life, but 
the real life of the great ranches, with real characters in them. Arizo7ia had a 
successful London production in 1902. Mr. Thomas produced next some charm- 
ing comedies, either, like Oliver Goldsmith (1899), an imaginative treatment of 
literary history, or like The Earl of Pawtucket (1903), or Mrs. LeffingivelVs 
Boots (1905), clever treatments of modern life. 

The Witching Hour, produced first in Providence, Rhode Island, November 
16, 1907, and at the Hackett Theatre, New York City, November 18, 1907, is 
probably Mr. Thomas 's greatest play. It represents the next phase of his work, 
the study of modern modes of interest. One would call them ''problems," ex- 
cept that the word suggests an element that is absent from Mr. Thomas's plays. 
The central theme of the play, the influence of human minds through the strength 
of suggestion, had been with Mr. Thomas for many years. Incidents that had 
proved to him the possibility of such suggestions had occurred in his early days 
w^hen he was managing companies in the AYest, and he waited till the time was 
ripe and public interest was ready. In As a Man Thinks, he treated the rela- 
tions of the modern American husband and wife, and put into dramatic form the 
real reason for the prevalence of the so-called double standard of morality. It 
is a sane and wholesome play, for it not only deals with this question without 
morbidity or suggestiveness, but also shows the futility of race antagonism and 
calls attention to the permanent force of character, through the masterly por- 
trait of "Dr. Seelig." 

A list of Mr. Thomas's plays checked as to dates by the playwright for the 
present editor includes the following, those starred being adaptations of other 
material: Alo7ie (1875), A Big Rise (1875), Editha's ^Burglar (1883), A New 
Year's Call (1884), Tl\e Burglar (1887), A Proper Improprietij (1888), A 
Night's Frolic (1888), The Music Box (1888), A Man of the World (1889), 
A Woman of the World {1889) , Afterthoughts (1890), The Outside Man (1890), 
Reckless Temple (1890) , Alabama (1891), Surrender (1892), For Moneij (1892)^ 
Col. Carter of Cartersville* (1892), In Mizzoura (1893), The Capitol (1894), 
New Blood (1894), The Man Upstairs (1895), Chimmie Fadden'' (1895), The 
Jucklins* (1896), The Hoosier Doctor (1898), That Overcoat (1896-1898), The 
Meddler (1898), Arizoyia (1899), Oliver Goldsmith (1899), Colorado (1901), 
Soldiers of Fortune'' (1902), On the Quiet (1902), The Other Girl (1902), The 
Earl of Pawtucket (1903), Tlie Education of Mr. Pipp (1903), Delancey 
(1904), The Embassy Ball (1905), Mrs. Leffingiveirs Boots (1905), The Ranger 
(1907), The Witching Hour (1907), The Harvest Moon (1909), The Matinee 
Idol (1909), The Memler from Ozark (1910), As a Man Thinks (1911), At 
Bay (1911), with George Scarborough, Mere Man (1912), The Model (1912), 
Indian Summer (1913), The Battle Cry* (1914), Rio Grande (1915), The 
Copperhead (1918), Palmy Days (1919), Speak of the Devil (1920). 

Arizona and Alabama have been published by the Dramatic Publishing Com- 



INTRODUCTION 767 



pany, As a Man Thinks by Duffield. The Witching Hour appeared in The 
Greatest Contemporary Dramatists, edited by T. H. Dickinson. Samuel French 
has published The Witching Hour, Oliver Goldsmith, In Mizzoura, Mrs. Leffing- 
welVs Boots, The Other Girl, and The Earl of Pawtucket. 

A brief autobiographical sketch appears in The Outlook, Vol. 94, pp. 213-14, 
January 22, 1910. For a thorough analysis of Mr. Thomas's plays, see William 
Winter, The Wallet of Time, Vol. 2, pp. 529-557. See also W. P. Eaton, The 
American Stage of Today (1908), "pp. 27-44, which contains an analysis of The 
Witching Hour. A sketch of the plot is given in Current Literature, Vol. 46, 
pp. 544-551, May, 1909 ; and a criticism of the first performance in The Theatre, 
Vol. 8, p. 2, 1908. 

The present text has been revised especially for this edition by Mr. Thomas, 
to whom the editor is indebted for permission to reprint it. 



THE ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Hackett Theatre, New York City, November 18, 1907 
In the order of their first appearance 

Jo, a servant Mr. S. E. Hines 

Jack Brookfield, professional gambler Mr. John j\Iason 

Tom Denning Mr. Freeman Barnes 

Harvey, a servant Mr. Thomas C. Jackson 

Mrs. Alice Campbell, Jack's sister Miss Ethel Winthrop 

Mrs. Helen "Whipple, Clay's mother Mrs. Jeanne Eustace 

Viola Campbell Miss Adelaide Nowak 

Clay Whipple Mr. Morgan Coman 

Frank Hardmuth Mr. George Nash 

Lew Ellinger Mr. William Sampson 

Justice Prentice Mr. Russ Whytal 

Justice Henderson IMr. E. I. Walton 

Colonel Bayley Mr. Harry Hadfield 

Mr. Emmett, a reporter Mr. Fawnesgaines 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene. The library and card-room at 
Jack Brookfield's, Louisville: 

There is a large doorway in the center, at 
the back, which leads into a hallway, in 
which the banister of a stairway that 
descends to the street level is seen. A 
second and smaller doorway is near the 
front in the wall to the left of the stage. 
This doorway leads to the dining-room. 
The second plan of the left wall is occu- 
pied by a fireplace and mantel, sur- 
mounted by a marine painting. The 
fireplace is surrounded by a garde au feu 
club seat. 

The rest of the left wall, as well as the rear 
wall on both sides of the center door and 
all of the right wall, is fitted with book- 
cases about five feet high, in which are 
books handsomely bound. 

The walls above these bookcases are hung 
with heavy brocaded Genoese velvet of a 
deep maroon in color and loosely draped. 
The ceiling is of carved wood, gilded. 
On the wall velvet, at proper intervals, 
are paintings by celebrated modern art- 
ists. Some of these paintings are fitted 
with hooded electric lights. Such a fit- 
ting is above a noticeable Corot, which 
hangs to the right of the center door. 

A dark-red rug of luxuriant thickness is on 
the floor. The furniture is simple, mas- 
sive, and Colonial in type. It consists 
of a heavy sofa above the fireplace and 
running at right angles to the wall. A 
heavy table fitted with books is in the 
center; a smaller table for cards is at the 
stage, right. Chairs are at both tables. 

Above the center door is a marble bust of 
Minerva, surmounted by a bronze raven, 
lacquered black, evidently illustrating 
Poe^s poem. The Antommarchi death- 
mask of Napoleon in bronze liangs on 
the dark wood fireplace. A bronze mask 
of Beethoven is on one of the bookcases 
and on another is a bust of Dante. A 
bronze Sphinx is on another bookcase. 

The room is lighted by a standing lamp at 
the back and by the glow from the fire- 



place. Over the table, center, is sus- 
pended an electric lamp in a large bronze 
shade. This lamp, while not lighted, is 
capable of being turned on by a push 
button, which depends from it. 

On the table, center, is a large paper-cutter 
made of an ivory tusk. 

Empty stage. After a pause there is a 
sound of laughter and dishes, left. 

(Enter Jo, sleek negro of Pullman car va- 
riety, by stairway and center door. He 
goes to door, left, and pauses — laughter 
ceases.) 

Jo. Massar Brookfield. 

Jack. (Outside, left.) Well, Jo? 

Jo. Mr. Denning, sah. 

Jack. Ask Mr. Denning to come up. 

Jo. Yes, sah. 

(Exit center. More talk and laughter, 
left.) 

(Jack enters left. He walks to center on 
way toward main door. Pauses. Re- 
turns, left.) 

Jack. (At door, left.) Lew! I say — 
Lew — you ladies excuse Mr. Ellinger a 
moment ? 

Helen, Alice, Viola. (Outside.) Oh — 
yes. Certainly. 

(Enter Lew Ellinger, from dining-room, 
left.) 

Lew. See me? 

Jack. Tom Denning 's here — he expects a 
game. My sister and Mrs. Whipple ob- 
ject to the pasteboards — so don't men- 
tion it before them. 

Lew. (Anxiously.) Not a word — but, 
Tom—? 

Jack. I '11 attend to Tom. 

Lew. Good. 

(Starts back to dining-room.) 

(Enter Tom Denning, right center; he is 
fat, indolent type.) 

Tom. Hello, Lew. (Lew stops and turns. 
Jack motions him out and Lew goes,) 



769 



770 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



What you got to-night? Young Rocke- 
feller? 

Jack. Some ladies — 

Tom. {Grinning.) What — 

Jack. (Sternly.) My sister and her 
daughter — and a lady friend of theirs. 

Tom. {Disappointed.) — No game? 

Jack. Not until they go. 

Tom. {Getting a peek off into dining- 
room.) Oh — chafing-dish. 

Jack. They Ve been to the opera. — I had 
Harvey brew them some terrapin. 

Tom. {Complaining.) My luck! 

{His hands hang limp.) 

Jack. No, I think there 's some left. 
{Pause.) I'm going to take a long 
chance and introduce you, Tom, only 
don't say anything about poker before 
the ladies. 

Tom. Thought you said your sister — 

Jack. I did. 

Tom. Well, she's on, isn't she? 

Jack. But she doesn't like it — and my 
niece — my niece does n't like it. 

{Enter Harvey, old negro servant, from 
dining-room, left.) 

Harvey. I 've made some coffee, Mars 

Jack. You have it in the dining-room 

or heah, sah? 
Jack. {Going.) I'll ask the ladies. 
Tom. How are you- Harvey? 
Harvey. {Bowing.) Mars Denning — 
Jack. {Who has paused at door, left.) 

Got some terrapin for Mr. Denning, 

Harvey? 
Harvey. Yas, sah. {To Tom.) Yas, 

sah. {Exit Jack, left.) 

Tom. They left some of the rum, too, I 

hope. 
Harvey. Couldn't empty my ice-box in 

one evening, 'Mars Denning. {Starts 

off. Pause.) De ladies getting up. 
{Stands up stage in front of fire. 
Tom goes right. A pause.) 

{Enter Jack.) 

Jack. The ladies will have their coffee in 

here, Harvey. 
Harvey. Yes, sir. 

{Enter Alice. She is smartly gowned and 
is energetic.) 

Jack. Alice — tliis is my friend, Mr. Den- 
ning — my sister — Mrs. Campbell. 
Alice. Mr. Denning. 

{Enter Helen and Viola. Helen is thor- 
oughly feminine in type, and is young- 



looking for the mother of a hoy of 
twenty — Viola is an athletic Kentucky 
girl.) 

Helen. I never take coffee even after 
dinner and at this hour — never! 

{Exit Harvey.) 

Jack. Mrs. Whipple, may I present Mr. 
Denning? 

Helen. {Bowing.) Mr. Denning. 

Tom. Good-evening ! 

Jack. My niece. Miss Viola Campbell. 

Tom. How are you? (Viola bows.) 

Jack. Mr. Denning 's just left the foun- 
dry and he 's very hungry. 

Tom. And thirsty — 

Jack. {Pushing him toward dining- 
room.) Yes, and thirsty. Uncle Har- 
vey 's going to save his life. 

Tom. Ha, ha! Excuse me! {Exit.) 

Alice. The foundry? 

{Sits right of table.) 

Jack. Never did a day's work in his life. 
That's Tom Denning. {Nods off.) 

Viola. {On sofa at fireplace.) Tom Den- 
ning 's the name of the big race-horse. 

Jack. Yes — he 's named after the race- 
horse. 

Helen. {On sofa, beside Viola.) What 
does he do? 

Jack. His father — father's in the pack- 
ing business — Kansas City; this fellow 
has four men shoveling money away 
from him so he can breathe. 

(Starts toward dining-room.) 

Alice. (In amused protest.) Oh, Jack! 

Jack. Yes — I 'm one of them — you '11 
find cigarettes in that box. 

Alice. Jack! (Rises.) 

Jack. (Apologizing.) Not you, Alice, 
but— 

Viola. (Protesting.) Well, certainly not 
for me, Uncle Jack? 

Jack. Of course, not you . . . 

Helen. Thank you, Mr. Brookfield! 

Alice. (Joining Jack.) My dear brother, 
you confuse the Kentucky ladies with 
some of your Eastern friends. 

Jack. Careful, Alice. Helen lived in the 
East twenty years, remember. 

Helen. But even my husband didn't 
smoke. 

Jack. No? 

Helen. Never — in his life — 

Jack. In his life? Why make such a 
pessimistic distinction ? 

(Helen turns away right.) 

Alice. Jack! (After a look to Helen.) 
How can you say a thing like that? 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



771 



Jack. She's the man's widow — I've got 
to say it if any one does. 

{Enter Harvey with coffee.) 

Mr. Denning 's got his tortoise, Uncle 

Harvey? 
Harvey. {Offering tray to Helen.) 

He 's got the same as we all had, Mars 

Jack. Yas, sah. {Laughs.) 

Helen. None, thank you. 

(Harvey moves. on.) 
Jack. I '11 take it. Uncle Harvey. I 

think three or four of them '11 help this 

head of mine. 
Alice. {Taking coffee.) Why don't you 

let Viola cure your headache? 
Viola. {Taking coffee.) Yes, Uncle Jack. 
Jack. No, the coffee '11 fix it, I 'm sure. 

{Exit Harvey.) 
Viola. Sit here while you drink it. 
Jack. No — no, Viola. It isn't enough 

for that. I '11 conserve your mesmeric 

endowment for a real occasion. 

{Swallows coffee in one mouthful.) 
Viola. Goodness! Just to please me? 
Jack. {Shaking head.) Don't want to 

spoil your awful stories. 

{Exit to dining-room.) 

Helen. Is Viola a magnetic healer, too? 

{Sits right of table.) 

Viola. {Taking a hook, and returning to 

the sofa, carrying also a large ivory tusk 

paper-cutter.) Oh, no. 
Alice. {Sitting left of table.) Yes — a re- 
markable one. 
Viola. Only headaches, Mrs. Whipple. 

Those I crush out of my victims. 
Helen. I remember Jack used to have 

a wonderful ability that way as a young 

man. 
Viola. He says only with the girls. 
Alice. We know better, don't we? 
Helen. Yes. 
Viola. Well, for myself, I 'd rather have 

Uncle Jack sit by me than any regular 

physician I ever saw. 
Helen. You mean if you were ill? 
Viola. Of course. 
Alice. You must be very clear with Mrs. 

Whipple on that point, Viola, because 

she used to prefer your Uncle Jack to 

sit by her, even when she was n't ill. 
Helen. {To Viola.) But especially 

when ill, my dear. {To Alice.) And 
has he quit it? 
Alice. Yes — you know Jack went into 

politics for a while. 
Helen. Did he? 
Alice. Local politics — yes — something 



about the police didn't please him and 
then he quft all of his curative work. 

Helen. Why? 

Alice. Well, in politics, I believe there 's 
something unpleasant about the word 
"heeler." 

Helen. Oh ! 

Viola. Entirely different spelling, how- 
ever. 

Helen. Our English language is so elastic 
in that way. 

Alice. Yes, the papers joked about his 
magnetic touch. The word "touch" is 
used offensively also. So Jack dropped 
the whole business. 

Helen. And Viola inherits the ability? 

Alice. Well, if one can inherit ability 
from an uncle. 

Helen. From a family. 

Alice. That's even more generous, but 
Viola is like Jack in every way in which 
a girl may resemble a man. Horses and 
boats and every kind of personal risk — 
and — 

Viola. {Bises.) I'm proud of it. 

Alice. And Jack spoils her. 

Viola. Am I spoiled? 

{Goes to back of table.) 

Alice. He couldn't love her more if he 
were her father — 

{Enter Clay, a boy of twenty.) 

Clay. {Pausing at door.) May I come 
in? 

Viola. Certainly. 

Clay. Isn't this a jolly room, mother? 

Helen. Beautiful. 

Clay. {Waving hand above.) And the 
sleeping apartments are what I take 
pride m. Private bath to every bed- 
room, reading-lamps just ovei* the pil- 
lows — 

Viola. Haven't you seen the house, Mrs. 
Whipple? 

Helen. Not above this floor. 

Alice. Would it interest you? 

{Rises and goes left.) 

Helen. Very much. 

Alice. {At door of dining-room.) Jack — 

Jack. {Outside.) Yes — 

Alice. {To Helen.) Will I do as your 
guide? 

Helen. {Rises.) Oh, yes. 

{Enter Jack.) 

Alice. I want to show Helen over the 

house. 
Jack. Do. 
Alice. The rooms are empty? 



772 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



Jack. Empty, of course. 

Alice. Don't be too indignant, they're 
not always empty. (To Helen.) In 
Jack's house one is liable to find a be- 
lated pilgrim in any room. 

Helen. (Laughing.) And a lady walk- 
ing in unannounced would be something 
of a surprise, wouldn't she? 

Jack. Well — two ladies would, certainly. 

Alice. Jack ! 

Jack. My dear sister — they would. Hard 
lines when the reputation of a man's 
house is n't respected by his own sister — 
ha! 

(Exit left, with mock indignation.) 

Helen. [Smiling.) The same Jack. 

Alice. Intensified and confirmed! (Paus- 
ing at door.) Will you come, too, Vi- 
ola? 

Viola. No, thank you, mother. 

(Helen looks at Alice. She and 
Alice go.) 

Clay. What was Frank Hardmuth say- 
ing to you. 

(He indicates the dining-room.) 

Viola. When? 

Clay. At supper — and in the box at the 
theater, too? 

Viola. Oh — Frank Hardmuth — nobody 
pays any attention to him. 

Clay. I thought you paid a great deal of 
attention to what he was saying. 

Viola. In the same theater party a girl 's 
got to listen — or leave the box. 

Clay. Some persons listen to the opera. 

Viola. I told him that was what I wanted 
to do. 

Clay. Was he making love to you, Viola? 

Viola. I shouldn't call it that. 

Clay. Would anybody else have called it 
that if they 'd overheard it ? 

Viola. I don't think so. 

Clay. Won't you tell me what it was 
about? 

Viola. I don't see why you ask. 

Clay. I asked because he seemed so much 
in earnest — and because you seemed so 
much in earnest. 

Viola. Well? 

Clay. And Frank Hardmuth 's a fellow 
that'll stand watching. (Looks off left.) 

Viola. (Smiling.) He stood a good deal 
to-night. 

Clay. I mean that he 's a clever lawyer 
and would succeed in making a girl com- 
mit herself in some way to him before 
she knew it. 

Viola. I think that depends more on th§ 
way the girl feels. 



Clay. Well — I don't want you to listen 
to Frank Hardmuth under the idea tiiat 
he 's the only chance in Kentucky. 

Viola. Why, Clay Whipple— 

Clay. You know very well I 've been 
courting you myself, Viola, don't you? 

Viola. You have n't. You 've been com- 
ing round like a big boy. 

Clay. (Follows right.) Have I gone with 
any other girl — anywhere? 

Viola. I don't know. (Sits right.) 

Clay. And I 've spoken to your Uncle 
Jack about it. 

Viola. To Uncle Jack? 

Clay. Yes. 

Viola. (Eises.) Nobody told you to 
speak to Uncle Jack. 

Clay. Mother did. 

Viola. Your mother? 

Clay. Yes. Mother's got regular old- 
fashioned ideas about boys and young 
ladies and she said, "if you think Viola 
likes you, the honorable thing to do is to 
speak to her guardian first." 

Viola. Oh! — you thought that, did you? 

Clay. I certainly did. 

Viola. I can't imagine why. 

Clay. I thought that because you 're Jack 
Brookfield's niece, and nobody of his 
blood would play a game that is n't fair. 

Viola. I wish you would n't always throw 
that up to me. (Goes to sofa.) 'T is n't 
our fault if Uncle Jack 's a sporting 
man. (Sits.) 

Clay. (Following.) Why, Viola, I was 
praising him. I think your Uncle Jack 
the gamest man in Kentucky. 

Viola. Nor that either. I don't criticize 
my Uncle Jack, but he 's a lot better man 
than just a fighter or a card-player. I 
love him for his big heart. 

Clay. So do I. If I 'd thought you cared 
I 'd have said you were too much like 
him at heart to let a fellow come 
a-courtin' if you meant to refuse him — 
and that was all that was in my mind 
when I asked about Frank Hardmuth — 
and I don't care what Hardmuth said 
either, if it was n't personal that way. 

Viola. Frank Hardmuth 's nothing to me. 

Clay. And he won't be? (Pause.) Will 
he — ? (Pause.) Say that. Because 
I 'm awfully in love with you. 

Viola. Are you? 

Clay. You bet I am. Just Tom-fool heels 
over head in love with you. 

Viola. You never said so. 

Clay. Mother said a boy in an arcliitect's 
office had better wait till he was a part- 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



773 



ner — but I can't wait, Viola, if other 
fellows are pushing me too hard. 

Viola. (Rises.) Uncle Jack says you are 
a regular architect if there ever was 
one. 

Clay. It 's what you think that makes the 
difference to me. 

Viola. Well, I think — (Pause) — ^Uncle 
Jack certainly knows. 

Clay. And an architect 's just as good as 
a law>"er. 

Viola. Every bit. 

Clay. Viola. (Takes her in Ms arms.) 

Viola, Now — I don't mind tellin' you — 
he was speakin' for himself — Frank 
Hardmuth. 

Clay. By Jove — on this very night. 

Viola. Yes. 

Clay. Seems like the Hand of Providence 
that I was here. Let 's sit down. (They 
sit.) You've got confidence in me, 
haven't you? 

Viola. Yes — l\e always said to mother 
— Clay Whipple '11 make his mark some 
day — I should say I had confidence in 
you. 

Clay. Huh. (Laughs.) Of course the 
hig jobs pay. Things like insurance 
buildings — but my heart 's in domestic 
architecture — and if you don't laugh at 
me, I '11 tell you something. 

Viola. Laugh at you — about your work 
and your ambition! Why, Clay! 

Clay. I do most of the domestic interiors 
for the firm already — and w^ienever I 
plan a second floor or a staircase I can 
see you plain as day walkin' through the 
rooms — or saying good-night over the 
banisters. 

Viola. Really? (Clay nods.) You mean 
in your mind? 

Clay. Xo, with my eyes. Domestic ar- 
chitecture 's the most poetic work a man 
can get into outside of downright poetry 
itself. 

Viola. It must be if you can see it all 
that way. 

Clay. Every room — I can see your short 
sleeves as you put your hands on the 
banisters — and sometimes you push up 
your front hair with the back of your 
hand that way — (Brushes his forehead.) 

Viola. Oh, this — (Repeats the gesture.) 
— all girls do that. 

Clay. But not just the same way as you 
do it. Yes, sir! I can see every little 
motion you make. 

Viola. Whenever you care to think about 



Clay. Bless -^ you, no — that 's the trouble 
of it. 

Viola. What trouble? 

Clay. The pictures of you — don't come 
just when I want them to come — and 
they don't go when I want them to go — 
especially in the dark. 

Viola. Why, how funny. 

Clay. Sometimes I 've had to light the gas 
in order to go to sleep. 

Viola. Why, I never heard of anything 
like that. 

Clay. Well, it happens with me often. I 
designed this room for your Uncle Jack 
— but before I put a brush in my color- 
box I saw this very Genoese velvet and 
the picture frames in their places — and 
that Corot right there — I 've got kind of 
a superstition about that picture. 

Viola. (Rises.) A superstition! 

(Regards the Corot.) 

Clay. I said to Jack, have anything else 
you want on the other walls, but right 
there I want you to put a Corot that 
I 've seen at a dealer's in New York — 
and he did it. 

Viola. Uncle Jack generally has his own 
way about pictures. 

Clay. I only mean that he approved my 
taste in the matter — but my idea of this 
house really started with — and grew 
around that canvas of Corot's. 

Viola. Then it isn't always me that you 
see? 

Clay. Always you when I think about a 
real house, you bet — a house for me — 
and you '11 be there, won't you ? 

(Takes her in his arms.) 

Viola. Will I? 

Clay. Yes— say, "I will." 

Viola. I will. 

(Reenter Alice and Helen.) 

Alice. (Astonished.) Viola i 

(Viola goes left.) 
Clay. I 've asked her — mother. 
Alice. Helen, you knew? 
Helen. Yes. 
Clay. (To Alice.) And I asked Jack, 

too. 
Alice. You mean — 
Clay. We 're engaged — if you say it 's 

all right. 
Alice. And you — Viola? 
Viola. (Nodding.) Yes — 
Alice. (Going to chair left of table.) 

Well, if Jack 's been consulted and you 

all know of it — I should make a very 

hopeless minority. 



774 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



Clay. Why any minority? 

Alice. Only the necessary considerations. 
{To Helen.) Clay's prospects — his 
youth. 

Viola. Why, he designs most of the work 
for his firm now. 

Clay. That is, dwellings. 

Helen. I should advise waiting — myself 
— until Clay is in the firm — {To Clay.) 
And I did advise delay in speaking to 
Viola herself. 

Clay. I 'd 'a' waited, mother, only Frank 
Hardmuth proposed to Viola to-night I 

Alice. To-night? 

Viola. At the opera. 

Alice. {To Helen.) One isn't safe any- 
where. 

Clay. You wouldn't want Mm! So you 
do consent, don't you? 

Alice. I think your mother and I should 
talk it over. 

Clay. Well, it's a thing a fellow doesn't 
usually ask his mother to arrange, but — 

{Pause.) 

Viola. You mean privately? 

Alice. Yes. 

Clay. We can go to the billiard room, I 
suppose ? 

Viola. Come on. 

Clay. {At the center door with Viola.) 

You know, mother — how I feel about it. 

{Exit with Viola.) 

Helen. I supposed you had guessed it. 

{Sits right of table.) 

Alice. I had — but when the moment 
arrives after all, it 's such a surprise that 
a mother can't act naturally. 

Helen. Clay is really very trustworthy 
for his years. 

Alice. There 's only one thing to discuss. 
I have n't mentioned it because — well, be- 
cause I 've seen so little of you since it 
began and because the fault is in my own 
family. 

Helen. Fault? 

Alice. Yes — Jack's fault — {Pause.) Clay 
is playing. 

Helen. You mean — 

Alice. Here with Jack's friends. 

Helen. Clay gambling! 

Alice. ( Wincing. ) I don't quite get used 
to the word, though we 've had a life- 
time of it — {Sits left of table.) gam- 
bling. 

Helen. I should n't have thought Jack 
would do that — with my boy. 

Alice. Jack has n't our feminine view- 
point, Helen — and, besides, Jack is cal- 
loused to it. 



Helen. You should have talked to Jack 
yourself. 

Alice. Talked to him? I did much more 
— that is, as much more as a sister de- 
pendent on a brother for support could 
do. You know Jack really built this 
place for me and Viola. 

Helen. I 'd thought so — yes. 

Alice. Viola is the very core of Jack's 
heart — well, we both left the house and 
went into our little apartment and are 
there now. A woman can't do much 
more than that and still take her living 
from a man, can she? 

Helen. No — 

Alice. And it hurt him — ^hurt him past 
any idea. 

Helen. You did that because my Clay 
was — was playing here? 

Alice. Not entirely Clay — everybody! 
{Pause — a distant burst of laughter 
comes from the men in the dining-room.) 
There is n't a better-hearted man nor an 
abler one in the State than Jack Brook- 
field, but I had my daughter to consider. 
There were two nights under our last 
city government when nothing but the 
influence of Frank Hardmuth kept the 
police from coming to this house and ar- 
resting everybody — think of it. 

Helen. Dreadful — 

Alice. Now, that 's something, Helen, that 
I would n't tell a soul but you. Viola 
does n't know it — but Jack's card-playing 
came between you and him years ago and 
you — may know it. {Rises and looks to- 
ward dining-room.) You may even have 
some influence with Jack. 

Helen. I — ah, no. 

Alice. Yes — this supper to-night was 
Jack's idea for you. The box at the 
opera for you. 

Helen. Why, Jack didn't even sit with 
us. 

Alice. Also — for you — Jack Brookfield 
is a more notable character in Louisville 
to-day than he was twenty-two years ago. 
His company would have made you the 
subject of unpleasant comment. That 's 
why he left us alone in the box. 

Helen. Is n't it a pity — a terrible pity ! 
{Laughter off left. Helen rises.) 

{Enter Hardmuth, Jack, Denning, and 
Lew. Hardmuth is the aggressive 
prosecutor.) 

Hardmuth. I tell the gentlemen we've 
left the ladies to themselves long enough, 
Mrs. Campbell. 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



775 



Alice. Quite long enough, Mr. Hardmutli. 

Denning. Where 's the young lady *? 
Jack's niece? 

Helen. In the billiard room, I believe. 

Denning. {To Helen, disappointed.) 
Oh — Jack 's been telling us what a great 
girl she is. 

Hardmuth. Some of us knew that with- 
out being told. 

^Denning. And she 's wonderfully like, you 
— wonderfully. 

Helen. You compliment me — 

Jack. Are you under the impression 
you're speaking to Viola's mother? 

Denning. Ain't I? 

Jack. This lady is Mrs. Whipple. 

Denning. Oh, Clay's mother? (Helen 
bows.) Well, your boy, Mrs. Whipple, 
plays in the hardest luck of all the people 
I ever sat next to. 

Helen. You mean — 

Jack. (Interrupting and putting his arm 
about Denning.) You depreciate your- 
self, Tom. There 's no hard luck in 
merely sitting next to you. 

Denning. Ha, ha. 

Helen. (To Alice.) I think Clay and 1 
should be going. 

Jack. (Consulting his watch.) Oh, no — 
only a little after twelve and no one ever 
goes to sleep here before tv/o. (T^ Pen- 
ning.) I told you to keep still about 
card games. 

Denning. I meant unlucky at billiards. 
They're all right, ain't they? 

Jack. Oh — (Walks away impatiently.) 

Denning. Let's go and see the young 
lady play billiards with Clay. (To 
Alice.) I can see now your daughter 
resembles you. 

(Moves up with Alice toward door. 
Lew follows.) 

Jack. Shall we join them? 

Helen. I 'd like it. 

(Jack and Helen start up.) 

Hardmuth. Jack! Just a minute. 

Jack. (To Helen.) Excuse me — 

Denning. (To Alice as they go.) No, 
Kansas City 's my home, but I don't live 
there. (Exit with Alice.) 

Jack. Be right in, Lew. 

(Exit Helen with Lew.) 
Well, Frank— 

Hardmuth. I took advantage of youi 
hospitality, old man, to-night. 

Jack. Advantage ? 

Hardmuth. Yes — I 've been talking to 
your niece. 

Jack. Oh! 



Hardmuth. Proposed to her. 
Jack. Yes? 
Hardmuth. Yes, Jack. 

(Enter Jo at back, from, downstairs.) 

Jo. A gentleman called you on the tele- 
phone, sah. 

Jack. (Regarding watch.) f^ho? 

Jo. Judge Brennus — name sounds like. 
Holdin' the wire, sah. 

Jack. I don't know any Judge Brennus. 

Jo. Says you don't know him, sah, but 
he 's got to leave town in the mornin' 
and he 'd be very much obliged if you 'd 
see him to-night. 

Jack. Did you tell him we were dark to- 
night? 

Jo. He did n't want no game. It 's about 
a picture — a picture you 've got. 

Jack. A picture? 

Jo. He wants to look at it. 

(Jack looks at Hardmuth.) 

Hardmuth. It 's a blind. 

Jack. (Consulting watch.) Well, this is 
a good night to work a blind on me. 
(To Jo.) Tell the gentleman I '11 be up 
for half an hour. 

Jo. Yes, sah. (Exit.) 

Jack. So you proposed to Yiola? 

Hardmuth. Yes. How do you feel about 
that? 

Jack. You know the story of the bar- 
keeper asking the owner, ''Is Grad^' good 
for a drink?"— "Has he had it?"— "He 
has."— "He is." 

Hardmuth. Just that way, eh? Jack 
nods. ) Well — she has n't answered me. 

Jack. (Musing.) Ha — 

Hardmuth. And under those conditions, 
how 's Grady's credit with you ? 

Jack. Well, Frank, on any ordinary prop- 
osition you 're aces with me. You know 
that. 

Hardmuth. (Seated right of table.) But 
for the girl? 

Jack. It 's different. 

Hardmuth. Why ? 

Jack. She 's only nineteen — you know. 

Hardmuth. My sister married at eight- 
een. 

Jack. I mean you 're thirty-five. 

Hardmuth. That's not an unusual dif- 
ference. 

Jack. Not an impossible difference, but 
I think unisual — and rather unadvisable. 

Hardmuth. That 's what you think. 

Jack. That 's what I think. 

Hardmuth. But suppose the lady is will- 
ing to giv^e that handicap? (Pause — 



776 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



Jack shrugs his shoulders.) What then? 
Jack. Let 's cross the bridge when we 

come to it. 
Hardmuth. You mean you 'd still drag a 

little? 
Jack. {Pause.) Do you think Viola likes 

you well enough to say yes? 
Hardmuth. Let's cross that bridge when 

we come to it. 
Jack. We have come to that one, Frank. 

There 's another man in the running and 

I think she likes him. 
Hardmuth. You mean young Whipple? 

{Rises, goes to fireplace.) Well, he took 

second money in the box party to-night 

— at the supper table, too. I '11 agree 

to take care of him, if you 're with me. 
Jack. {At table, center.) I think he's 

your biggest opposition. 
Hardmuth. But you. Can I count on 

you in the show-down? 
Jack. {Pause. Sits right of table.) If 

Viola did n't care enough for you, Frank. 

to accept you in spite of everything, I 

shouldn't try to influence her in your 

favor. 

{Enter Lew, center, from left.) 

Lew. I think a bum game of billiards is 
about as thin an entertainment for the 
outsiders as "Who 's got the button ?" 

Hardmuth. {Meeting Lew up left cen- 
ter. ) I 've got a little business, Lew, 
with Jack for a minute. 

Lew. Well, I can sit in by the bottle, 
can't I? {Moves towards dining-room.) 

Jack. Help yourself, Lew. 

Lew. Such awful stage waits while they 
chalk their cues. {Exit left.) 

Hardmuth. But you wouldn't try to in- 
fluence her against me. 

Jack. {Pause.) She's about the closest 
thing to me there is — that niece of mine. 

Hardmuth. {Pause.) Well? 

Jack. I 'd protect her happiness to the 
limit of my ability. 

Hardmuth. If she likes me — or should 
come to like me — enough — her — happi- 
ness would be with me, would n't it ? 

{Sits again.) 

Jack. She might think so. 

Hardmuth. Well? 

Jack. But she 'd be mistaken. It would 
be a mistake, old chap. 

HARDiiUTH. I know twenty men — twelve 
to fifteen years older than their wives — 
all happy — wives happy, too. 

Jack. 'T is n't just that. 



Hardmuth. What is it? 

Jack. She 's a fine girl — that niece of 
mine — not a blemish. 

Hardmuth. Well — 

Jack. I want to see her get the best — • 
tiie very best — in family — position — 
character — 

Hardmuth. Anything against the Hard- 
muths? (Jack shakes head.) I'm as- 
sistant district attorney — and next trip 
I '11 be the district attorney. 

Jack. I said character. 

Hardmuth. Character? 

Jack. Yes. 

Hardmuth. You mean there's anything 
against my reputation? 

Jack. Xo — I mean character pure and 
simple — I mean the moral side of you! 

Hardmuth. Well, by God! 

Jack. You see, I 'm keeping the girl in 
mind all the time. 

Hardmuth. My morals! 

Jack. Let 's say your moral fiber. 

Hardmuth. {Bises.) Well, for richness 
this beats anything I 've struck. Jack 
Brookfi.eld talking to me about my moral 
fiber! {Goes toward fire.) 

Jack. You asked for it. 

Hardmuth. {Returns aggressively.) Yes 
— I did, and now I 'm going to ask for 
the show-down. What do you mean by 
it? 

Jack. {With fateful repression.) I mean 
— as long as you 've called attention to 
the "richness" of Jack Brookfield talk- 
ing to you on the subject — that Jack 
Brookfield is a professional gambler — 
people get from Jack Brookfield just 
what he promises — a square game. Do 
you admit that? 

Hardmuth. I admit that. Go on. "^ 

Jack. {Rises, front of table.) You're 
the assistant prosecuting attorney for the 
city of Louisville; the people don't get 
from you just what you promised — not 
by a jugful— 

Hardmuth. I 'm the assistant prosecut- 
ing attorney, remember — I promised to 
assist in prosecution, not to institute it. 

Jack. I expect technical defense, old man, 
but this w^as to be a show-down. 

Hardmuth. Let 's have it — I ask for par- 
ticulars. 

Jack. Here 's one. You play here in my 
house and you know it 's against the law 
that you 've sworn to support. 

Hardmuth. I '11 support the law when- 
ever it 's invoked. Indict me and I '11 
plead guilty. 






AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



777 



Jack. This evasion is what I mean by 
lack of moral fiber. 

Hardmuth. Perhaps we 're a little shy 
somewhere on mental fiber. 

Jack. You make me say it, do you, 
Frank? Your duty, at least, is to keep 
secret the information of your office; 
contrary to that duty you 've betrayed 
the secrets of your office to w^arn me and 
other men of this city when their game 
was in danger from the police. 

Hardmuth. You throw that up to me? 

Jack. {Sits on left end of table.) Throw 
nothing — you asked for it. 

Hardmuth. I stand by my friends. 

Jack. Exactly — and you Ve taken an oath 
to stand by the people. 

Hardmuth. Do you know any sure poli- 
tician that does n't stand by his friends ? 

Jack. Not one. 

Hardmuth. Well, there! 

Jack. But I don't know any sure politi- 
cian that I 'd tell my niece to marry. 

Hardmuth. That 's a little too fine-haired 
for me! {Turns to fire.) 

Jack. I think it is. 

Hardmuth. {Returns.) I '11 bet you a 
thousand dollars I 'm the next prosecut- 
ing attorney of this city. 

Jack. I '11 take half of that if you can 
place it. I '11 bet even money you 're 
anything in politics that you go after 
for the next ten years. 

Hardmuth. Then I don't understand your 
kick. 

Jack. But I '11 give odds that the time '11 
come when you 're way up there — full 
of honor and reputation and pride — that 
somebody '11 drop to you, Frank, and 
flosh! You for the down and outs. 

Hardmuth. Rot ! 

Jack. It 's the same in every game in 
the world — the crook either gets too gay 
or gets too slow, or both, and the "come 
on" sees him make the pass. I 've been 
pallbearer for three of the slickest men 
that ever shuffled a deck in Kentucky — 
just a little too slick, that 's all — and 
they 've always got it when it was hard- 
est for the family. 

Hardmuth. So that '11 be my finish, will 
itf 

Jack. Sure. 

Hardmuth. {Going hack of table.) You 
like the moral fiber of this Whipple kid? 

Jack. I don't know. 

{Crosses to fireplace.) 

Hardmuth. Weak as dishwater. 

Jack. I don't think so. 



Hardmuth. *I '11 do him at any game you 
name. 

Jack. He 's only a boy — you should. 

Hardmuth. I '11 do him at this game. 

Jack. What game? 

Hardmuth. The girl! I thought I could 
count on you because — well, for the very 
tips you hold against me ; but you 're 
only her uncle, old man, after all. 

{Swaggers down right.) 

Jack. That 's all. 

Hardmuth. And if she says "yes" — 

Jack. Frank! {Comes to front of table. 
Pause. The men confront each other.) 
Some day the truth '11 come out — as to 
who murdered the governor-elect of this 
State. 

Hardmuth. Is there any doubt about 
that? 

Jack. Isn't there? 

Hardmuth. The man who fired that shot 's 
in jail. 

Jack. I don't want my niece mixed up in 
it. 

Hardmuth. {Angrily.) What do you 
mean by that? 

{Enter Helen, center. An awkward 
pause.) 

The young people still playing? 

Helen. Yes. 

Hardmuth. I '11 look 'em over. (;Exit. ) 

Helen. Won't you come, too? 

Jack. I 'd rather stay here with you. 

Helen. That gentleman that called after 
supper — 

Jack. Mr. Denning — 

Helen. Yes. He seems to take pleasure 
in annoying Clay — 

Jack. {Seriously.) Yes — I know that 
side of Denning {Goes to door of din- 
ing-room.) Lew! 

Lew. Yes. 

Jack. I wish you 'd go into the billiard 
room and look after Tom Denning. 

Lew. {Entering left.) What 's he doing ? 
(Jack turns to Helen.) 

Helen. ( To Jack. ) Commenting humor- 
ously — hiding the chalk and so on. 

Lew. {As he goes up.) Lit up a little I 
suppose. 

Jack. {Nodding.) Just "ride herd" ^ on 
him. {Exit Lew.) 

Helen. {Going left to sofa.) He does n't 
seem much of a gentleman, this Mr. Den- 
ning. 

Jack. He wasn't expected fo-night. 

1 "Take care of," in the sense of a cowboy who 
rounds up the herd and keeps them, out of mischiei. 



778 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



Helen. Is lie one of your ''clients"? 

Jack. {Smiling.) One of my '^clients''? 

Helen. Clay meets liim here'/ 

Jack. Yes — has met him here. 

Helen. I did n't think you 'd do that — 
Jack — with my boy. 

Jack. Do what? 

Helen. Gamble. 

Jack. (Smiling.) It's no gamble with 
your boy, Helen — sure thing. He has n't 
won a dollar! 

Helen. I 'm glad you 're able to smile 
over it. 

Jack. Perhaps it w^ould be more humor- 
ous to you if he 'd won. 

Helen. If he plays — I 'd rather see him 
win, of course. 

Jack. (Beside sofa.) That's what puts 
me in the business — winning. The thing 
that makes every gambler stick to it is 
winning occasionally. I 've never let 
your boy get up from the table a dollar 
to the good and because he vxxs your 
boy. 

Helen. Why let him play at all? 

Jack. He '11 play somewhere till he gets 
sick of it — or marries. 

Helen. Will marriage cure it? 

Jack. It would have cured me — but you 
didn't see it that w^ay. 

Helen. You made your choice. 

Jack. I asked you to trust me — you 
wanted some ironclad pledge — well, my 
dear Helen — that was n't the best way to 
handle a fellow of spirit. 

(Goes front of table.) 

Helen. So you chose the better way? 

Jack. No choice — I stood pat — that 's all. 

Helen. And wasted your life. 

Jack. (Sitting on edge of table.) That 
depends on how you look at it. You 
married a doctor who wore himself out 
in the Philadelphia hospitals. I 've had 
three meals a day — and this place — and 
— a pretty fat farm and a stable with 
some good blood in it — and — 

Helen. (Coming to him.) And every 
one of them. Jack, is a monument to the 
worst side of you. 

Jack. (Stands and takes her hands; he 
smiles.) Prejudice, my dear Helen. 
You might say that, if I 'd earned these 
things in some respectable business com- 
bination that starved out all its little 
competitors — but I 've simply furnished 
a fairly expensive entertainment — to 
eminent citizens — looking for rest. 

Helen. I know all the arguments of your 
— profession — Jack, and I don't pretend 



to answer them any more than I answer 
the arguments of reckless women who 
claim that they are more commendable 
than their sisters w4io make loveless mar- 
riages. 

Jack. (Goes to chair , right.) I'm not 
flattered by the implied comparison — 
still— 

Helen. I only feel sure that anything 
which the majority of good people con- 
demn is wrong. (Sits left of table.) 

Jack. (Sits right of table.) I 'm sorry — 

Helen. I 'd be glad if you meant that— 
but you 're not sorry. 

Jack. I am sorry — I 'm sorry not to have 
pubhc respect — as long as you think it 's 
valuable. 

Helen. I amuse you — don't I? 

Jack. (Elbows on knees.) Not a little 
bit — but you make me blue as the devil, 
if that 's any satisfaction. 

Helen. I 'd be glad to make you blue as 
the devil. Jack, if it meant discontent 
with what you 're doing — if it could 
make you do better. 

Jack. I 'm a pretty old leopard to get 
nervous about my spots. 

Helen. Why are you blue? 

Jack. You. 

Helen. In what way? 

Jack. I had hoped that twenty years of 
charitable deeds had made you also chari- 
table in your judgment. 

Helen. I hope it has. 

Jack. Don't seem to ease up on my 
specialty. 

Helen. You called your conduct "wild 
oats" twenty years ago. 

Jack. It was — but I found such an ex- 
cellent market for my wild oats that I 
had to stay in that branch of the grain 
business. Besides, it has been partly 
your fault, you know. 

CHelen plays with the ivory paper- 
knife, balancing it on the front edge 
of table.) 

Helen. Mine? 

Jack. Your throwing me over for my 
wild oats — put it up to me to prove that 
they were a better thing than you 
thought. 

Helen. Well — having demonstrated that — 

Jack. Here we are — 

Helen. Yes — here we are. 

Jack. Back in the old town. Don't you 
think it would be rather a pretty finish, 
Helen, if despite all my — my leopard's 
spots — and despite that — (pause) — that 
Philadelphia episode of yours — 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



779 



Helen. You call twenty years of mar- 
riage episodic? 

Jack. I call any departure from the main 
story episodic. 

Helen. And the main story is — 

Jack. You and I — 

Helen. Oh — 

{Paper-knife falls to floor — Jack rises 
and picks it up, stands in front of 
table left hand on Helen's — his 
right gesticulating with paper- 
knife.) 

Jack. Wouldn't it be a pretty finish if 
you took my hand and I could walk right 
up to the camera and say, "I told you 
so" — ? You know I always felt that 
you were coming back. 

Helen. Oh, did you? 

Jack. (Playfully, and going right center.) 
Had a candle burning in the window 
every night. 

Helen. You're sure it wasn't a red 
light? 

Jack. (Remonstrating.) Dear Helen! 
have some poetry in your composition. 
Literally "red light" of course — but the 
real flame was here — (hand on breast) — 
a flickering hope that somewhere — some- 
how — somewhen I should be at rest — 
with the proud Helen that loved and — 
rode away. 

Helen. (Almost accusingly.) I — believe 
—you. 

Jack. Of course you believe me. 

Helen. You had a way. Jack — when you 
were a boy at college, of making me 
write to you. 

Jack. Had I? (Goes back of table.) 

Helen. You know you had — at nights — 
about this hour — I 'd find it impossible 
to sleep until I 'd got up and written to 
you — and two days later I 'd get from 
you a letter that had crossed mine on 
the road. I don't believe the word "tel- 
epathy" had been coined then — but I 
guessed something of the force — and all 
these years, I 've felt it — nagging ! Nag- 
ging! 

Jack. Nagging ? 

Helen. Yes — I could not keep you out 
of my waking hours — out of my thought 
— but when I surrendered myself to sleep 
the call would come — and I think it was 
rather cowardly of you, really. 

Jack. (Back of table.) I plead guilty 
to having thought of you, Helen — lots 
— and it was generally when I was 
alone — late — my — clients gone. This 
room — 



"WhosQ lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed." 

Helen. And as you say — here we are. 

Jack. Well, what of my offer? Shall 
we say to the world — "We told you so?" 
What of my picturesque finish? 

Helen. You know my ideas — ^you Ve 
known them twenty-two years. 

Jack. No modification? 

Helen. None ! 

Jack. I '11 be willing to sell the tables. 
(Points above to second floor.) And — 
well — I don't think I could get interested 
in this bridge game that the real good 
people play — would you object to a gen- 
tleman's game of "draw" now and then? 

Helen. You called it a gentleman's game 
in those days. 

Jack. No leeway at all? 

Helen. No compromise, Jack — no — 

Jack. M — (Pause.) I trust you won't 
consider my seeming hesitation uncom- 
plimentary ? 

Helen. Not unprecedented, at least. 

Jack. You see it opens up a new line of 
thought — and — 

(Passing his hand over forehead.) 

Helen. (Rising in sympathy.) And you 
have a headache, too — it is n't kind I 'm 



sure. 



(Enter Jo. 



Jack. Oh, nothing — nothing. (To Jo.) 

Well? 
Jo. That gentleman, sah, about the pic- 
ture. 
Jack. I'll see him. (Exit Jo.) 

Helen. A caller? 

Jack. Won't be a minute — don't go away, 
because I think we can settle this ques- 
tion to-night, you and I. 
Helen. Please don't put me in the light 

of waiting for an answer. 
Jack. Dear Helen— we 're both past that 
— are n't we ? If I can only be sure that 
I could be worthy of you. I 'm the one 
that 's waiting for an answer — from m}'' 
own weak character and rotten irresolu- 
tion. 

(Jack goes with Helen to door, cen- 
ter, kisses her hand. She goes; 
Jack retains her hand as long as 
possible and when he lets it go, it 
falls limply to Helen's side as she 
disappears. ) 
They say cards make a fellow supersti- 
tious. (Pause.) Well — I — guess they 
do— 



7^6 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



{Enter Jo and Justice Prentice. Pren- 
tice wears overcoat, carries cane and silk 
hat.) 

Jack. Judge de Brennus? 

Prentice. {After amused look at Jo.) 
Justice Prentice. {Exit Jo.) 

Jack. Oh, Justice Prentice! Good-even- 
ing! 

Prentice. You are Mr. Brookfield? 

Jack. Yes. 

Prentice. I shouldn't have attempted so 
late a call but that a friend pointed you 
out to-night at the opera, Mr. Brookfield, 
and said that your habit was — well — 

Jack. Not to retire immediately? 

Prentice. Yes. 

Jack. Will you be seated? 

Prentice. I 'm only passing through the 
city. I called to see a Corot that I 
understand you bought from Knoedler. 

Jack. That 's it. 

Prentice. Oh — thank you. {Starts.) 
You don't object to my looking at it? 

Jack. Not at all. 

{Touches button, light shows on pic- 
ture.) 

Prentice. {After regard.) That^s it. 
{Pause.) I thought at one time that I 
would buy this picture. 

Jack. You know it, then? 

Prentice. Yes. {Pause.) Are you par- 
ticularly attached to it, Mr. Brookfield? 

Jack. {Sitting.) I think not irrevocably. 
{Takes pad of paper and figures me- 
chanically.) 

Prentice. Oh. {Pause, during which the 
Justice looks at the picture.) Do I 
understand that is what you paid for it, 
or what you intend to ask me for it ? 

(Jack starts.) 

Jack. What? 

Prentice. Sixty-five hundred. 

Jack. {Astonished.) I didn't speak the 
price, did I? 

Prentice. Didn't you — oh. {Pause.) I 
could n't pay that amount. 

Jack. {Puzzled.) That 's its price — how- 
ever. 

Prentice. I regret I did n't buy it from 
the dealer when I had my chance. 
{Looks about at other pictures on back 
wall.) I could n't have given it so beau- 
tiful a setting, Mr. Brookfield, nor such 
kindred — but it would not have been 
friendless — {At fireplace.) That's a 
handsome marine. 

Jack. Yes. 

Prentice. Pretty idea I read recently in 



an essay of Dr. van Dyke's. His pic- 
tures were for him his windows by which 
he looked out from his study onto the 
world. {Pause.) Yes? 

Jack. Quite so. 

Prentice. {Regarding a picture over dinr- 
ing-room door.) M — Washington! 

Jack. {Again astonished.) What? 

Prentice. My home is Washington — I 
thought you asked me? 

Jack. No, I didn't. 

Prentice. I beg your pardon — 

Jack. {Front of table; aside.) But I^m 
damned if I was n't going to ask him. 

Prentice. {Viewing other pictures.) And 
the phases of your world, Mr. Brook- 
field, have been very prettily multi- 
plied. 

Jack. Thank you — may I olfer you a ci- 
gar? {Opens box on table.) 

Prentice. Thank you, I won't smoke. 

Jack. Or a glass of wine? 

Prentice. Nothing. I '11 return to the 
hotel — first asking you again to excuse 
my untimely call. 

Jack. I wish you 'd sit down awhile. 

Prentice. But I didn't know until IM 

missed it from Knoedler's how large a 

part of my world — my dream world — I 

had been looking at through this frame. 

{Regards the Corot again.) 

Jack. Well, if it 's a sentimental matter, 
Mr. Justice, we might talk it over. 

Prentice. I mustn't submit the senti- 
mental side of it, Mr. Brookfield, and 
where I have so — so intruded. 

Jack. That 's the big side of anything for 
me — the sentimental. 

Prentice. I 'm sure of it — and I must n't 
take advantage of that knowledge. 

Jack. You're sure of it? 

Prentice. Yes. 

Jack. Is that my reputation? 

Prentice. I don't know your reputation. 

Jack. Then, how are you sure of it? 

Prentice. {Impressively.) Oh — I see 
you — and — well, we have met. 

Jack. Ah — 

Prentice. Good-night. {Going up.) 

Jack. One moment. {Pause.) You said 
your address was Washington? 

Prentice. Yes. 

Jack. You thought at the time I was 
about to ask you that question? 

Prentice. I thought you had asked it. 

Jack. And you tliought a moment before 
I had said sixty-five hundred for the pic- 
ture? 

Prentice. Yes. 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



781 



Jack. Do you often — pick answers that 
way? 

Prentice. Well, I think we all do — at 
times. 

Jack. We all do? 

Prentice. Yes — but we speak the an- 
swers only as we get older and less atten- 
tive and mistake a person's thought for 
his spoken word. 

Jack. A person's thought? 

Prentice. Yes. 

Jack. Do you mean you know what I 
think? 

Prentice. {Returning to table.) I hadn't 
meant to claim any monopoly of that 
power. It 's my opinion that every one 
reads the thoughts of others — that is, 
some of the thoughts. 

Jack. Every one? 

Prentice. Oh, yes. 

Jack. That I do? 

Prentice. (Regarding him.) I should 
say you more generally than the majority 
of men. 

Jack. There was a woman said some- 
thing like that to me not ten minutes 
ago. 

Prentice. A woman would be apt to be 
conscious of it. 

Jack. You really believe that — that 
stuff? {Sits left of table.) 

Prentice. Oh, yes — and I 'm not a pio- 
neer in the belief. The men who de- 
clare the stuff most stoutly are scientists 
who have given it most attention. 

Jack. How do they prove it? 

Prentice. They don't prove it — that is, 
not universally. Each man must do that 
for himself, Mr. Brookfield. 

Jack. How — 

Prentice. {Pause. Smiles.) Well, I'll 
tell you all I know of it. {Becoming 
serious.) Every thought is active — that 
is, born of a desire — and travels from 
us — or it is born of the desire of some 
one else and comes to us. We send them 
out — or we take them in — that is all. 

Jack. How do we know which we are do- 
ing? 

Prentice. If we are idle and empty- 
headed, our brains are the playrooms for 
the thought of others — frequently rather 
bad. If we are active, whether benevo- 
lently or malevolently, our brains are 
workshops — power-houses. 1 was pass- 
ively regarding the pictures; your active 
idea of the price — registered, that 's all 
— so did your wish to know where I was 
from. 



Jack. You say ^'our brains" — do you still 
include mine? 

Prentice. Yes. 

Jack. You said mine more than the ma- 
jority of men's. 

Prentice. I think so. 

Jack. Why has n't this whatever it is — 
effect — happened to me, then? 

Prentice. It has. 

Jack. {Pause.) Why didn't I know it? 

Prentice. Vanity ? Perhaps. 

Jack. Vanity? 

Prentice. Yes — often some — friend has 
broached some independent subject and 
you have said, "I was just about to speak 
of that myself." 

Jack. Very often, but — 

Prentice. Believing the idea was your 
own — your vanity shut out the probably 
proper solution — that it was his. 

Jack. Well, how, then, does a man tell 
which of his thoughts are his own? 

Prentice. It 's difficult. Most of his idle 
ones are not. When we drift we are 
with the current. To go against it or to 
make even an eddy of our own we must 
swim — Most everything less than that 
is hopeless. 

Jack. (Smiling.) Well — I haven't been 
exactly helpless. 

Prentice. No one would call you so, 
Mr. Brookfield. (Going.) You have a 
strong psychic — a strong hypnotic abil- 
ity. 

Jack. (Smiling.) You think so? 

Prentice. I know it. 

Jack. This business? 

(Makes slight pass after manner of 
the professional hypnotist.) 

Prentice. (Smiling.) That business for 
the beginner, yes — 

Jack. You mean that I could hypnotize 
anybody ? 

Prentice. Many persons — yes — but I 
would n't do it if I were you — 

Jack. Why not? 

Prentice. Grave responsibility. 

Jack. In what way? 

Prentice. (Pause. Smiles.) I'll send 
you a book about it — if I may. 

Jack. Instructions ? 

Prenitce. And cautions — yes — (Goes 
up to picture again.) If you tire of 
your Corot, I 'd be glad to hear from 
you. 

Jack. Why could n't I save postage by 
just thinJcing another price? 

Prentice. The laws on contracts haven^t 
yet recognized that form of tender. 



782 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



(Enter Tom, center. He laughs and shows 
signs of drink.) 

Tom. I say, Jack — here 's the greatest 
joke you ever saw — (Sees the Justice.) 
Oh, excuse me. 

(Enter Lew, following.) 

Lew. That won't do, Tom. — (To Jack.) 
Excuse me. Jack, but I had to get him 
out of there. 

Jack. I '11 go downstairs with you, Mr. 
Justice. (Exit with the Justice.) 

Tom. Who's that old bird? 

Lew. You '11 oif end Jack if you 're not 
careful, Tom. You 've got half a jag 
now. 

Tom. J' ever see anything 's as funny as 
that? He don't like my scarf -pm — ha, 
ha — well I don't like it — but my valet 
put it on me and what 's difference — 

(Enter Hardmuth.) 

Hardmuth. What was that? 

Tom. My scarf-pin! 

Hardmuth. Scarf-pin ? 

Tom. Yes — he pushed me away from him 
and I said what 's matter. He said I 
don't like your scarf-pin — ha, ha — I said 
don't? I don't Hke your face. 

Lew. Very impolite with the ladies there. 

Hardmuth. WTiy should he criticize 
Tom's scarf-pin? 

Tom. 'Zactly. I said I can change my 
scarf-pin — but I don't like your face. 

(Enter Clay from dining-room, excitedly.) 

Clay. Where's Jack? 

Lew. Saying good-night to some old gen- 
tleman below. 

Tom. (Interposing as Clay starts up left 
center.) And I don't like your face. 

Clay. That 's all right, Mr. Denning. 
(Tries to pass.) Excuse me. 

Tom. (With scarf-pin in hand.) Excuse 
me. What 's the matter with that scarf- 
pin? 

Clay. It 's a cat's-eye and I don't like 
them, that 's all — I don't like to look at 
them. 

Lew. Let him alone, Tom. 

Tom. Damn 'f 'ee ain't scared of it, ha, 
ha! 

(Pushing pin in front of Clay's face.) 

Clay. (Greatly excited.) Don't do that. 

Hardmuth. (Sneering.) 'T won't bite 
you, will it? 

Clay. (Averts his face.) Go away, I tell 
you. 

Tom. (Holds Clay with left hand. Ha? ' 



pin in right.) 'Twill bite him — bow-- 

wow — wow — 
Clay. Don't, I tell you — don't. 
Tom. (Still holding him.) Bow — wow — 

wow — 
Lew. Tom ! 

Hardmuth. (Laughing.) Let them alone. 
Clay. Go away. 
Tom. Bow — wow — 

(Enter Jack.) 

Jack. What 's the matter here ? 
Tom. (Pursuing Clay.) Wow — 

(Clay in frenzy swings the large ivory 
paper-knife from table, blindly 
strikes ToM, who falls.) 
Jack. Clay ! 

Clay. (Horrified.) He pushed that hor- 
rible eat's-eye right against my face. 
Jack. What cat's-eye? 
Hardmuth. (Picks up the pin which 
Denning has dropped.) Only playing 
with him — a scarf-pin. 
Lew. (Kneeling by Denning.) He's 
out. Jack. 

(Enter Jo.) 

Clay. I did n't mean to hurt him ; really 

I didn't mean that. 
Hardmuth. (Taking the paper-cutter 

/rom Clay.) The hell you did n't. You 

could kill a bull with that ivory tusk. 
Jack. Put him on the window seat — give 

him some air. 

(Enter Alice, left center.) 
Alice. Jack, we 're going now — all of us. 

(Enter Harvey.) 
Jack. (Turning to Alice.) Wait a min- 
ute. (To Jo.) Help Mr. Ellinger 
there. "- 

(Jo, Lew, and Harvey carry off Tom 
into the dining-room.) 
Alice. What is it? 
Jack. An accident — keep Helen and Viola 

out of these rooms. 
Alice. Hadn't we better go? Clay is 

with us. 
Clay. I can't go just now, Mrs. Camp- 
bell — (Looks off.) I hope it isn't seri- 
ous — I didn't mean to hurt him, really. 

(Exit left.) 
Alice. A quarrel? 

(Lew enters and waves hand, meaning "All 
over.") 

Hardmuth. (With paper-knife.) A mur- 
der! 

(Enter Helen and Viola.) 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



783 



Viola. What's the matter? 
(Enter Clay.) 

Clay. (In panic and up right center. To 
Helen.) Oh, mother, I've killed him. 

Helen. [Taking Clay in her arms.) 
Killed him — whom? 

Hardmuth. Tom Denning. 

Clay. But I never meant it — Jack; I just 
struck — struck wild. 

Hardmuth. With this. 

Helen. With that! Oh, my boy! 

Jack. That will do! Everybody — Lew, 
telephone Dr. Monroe it's an emergency 
case and to come in dressing-gown and 
slippers. (Exit Lew, right center.) 
Alice, I know you 're not afraid of a sick 
man — or — that sort of thing. Help me 
and Jo. {Leads Alice, left. She braces 
herself.) Viola, you take Mrs. Whipple 
upstairs and w^ait there. 

Hardmuth. {Starting up right.) I '11 
notify the police. 

Helen. Oh ! 

Jack. {Interposing.) Stop! You '11 stay 
just where you are! 

Hardmuth. You tryin' to hide this thing ? 

Jack. The doctor '11 tell us exactly what 
this thing is. And then the boy '11 have 
the credit himself of notifying the police. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene. The library-living room of Jus- 
tice Prentice, Washington, D. C. 

The walls of this room are bookcases 
glassed quite to the ceiling, and filled 
with books mostly in sheepskin binding. 
This array is broken by a large bay win- 
dow at the back, center, which is 
equipped with a window seat, and by 
two doors near the front of the stage, 
one on the right and one on the left. 

At the left is also a fireplace with a log 
fire. In the upper left-hand corner of 
the room there is a buffet, fitted with 
glasses and decanters. A dark rug is on 
the floor. 

The furniture of the room is dark oak in 
Gothic. It consists of a table and three 
chairs at the center, sofa and smaller 
table up right. The smaller table holds 
a lamp. 

Over the buffet there is a small canvas by 
Rousseau showing a sunset. 

Justice Prentice and Judge Henderson 
are playing chess, 



Henderson. * Checkmate in three moves. 

Prentice. I don't see that. 

Henderson. Well, Knight to — 

Prentice. Yes, yes, I see. Checkmate in 
three moves. That 's one game each. 
Shall we play another? 

Henderson. Let us look at the enemy. 
{Draws watch.) By Jove! Quarter of 
twelve. I guess Mrs. Henderson will be 
expecting me soon. {Pause.) I'll play 
a rubber with you, and its result shall 
decide your position on the Whipple 
case. 

Prentice. Why, Mr. Justice, I 'm sur- 
prised at you. A United States Su- 
preme Court decision — shaped by a 
game of chess. We '11 be down to the 
level of the intelligent jurymen soon — 
flipping pennies for the verdict. 

Henderson. And a very good method in 
just such cases as this. Well, if you 
won't play — {rises) — I'll have to go. 

Prentice. {Rises.) Not without another 
toddy. 

Henderson. Yes. 

Prentice. {At sideboard up left.) Oh, 
no. Come, now, don't you like this 
liquor ? 

Henderson. Immensely. Where did you 
say you got it? 

Prentice. Kentucky. One lump? 

Henderson. Only one! 

Prentice. My old home, sir, — and a bit 
of lemon? 

Henderson. A piece of the peel — yes. 

Prentice. They make it there. 

Henderson. I '11 pour the water. 

Prentice. There, there, don't drown me. 

Henderson. My folks were Baptists, you 
see. What do you say it costs you? 

Prentice. Fifty cents a gallon. 

Henderson. What!! I think I'll take 
water. {Puts down glass.) 

Prentice. That 's w^hat it cost me. Its 
value I don't know. An old friend sends 
it to me. Fifty cents for express. 

Henderson. Oh ! 

Prentice. That 's different, is n't it ? 

Henderson. {Recovers glass.) Very! 

Prentice. He makes it down there. 
Why, it 's in the same county in which 
this Whipple murder occurred. 

Henderson. How about that point? We 
might as well admit it and remand the 
ease. 

Prentice. No. There 's no constitutional 
point involved. 

Henderson. A man 's entitled to an open 
trial 



784 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



Prentice. Well, Whipple had it. 

Henderson. No, he didn't. They 
would n't admit the public. 

Prentice. Oh, come now; the court-room 
was crowded and the Judge refused ad- 
mission to others — only when there was 
danger of the floor breaking. 

Henderson. But, my dear Mr. Justice, 
that would have been all right to limit 
the attendance — 

Prentice. Well,_ that's all he did. 

Henderson. Only the did it by having the 
sheriff issue tickets of admission. That 
placed the attendance entirely in the con- 
trol of the prosecution and the defense 
is right in asking a rehearing. 

Prentice. Oh, nonsense! Justice is a 
little too slow in my old State and I 'm 
impatient with technical delays. It is 
two years since they openly assassinated 
the governor-elect and the guilty man is 
still at large. 

Henderson. Why should the killing of 
S covin bear on this case ! 

Prentice. It bears on me. I 'm con- 
cerned for the fair fame of Kentucky. 

Henderson. Well, if you won't, you 
won't and there 's an end of it. 

(Rings call hell.) 

Prentice. Have another? 

Henderson. Not another drop. 

(Enter Servant.) 

Get my coat! 

Prentice. A nightcap. 

Servant. I beg pardon, sir. 

Prentice. Speaking to the Justice. 

(Exit Servant.) 

Henderson. No, I must n't. Mrs. Hen- 
derson filed her protest against my com- 
ing home loaded and I 've got to be mod- 
erate. 

Prentice. Well, if you won't, you won't. 

Henderson. (Front of table, picks up 
book.) Hello! Reading the Scriptures 
in your old age? 

Prentice. It does look like a Bible, 
doesn't it? That's a flexible binding I 
had put on a copy of Bret Harte. I ad- 
mire him very much. 

Henderson. I like some of his stuff. 

Prentice. When I get home from the 
Capitol and you prosy lawyers, I 'm too 
tired to read Browning and those heavy 
guns, so I take Bret Harte — very clever, 
I think; I was reading before you came 
— (takes book) — "A Newport Romance." 
Do you know it? 

Henderson. I don't think I do. 



Prentice. It 's about an old house at 
Newport — that 's haunted — a young girl 
in the colonial days dies of a broken 
heart in this house, it seems. Her sweet- 
heart sailed away and left her — and 
here 's the way Bret Harte tells of her 
coming back. (Henderson sits.) Oh, 
I 'm not going to read all of it to you — 
only one verse. (Looks at book. — 
Pause.) Oh, I forgot to tell you that 
when this chap left the girl he gave her 
a little bouquet — understand? That's a 
piece of material evidence necessary to 
this summing up. 

(Henderson nods. Prentice reads.) 

"And ever since then when the clock strikes 

two, 
She walks unbidden from room to room, 
And the air is filled, that she passes 

through, 
With a subtle, sad perfume. 

The delicate odor of mignonette, 
The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet, 
Is all that tells of her story; yet 
Could she think of a sweeter way?" 

Is n't that charming, eh ? 

Henderson. A very pretty idea. 

Prentice. Beautiful to have a perfume 
suggest her. I suppose it appeals to me 
especially because I used to know a girl 
who was foolishly fond of mignonette. 

Henderson. Well, you don't believe in 
that stuff, do you? 

Prentice. What stuff? 

Henderson. That Bret Harte stuff — the 
dead coming back — ghosts and so forth? 

Prentice. Yes, in one way I do. I find 
as I get older. Judge, that the things of 
memory become more real every day-^^ 
every day. Why, there are companions 
of my boyhood that I haven't thought 
of for years — that seem to come about 
me — more tangibly, or as much so as 
they were in life. 

Henderson. Well, how do you account 
for that? Spiritualism? 

Prentice. Oh, no. It 's Time's perspec- 
tive. 

Henderson. Time's perspective? 

Prentice. Yes. (Pause.) I'll have to 
illustrate my meaning. (Indicates a 
painting.) Here's a sunset by Rous- 
seau. I bouglit it in Paris last summer. 
Do you see what an immense stretch of 
land there is in it? 

Henderson. Yes. 

Prentice, A bird's-eye view of that 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



785 



would require a chart reaching to the 
ceiling. But see Rousseau's perspective. 
The horizon line is n't two inches from 
the base. 

Hexderson. Well ? 

Prentice. (Returns to table.) Well, my 
dear Judge, that is the magic in the per- 
spective of Time. My boyhood's hori- 
zon is very near to my old eyes now. 
The dimmer they grow, the nearer it 
comes, until I think sometimes that when 
we are through with it all — we go out 
almost as we entered — little children. 

Henderson". (Pause.) That's a very 
beautiful painting. Judge — a Russell, 
you say? 

Prentice. A Rousseau. 

Henderson. Oh — 

Prentice. Yes — cost me three thousand 
only, and a funny thing about it: the 
canvas just fitted into the top of my 
steamer trunk, and it came through the 
custom-house without a cent of duty, I 
completely forgot it. 

Henderson. Your memory is n't so re- 
tentive, then, as it seems? 

Prentice. Not on those commercial mat- 
ters. 

(Enter Servant with coat. In crossing 
front of table to Henderson, the coat 
knocks a miniature from the table to the 
floor.) 

Prentice. You dropped your tobacco- 
box, I guess, Mr. Justice. 

Henderson. (Examines pocket.) No. 

Servant. (Picks up miniature.) It was 
this picture, sir. 

Prentice. My gracious — my gracious! 
It might have been broken. 

Servant. Oh, it often falls when I 'm 
dusting, sir. 

Prentice. Oh, does it? Well, I'll put 
it away. (Exit Servant.) An ivory 
miniature by Wimar. I prize it highly 
— old-fashioned portrait, see! Gold 
back. 

Henderson. A beautiful face. 

Prentice. (Eagerly.) Isn't it? Isn't 
it? 

(Looks over Henderson's shoulder.) 

Henderson. Very. What a peculiar way 
of combing the hair — long, and over the 
ears. 

Prentice. The only becoming way women 
ever wore their hair. I think the scram- 
bly style they have now is disgraceful. 

Henderson. Your mother? 

Prentice. Dear, no, a young girl I used 



to know. .Oh, don't smile, she 's been 
dead a good thirty years — married and 
had a large family. 

Henderson. Very sweet — very sweet, in- 
deed. 

Prentice. Isn't it? 

(Enter Servant.) 

Well? 

Servant. Card, sir. 

Prentice. Gentleman here? 

(Takes card.) 

Servant. Yes, sir. 

Prentice. I'll see him. (Exit Servant.) 

Henderson. Call ? 

Prentice. Yes. The man owns a picture 
that I 've been trying to buy — a Corot. 

Henderson. Oh — another of these per- 
spective fellows? 

Prentice. Yes — his call does n't surprise 
me, for he 's been in my mind all day. 

Henderson. Seems to be in a hurry for 
the money — coming at midnight. 

Prentice. I set him the example — be- 
sides, midnight is just the shank of the 
evening for Mr. Brookfield. He 's sup- 
posed to be a sporting man — ahem. 

(Enter Servant and Jack. Jack is paler 
and less physical than in first act.) 

Prentice. Good-evening. 

Jack. You remember me, Mr. Justice? 

Prentice. Perfectly, Mr. Brookfield — ^this 
is Justice Henderson. 

Henderson. Mr. Brookfield. 

Jack. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Justice. 
( To Prentice. ) I hope I 'm not intrud- 
ing. 

Henderson. I 'm just going, Mr. Brook- 
field. (To Prentice.) To-morrow? 

Prentice. To-morrow ! 

Henderson. (At door, inquiringly.) No 
constitutional point about it? Eh? 

Prentice. None. 

Henderson. Good-night. 

Prentice. Good-night. (To Jack.) Have 
a chair. 

Jack. Thank you. 

(Stands by chair left of table.) 

Prentice. (Toward buffet.) I've some 
medicine here that comes directly from 
your city. 

Jack. I don't think I will — if you '11 ex- 
cuse me. 

Prentice. Ah — (Pause. Smiles.) Well, 
have you brought the picture? 

Jack. The picture is still in Louisville — 
I — I 'm in Washington with my niece. 

Prentice. Yes ? 



786 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



Jack. And — a lady friend of hers. 
They 're very anxious to meet you, Mr. 
Justice. 

Prentice. Ali. (Pause.) Well — I go to 
the Capitol at noon to-morrow and — 

Jack. To-night ! — They 're leaving the 
city to-morrow — as you were when I had 
the pleasure of receiving you. 

Prentice. I remember. 

Jack. {With watch.) They were to come 
after me in five minutes if I did n't re- 
turn, and those five minutes, Mr. Justice, 
I hoped you would give to me. 

Prentice. With pleasure. 

{Sits right of table.) 

Jack. {Plunging at once into his sub- 
ject.) Those two books you sent me — 

Prentice. Yes ? 

Jack. I want to thank you for them again 
— and to ask you how far you go — with 
the men that wrote them — especially the 
second one. Do you believe that book? 

Prentice. Yes. 

Jack. You do? 

Prentice. I do. I know the man who 
wrote it — and I believe him. 

Jack. Did he ever do any of his stunts 
for you — that he writes about? 

Prentice. He didn't call them "stunts," 
but he has given me many demonstra- 
tions of his ability — and mine. 

Jack. For example? 

Prentice. For example? He asked me 
to think of him steadily at some unex- 
pected time and to think of some definite 
thing. A few days later — this room — 
two o'clock in the morning — I concen- 
trated my thoughts — I mentally pictured 
him going to his telephone and calling 
me. 

Jack. And did he do it? 

Prentice. No — (pause) — but he came 
here at my breakfast hour and told me 
that at two o'clock he had waked and 
risen from his bed — and walked to his 
'phone in the hallway with an impulse 
to call me — and then had stopped — be- 
cause he had no message to deliver and 
because he thought his imagination 
might be tricking him. 

Jack. You had n't given him any tip, 
such as asking him how he 'd slept ? 

Prentice. None. Five nights after that 
I repeated the experiment. 

Jack. Well? 

Prentice. That time he called me. 

Jack. What did he say? 

Prentice. He said, "Old man, you ought 
to be in bed asleep and not disturbing 



honest citizens," which was quite true. 

Jack. By Jove, it's a devilish creepy 
business, isn't it? 

Prentice. Yes. 

Jack. And if it 's so — 

Prentice. And it is so. 

Jack. Pay a man to be careful what he 
thinks— eh? 

Prentice. It will very well pay your type 
of man to do so. 

Jack. I don't want to be possessed by any 
of these bughouse theories, but I '11 be 
blamed if a few things have n't happened 
to me, Mr. Justice, since you started me 
on this subject. 

Prentice. Along this line? 

Jack. Yes. (Pause.) And I've tried 
the other side of it, too. 

Prentice. What other side? 

Jack. The mesmeric business. (Pause. 
Makes passes.) 1 can do it. 

Prentice. Then I should say, Mr. Brook- 
field, that for you the obligation for 
clean and unselfish thinking was doubly 
imperative. 

Jack. Within this last year I 've put peo- 
ple — well — practically asleep in a chair 
and I 've made them tell me what a boy 
was doing — a mile away — in a jail. 

Prentice. I see no reason to call clair- 
voyance a "bughouse" theory. 

Jack. I only know that I do it. 

Prentice. Yes — you have the youth for 
it — the glorious strength. Does it make 
any demand on your vitality? 

Jack. (Passes hand over his eyes.) I've 
fancied that a headache to which I 'm 
subject is more frequent — that 's all. 

Prentice. But you find the ability — the 
power — increases — don't you ? 

Jack. Yes — in the last month I 've put a"^ 
man into a hypnotic sleep with half a 
dozen waves of the hand. (Makes pass.) 

Prentice. Why any motion? 

Jack. Fixed his attention, I suppose. 

Prentice. (Shaking head.) Fixes your 
attention. When in your ow^n mind 
your belief is sufficiently trained, you 
won't need this. (Another slight pass.) 

Jack. I won't? 

Prentice. No. 

Jack. What'llldo? 

Prentice. Simply think. (Pause.) You 
have a headache, for example. 

Jack. I have a headache for a fact. 

(Jack again passes hand over eyes 
and forehead.) 

Prentice. Well — some persons could eure 
it by rubbing your forehead. 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



787 



Jack. I know that. 

Prentice. Others could cure it by the 
passes of the hypnotist. Others by sim- 
ply willing that it should — {pausp) — be 
cured. 

Jack. Well, that 's where I can't follow 
you — and your friend tlie author. 

Prentice. You simply think your head- 
ache. 

Jack. I know it aches. 

Prentice. I think it does n't. 

Jack. (Astonished.) What? 

Prentice. I — think — it does n't. 

Jack. (Pause.) Well, just this moment, 
it doesn't, but — (pause) — isn't that — 
simply mental excitement — won't it come 
back? 

Prentice. It won^t come back to-day. 

Jack. That 's some comfort. The blamed 
things have made it busy for me since 
I 've been studying this business. 

Prentice. It is a two-edged sword — 

Jack. You mean it 's bad for a man who 
tries it? 

Prentice. I mean that it constantly 
opens to the investigator new mental 
heights, higher planes — and every man, 
Mr. Brookfield, is ill in some manner 
who lives habitually on a lower level — 
than the light he sees. 

(Enter Servant.) 

Servant. Two ladies, sir. 

Prentice. Your friends ? 

Jack. I think so. 

(Prentice and Jack look at Serv- 
ant.) 

Servant. Yes, sir. 

Prentice. Ask them up. 

(Exit Servant.) 

Jack. Thank you. 

Prentice. (Rises.) I '11 put away Judge 
Henderson's glass. 

Jack. They 're Kentucky ladies, Mr. Jus- 
tice. 

Prentice. (Indicating Jack.) But I 
don't want any credit for a hospitality 
I have n't earned. 

Jack. I see. 

(Enter Servant with Helen and Viola.) 

Jack. My niece, Miss Campbell. 

Prentice. Miss Campbell. 

Jack. And — 

Helen. One moment, Jack, I prefer to 

introduce myself. 
Prentice. Won't you be seated, ladies? 
(Exit Servant. Helen sits right of 



table.' Viola goes to the window- 
seat. Jack stands center.) 

Helen. You are not a married man. Jus- 
tice Prentice? 

Prentice. I am not. 

Helen. But you have the reputation of 
being a very charitable one. 

Prentice. (Sits left of table.) That's 
pleasant to hear — what charity do you 
represent ? 

Helen. None. I hardly know how to tell 
you my object. 

Prentice. It's a personal matter, is it? 

Jack. (Back of table.) Yes, a very per- 
sonal matter. 

Prentice. Ah ! 

Helen. I have here an autograph book — 

Prentice. (To Jack.) I usually sign 
my autograph for those who wish it — at 
the— 

Helen. I did not come for an autograph. 
Justice Prentice, I have brought one. 

Prentice. Well, I don't go in for that 
kind of thing very much. I have no col- 
lection — my taste runs more toward — 

Helen. The autograph I have brought is 
one of yours, written many years ago. 
It is signed to a letter. Will you look 
at it? 

(Opens autograph book and gives 
small folded and old lace handker- 
chief from book to Viola, who- joins 
her.) 

Prentice. With pleasure. (Takes book.) 
Is this the letter? Ah— (Reads.) 
"June 15, 1860." Dear me, that's a 
long time ago. (Reads.) "My dear 
Margaret: The matter passed satisfac-- 
torily — a mere scratch. Boland apolo- 
gized. — Jim." What is this? 

Helen. A letter from you. 

Prentice. And my dear Margaret — 1860* 
Why, this letter — was it written to Mar- 
garet ? 

Helen. To Margaret Price — 

Prentice. Is it possible — well — well. 
(Pause.) I wonder if what we call co- 
incidences are ever mere coincidences. 
Margaret Price. Her name was on my 
lips a moment ago. 

Jack. Really, Mr. Justice? 

Prentice. (To Jack.) Yes. Did you 
know Margaret Price? 

Jack. Yes. 

(Looks at Helen — Prentice's gaze 
follows.) 

Helen. She was my mother — 

Prentice. Margaret Price was — 

PIelen. Was my mother. 



788 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



Prentice. Why, I was just -speaking of 
her to Justice Henderson whom you saw 
go out. Her picture dropped from the 
table here. {Gets it.) This miniature! 
Margaret Price gave it to me herself. 
And you are her daughter? 

Helen. Yes, Justice Prentice. 

Prentice. Yes, I can see the likeness. 
At twenty you must have looked very 
like this miniature. 

{Passes miniature to Helen.) 

Helen. {As Jack and Viola look at min- 
iature.) I have photographs of myself 
that are very like this. {To Prentice.) 
And you were speaking of her just 
now? 

Prentice. Not five minutes ago. — But 
be seated, please. (Viola sits again at 
windoiv.) I'm very delighted to have 
you call. 

Helen. Even at such an hour? 

Prentice. At any hour. Margaret Price 
was a very dear friend of mine; and to 
think, vou 're her daughter. And this 
letter 1860— what 's this? 

Helen. Oh, don't touch that. It will 
break. It's only a dry spray of mignon- 
ette, pinned to the note when you sent 
it. 

Prentice. {Musingly.) A spray of 
mignonette. 

Helen. My mother's favorite flower and 
perfume. 

Prentice. I remember. Well, well, this 
is equally astonishing. 

Jack. Do you remember the letter, Mr. 
Justice ? 

Prentice. Perfectly. 

Jack. And the circumstances it alludes 
to? 

Prentice. Yes. It was the work of a 
romantic boy. I — I was very fond of 
your mother, Mrs. — by the way, you 
have n't told me your name. 

Helen. Never mind that now. Let me 
be Margaret Price's daughter for the 
present. 

Prentice. Very well. Oh, this was a lit- 
tle scratch .of a duel — they 've gone out 
of fashion now, I 'm thankful to say. 

Helen. Do you remember the cause of 
this one? 

Prentice. Yes; Henry Boland had wor- 
ried Margaret some way. She was 
friglitened, I think, and fainted. 

Helen. And you struck him? 

Prentice. Yes, and he challenged me. 

Helen. I 've heard mother tell it. Do 
you remember what frightened her? 



Prentice. I don't believe I do. Does the 
letter say? 

Helen. No. Try to think. 

Prentice. Was it a snake or a toad? 

Helen. No — a jewel. 

Prentice. A jewel? I remember now — 
a — a — cat's-eye. A cat's-eye jewel, 
wasn't it? 

Helen. {With excitement.) Yes, yes, 
yes. ( Weeping. ) 

Prentice. My dear madam, it seems to 
be a very emotional subject with you. 

Helen. It is. I 've so hoped you would 
remember it. On the cars I was praying 
all the way you would remember it. 
And you do — you do. 

Prentice. I do. 

Viola. {Comes to Helen.) Compose 
yourself, dear. Remember what de- 
pends on it. 

Prentice. It is evidently something in 
which I can aid you. 

Helen. It is — and you will? 

Prentice. There is nothing I would not 
do for a daugliter of Margaret Price. 
You are in mourning, dear lady; is it 
for your mother? 

Helen. For my son. 

Prentice. (To Jack.) How long has he 
been dead? 

Helen. He is not dead. Justice Pren- 
tice, my boy — the grandson of Margaret 
Price — is under a sentence of death. 

Prentice. Sentence of death? 

Helen. Yes. I am the mother of Clay 
Whipple. 

Prentice. {Rises.) But, madam — 

Helen. He is to die. I come — 

Prentice. {Retreats toward second door.) 
Stop ! You forget yourself. The case 
of Whipple is before the Supreme Court 
of the United States. I am a member of 
that body — I cannot listen to you. 

Helen. You must. 

Prentice. You are prejudicing his 
chances. {To Jack.) You are making 
it necessary for me to rule against him. 
{To Helen.) My dear madam, for the 
sake of your boy, do not do this. It is 
unlawful — without dignity or precedent. 
{To Jack.) If the lady were not the 
mother of the boy I should call your 
conduct base — 

Viola. But she is his mother. 

Helen. {Following.) And Justice Pren- 
tice, I am the daughter of the woman 
you loved. 

Prentice. I beg you to be silent. 

Jack. Won't you hear us a moment? 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



789 



Prentice. I cannot- I dare not — I must 
leave you. [Going.) 

Viola. Why? 

Prentice. I have explained — the matter 
is before the court. For me to hear you 
would be corrupt. 

Helen. I won't talk of the question be- 
fore your court. That, our attorneys 
tell us, is a constitutional point. 

Prentice. That is its attitude. 

PIelen. I will not talk of that. I wish to 
speak of this letter. 

Jack. You can listen to that, can't you, 
Mr. Justice? 

Prentice. Do you hope for its influence 
indirectly? 

Helen. No; sit down. Justice Prentice, 
and compose yourself. I will talk 
calmly to you. 

Prentice. My dear madam, my heart 
bleeds for you. ( To Jack. ) Her agony 
must be past judicial measurement. 

Jack. Only God knows, sir! 

(Helen sits at table; Viola stands by 
her side; Prentice sits by the fire; 
Jack remains standing.) 

Helen. (Pause.) Justice Prentice. 

Prentice. Mrs. Whipple. 

Helen. You remember this letter — you 
have recalled the duel. You remember 
— thank God — its cause? 

Prentice. I do. 

Helen. You know that my mother's 
aversion to that jewel amounted almost 
to an insanity? 

Prentice. I remember that. 

Helen. I inherited that aversion. When 
a child, the sight of one of them would 
throw me almost into convulsions. 

Prentice. Is it possible? 

Helen. It is true. The physicians said 
I would outgrow the susceptibility, and 
in a measure I did so. But I discovered 
that Clay had inherited the fatal dislike 
from me. 

Jack. You can understand that, Mr. 
Justice? 

Prentice. Medical jurisprudence is full 
of such cases. Why should we deny 
them? Is nature faithful only in phys- 
ical matters? You are like this portrait. 
Your voice is that of Margaret Price. 
Nature's behest should have also em- 
braced some of the less apparent pos- 
sessions, I think. 

Jack. We urged all that at the trial, but 
they called it invention. 

Prentice. Nothing seems more probable 
to me. 



Helen. Clay^ my boy, had that dreadful 
and unreasonable fear of the jewel. I 
protected him as far as possible, but one 
night over a year ago, some men — com- 
panions — finding that the sight of this 
stone annoyed him, pressed it upon his 
attention. He did not know, Justice 
Prentice, he was not responsible. It was 
insanity, but he struck his tormentor and 
the blow resulted in the young man's 
death. 

Prentice. Terrible — terrible ! 

Helen. My poor boy is crushed with the 
awful deed. He is not a murderer. He 
was never that, but they have sentenced 
him. Justice Prentice — he — is to die. 

{Eises impulsively.) 

Jack. (Catching her.) Now — now — my 
dear Helen, compose yourself. 

Viola. (Embracing her.) You promised. 

Helen. Yes, yes, I will. 

(Viola leads Helen aside.) 

Prentice. All this was ably presented to 
the trial court, you say? 

Jack. By the best attorneys. 

Prentice. And the verdict? 

Jack. Still was guilty. But, Mr. Justice, 
the sentiment of the community has 
changed very much since then. We feel 
that a new trial would result differently. 

Helen. When our lawyers decided to go 
to the Supreme Court, I remembered 
some letters of yours in this old book. 
Can you imagine my joy when I found 
the letter was on the very point of this 
inherited trait on which we rested our 
defense ? 

Jack. We have ridden twenty-four hours 
to reach you. The train came in only at 
ten o'clock. 

Helen. You — you are not powerless to 
help me. What is an official duty to a 
mother's love? To the life of my boy? 

Prentice. My dear, dear madam, that is 
not necessary — believe me. This letter 
comes very properly under the head of 
new evidence. ( To Jack. ) The defend- 
ant is entitled to a rehearing on that. 

Helen. Justice Prentice! Justice Pren- 
tice! (Turns again to Viola.) 

Viola. There — there — 

(Vom forts Helen.) 

Prentice. Of course that is n't before us, 
but when we remand the case on this con- 
stitutional point — 

Helen. Then you will — you will remand 
it? 

Prentice. (Prevaricating.) Justice Hen- 
derson had convinced me on the point as 



790 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



you called. So I think there is no doubt 
of the decision. 
Helen. You can never know the light 
you let into my heart. 

(Viola returns the lace handkerchief 

to the hook which Helen opens for 

the purpose, closing it again on the 

handkerchief.) 

Prentice. What is that perfume? Have 

you one about you? 
Helen. Yes, on this handkerchief. 
Ph'ENTiCE. What is it? 
Helen. Mignonette. 
Prentice. Mignonette. 
Helen. A favorite perfume of mother's. 
This handkerchief of hers was in the 
book with the letter. 
Prentice. Indeed. 
Helen. Oh, Justice Prentice, do you think 

I can save my boy? 
Prentice. (To Jack.) On the rehearing 
I will take pleasure in testifying as to 
this hereditary aversion — and what I 
knew of its existence in Margaret Price. 
Jack. May I tell the lawyers so? 
Prentice. No. They will learn it in the 
court to-morrow. They can stand the 
suspense. I am speaking comfort to the 
mother's heart. 
Helen. Comfort. It is life ! 
Prentice. {To Jack.) Say nothing of 
this call, if you please. Nothing to any 
one. 
Jack. W^e shall respect your instruc- 
tions, Mr. Justice. My niece, who has 
been with Mrs. Whipple during this 
trouble, is the fiancee of the boy who is 
in jail. 
Prentice. You have my sympathy, too, 

my dear. 
Viola. Thank you. 

{Goes to Prentice and gives him her 
hand.) 
Prentice. And now good-night. 
Viola. Good-night. 

{Goes to door where Jack joins her.) 

Helen. Good-night, Justice Prentice. 

You must know my gratitude — words 

cannot tell it. {Exit Viola.) 

Prentice. W^ould you do me a favor? 

Helen. Can you ask it? 

(Jack waits at the door.) 
Prentice. If that was the handkerchief 
of Margaret Price, I 'd like to have it. 
{With a moment's effort at self-con- 
trol, Helen gives Prentice the 
handkerchief. She does not dare to 
speak, but turns to Jack who leads 
her out. Prentice goes to the table 



and takes up the miniature. A dis- 
tant bell tolls two.) 
Prentice. Margaret Price. People will 
say that she has been in her grave thirty 
years, but I '11 swear her spirit was in 
this room to-night and directed a deci- 
sion of the Supreme Court of the United 
States. 

{Noticing the handkerchief which he 
holds he puts it to his lips.) 

"The delicate odor of mignonette, 
The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet, 
Is all that tells of her story; yet 
Could she think of a sweeter way?" 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene — Same as Act First. Jack is sit- 
ting in the chair with his elbows on his 
knees, apparently in deep thought. 

{Enter Harvey, left.) 

Harvey. Mars Jack. 

Jack. Well, Uncle Harvey? 

Harvey. 'Scuse me, sah, when you wants 
to be alone, but I 'se awful anxious my- 
self. Is dey any word from the court- 
house ? 

Jack. None, Uncle Harvey. 

Harvey. 'Cause Jo said Missus Camp- 
bell done come in, an' I thought she 'd 
been to the trial, you know. 

Jack. She has. You 're not keeping any- 
thing from me, Uncle Harvey? 

Harvey. 'Deed, no, sah. Ah jes' like to 
ask you. Mars Jack, if I 'd better have 
de cook fix sumpun' to eat — maybe de 
other ladies comin' too? 

Jack. Yes, Uncle Harvey, but whether 
they '11 want to eat or not '11 depend on 
what word comes back with the jury. 

Harvey. Yes, sah. {Exit left.) 

{Enter Alice, right center.) 

Alice. {In astonishment and reproach.) 
Jack — 

Jack. Well — 

Alice. Why are you here? 

Jack. W^ell — I live here. 

Alice. But I thought you 'd gone to Helen 
and Viola. 

Jack. No. 

Alice. You should do so. Jack. Think 
of them alone when that jury returns — 
as it may at any moment — with its ver- 
dict. 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



(91 



Jack. The lawyers are there and Lew 
Ellinger is with them. 

Alice. But Helen — Helen needs you. 

Jack. I may be useful here. 

Alice. How f 

Jack. There 's one man on that jury that 
I think is a friend. 

Alice. One man? 

Jack. Yes. 

Alice. Out of a jury of twelve. 

Jack. One man can stop the other eleven 
from bringing in an adverse verdict — 
and this one is with us. 

Alice. Would your going to Helen and 
Viola in the court-house stop his being 
with us? 

Jack. Perhaps not, but it would stop my 
being with him. 

Alice. What? {Looks about.) I don't 
understand you. 

Jack. Justice Prentice told me that he 
could sit alone in his room and make an- 
other man get up and walk to the tele- 
phone and call him by simply thinking 
steadily of that other man. 

Alice. Superstitious people imagine any- 
thing. 

Jack. Imagine much — yes — but this is n't 
imagination. 

Alice. It 's worse — Jack. I call it spirit- 
ualism. 

Jack. Call it anything you like — spirit- 
ualism — or socialism — or rheumatism — 
it 's there. I know nothing about it sci- 
entifically, but I 've tried it on and it 
works, my dear Alice, it works. 

Alice. You've tried it on? 

Jack. Yes. 

Alice. With whom? 

Jack. With you. 

Alice. I don't know it if you have. 

Jack. That is one phase of its terrible 
subtlety. 

Alice. When did you try it on? 

Jack. {Inquiringly.) That night, a 
month ago, when you rapped at my door 
at two o'clock in the morning and asked 
if I was ill in any way? 

Alice. I was simply nervous about you. 

Jack. Call it "nervousness" if you wish 
to — but that was an experiment of mine 
— a simple experiment. 

Alice. Oh ! 

Jack. Two Sundays ago you went right 
up to the church door — hesitated, and 
turned home again. 

Alice. Lots of people do that. 

Jack. I don't ask you to take stock in it, 
but that was another experiment of mine. 



The thing appeals to me. I can't help 
Helen by being at the court-house, but, 
as I 'm alive and my name 's Jack Brook- 
field, I do believe that my thought reaches 
that particular juryman. 

Alice. That 's lunacy. Jack, dear. 

Jack. {Rises and walks.) Well, call it 
"lunacy." I don't insist on "rheuma- 
tism." 

Alice. Oh, Jack, the boy's life is in the 
balance. Bitter vindictive lawyers are 
prosecuting him; and I don't like my big 
strong brother, who used; to meet men 
and all danger face to face, treating the 
situation with silly mind-cure methods 
— hidden alone in his rooms. I don't like 
it. 

Jack. You can't acquit a boy of murder 
by having a strong brother thrash some- 
body in the court-rooms. If there was 
anything under the sun I could do with 
my physical strength, I 'd do it ; but there 
isn't. Now, why not try this? Why 
not, if I Believe I can influence a jury- 
man by my thought, — why not try? 

(Alice turns away.) 

{Enter Jo, right center.) 

Jack. Well? 

Jo. Mistah Hardmuth. 

Alice. {Astonished.) Frank Hardmuth? 

Jo. Yes. 

Jack. Here 's one of the "bitter vindic- 
tive" men you want me to meet face to 
face. You stay here while I go and do 
it. {Starts up.) 

{Enter Hardmuth.) 

Hardmuth. Excuse me, but I can't wait 
in an anteroom. 

Jack. That'll do, Jo. {Exit Jo.) 

Hardmuth. I want to see you alone. 

Jack. {To Alice.) Yes — 

Alice. {Going.) What do you think it 
is? 

Jack. Nothing to worry over. 

{Conducts her to door. Exit Alice.) 

Hardmuth. {Threateningly.) Jack Brook- 
field. 

Jack. Well? {Confronts Hardmuth.) 

Hardmuth. I 've just seen Harvey Fisher 
— of the Courier. 

Jack. Yes. 

Hardmuth. He says you 've hinted at 
something associating me with the shoot- 
ing of Scovill. 

Jack. Right. 

Hardmuth. What do you mean? 

Jack. I mean, Frank Hardmuth, that you 



•92 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



shan't bound this boy to the gallows with- 
out reckoning with me and the things I 
know of you. 

Hardmuth. I 'm doing my duty as a pros- 
ecuting attorney. 

Jack. You are, and a great deal more — 
you 're venting a personal hatred. 

Hardmuth. That hasn't anything to do 
with this insinuation you 've lianded to a 
newspaper man, an insinuation ior which 
anybody ought to kill you. 

Jack. I don't deal in ^'insinuations." It 
was a charge. 

Hardmuth. A statement? 

Jack. A charge! You understand Eng- 
lish — a specific and categorical charge. 

Hardmuth. That I knew Seovill was to 
be shot. 

Jack. That you knew it ? No. That you 
planned it and arranged and procured his 
assassination. 

Hardmuth. {In low tone.) If the news- 
papers print that, I '11 kill you — damn 
you, I '11 kill you. 

Jack. I don't doubt your w^illingness. 
And they '11 print it — if they have n't 
done so already — and if they don't print 
it, by God, I '11 print it myself and paste 
it on the fences. 

Hardmuth. {Weakening.) What have I 
ever done to you, Jack Brookfield, except 
to be your friend? 

Jack. You 've been much too friendly. 
With this murder on your conscience, you 
proposed to take to yourself, as wife, 
my niece, dear to me as my life. As re- 
venge for her refusal and mine, you 've 
persecuted through two trials the boy 
she loved, and the son of the woman 
whose thought regulates the pulse of my 
heart, an innocent, unfortunate boy. In 
your ambition you 've reached out to be 
the governor of this State, and an hon- 
ored political party is seriously consider- 
ing you for that office to-day. 

Hardmuth. That Seovill story 's a lie — 
a political lie. I think you mean to be 
honest. Jack Brookfield, but somebody 's 
strung you. 

Jack. Wait ! The man that 's now hid- 
ing in Indiana — a fugitive from your 
feeble efforts at extradition — sat upstairs 
drunk and desperate — his last dollar on 
a ease card. I pitied him. If a priest 
had been there he could n't have purged 
his soul cleaner than poor Raynor gave 
it to me. If he put me on, am I strung? 

Hardmuth. {Frightened.) Yes, you are. 
I can't tell you why, because this jury is 



out and may come in any moment and 
I 've got to be there, but I can square it. 
So help me God, I can square it. 
Jack. You '11 have to square it. 

{Enter Alice, from the left, followed by 
Prentice. The Justice carries a folded 
newspaper.) 

Alice. Jack. {Indicates Prentice.) 

Prentice. Excuse me, I — 

Hardmuth. Oh — Justice Prentice. 

Jack. Mr. Hardmuth— the State's attor- 
ney. 

Prentice. I recognize Mr. Hardmuth. 
I did n't salute him because I resent his 
disrespectful treatment of myself during 
his cross-examination. 

Hardmuth. Entirely within my rights as 
a lawyer and — 

Prentice. Entirely — and never within 
the opportunities of a gentleman. 

Hardmuth. Your side foresaw the power- 
ful effect on a local jury of any testi- 
mony by a member of the Supreme 
Court, and my wish to break that — 

Prentice. Was quite apparent, sir, — 
quite apparent, — but the testimony of 
every man is entitled to just such weight 
and consideration as that man's character 
commands. But it is not that disrespect 
which I resent. I am an old man — 
That I am unmarried — childless — with- 
out a son to inherit the vigor that time 
has reclaimed, is due to — a sentiment ' 
that you endeavored to ridicule, Mr. 
Hardmuth, a sentiment which would have 
been sacred in the hands of any true 
Kentuckian, which I am glad to hear 
you are not. 

Jack. That's all. 

Hardmuth. Perhaps not. {Exit.) 

Prentice. My dear Mr. Brookfield, that 
man certainly hasn't seen this news- 
paper? 

Jack. No — but he knows it 's coming. 

Prentice. When I urged you as a citi- 
zen to tell anything you knew of the man, 
I had n't expected a capital charge. 

Alice. What is it. Jack, — what have you 
said? 

Jack. {To Alice.) All in the head- 
lines — read it. {Gives Alice the paper. 
To Prentice.) That enough for your 
purpose, Justice Prentice? 

Prentice. I never dreamed of an attack 
of that — that magnitude — Enough ! 

Alice. Why — why did you do this, Jack? 

Jack. Because I 'm your big strong 
brother — and I had the information. 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



793 



Prentice. It was necessary, Mrs. Camp- 
bell, — necessary. 

Alice. Why necessary? 

Jack. My poor sister, you don't think. 
If that jury brings in a verdict of guilty 
—what then? 

Alice. What then? I don't know. 

Jack. An appeal to the governor — for 
clemency. 

Alice. Well? 

Jack. Then we delay things lAitil a new 
governor comes in. But suppose that 
new governor is Hardmuth himself. 

Alice. How can the new governor be 
Hardmuth? 

Prentice. Nothing can stop it if he gets 
the nomination, and the convention is in 
session at Frankfort to-day with Mr. 
Hardmuth's name in the lead. 

Jack. {Indicating paper.) I've served 
that notice on them and they won't dare 
nominate him. That is, I think they 
won't. 

Alice. But to charge him with murder? 

Prentice. The only thing to consider 
there is, — have you your facts? 

Jack. I have. 

Prentice. Then it was a duty and you 
chose the psychological moment for its 
performance. "With w^hat measure you 
mete — it shall be measured to you again." 
I have pity for the man whom that paper 
crushes, but I have greater pity for the 
boy he is trying to have hanged. {Goes 
to Alice.) You know, Mrs. Campbell, 
that young Whipple is the grandson of 
an old friend of mine. 

Alice. Yes, Justice Prentice, I know that. 

{Enter Jo, followed hy Helen and Viola.) 

Jo. Mars Jack! 

Jack. {Turning.) Yes? 

Helen. Oh, Jack! — 

{Comes down to Jack. Viola goes 
to Alice.) 

Jack. What is it? 

{Catches and supports Helen.) 

Viola. The jury returned and asked for 
instructions. 

Jack. Well? 

Helen. There's a recess of an hour. 

Viola. The court wishes them locked up 
for the night, but the foreman said the 
jurymen were all anxious to get to their 
homes and he felt an agreement could be 
reached in an hour. 

Prentice. Did he use exactly those words 
—"to their homes"? 

Viola, "To their homes" — yes, 



Prentice. {Smiling at Jack.) There 
vou are. 

Helen. What, Jack? 

Jack. What? 

Prentice. Men with vengeance or sever- 
ity in their hearts would hardly say 
they 're "anxious to get to their homes." 
They say, "the jury is anxious to get 
away," or "to finish its work." 

Helen. Oh, Justice Prentice, you pin 
hope upon such slight things. 

Prentice. That is what hope is for, my 
dear Mrs. Whipple; the frail chances of 
this life. 

Viola. And now. Uncle Jack, Mrs. Whip- 
ple ought to have a cup of tea and some- 
thing to eat. 

Helen. Oh, I could n't — we must go back 
at once. 

Viola. Well, I could — I — I must. 

Alice. Yes — you must — both of you. 

{Exit to dining-room.) 

Viola. {Returning to Helen.) You 
don't think it 's heartless, do you ? 

Helen. You dear child. {Kisses her.) 

Viola. You come, too. 

Helen. {Refusing.) Please. 

{Exit Viola. Helen sinks to sofa.) 

Jack. And now, courage, my dear Helen ; 
it 's almost over. 

Helen. At the other trial the jury de- 
layed — just this way. 

Prentice. Upon what point did the jury 
ask instruction? 

Helen. Degree. 

Prentice. And the court? 

Helen. Oh, Jack, the Judge answered — 
guilty in the first degree, or not guilty. 

Prentice. That all helps us. 

Helen. It does? 

Jack. Who spoke for the jury? 

Helen. The foreman — and one other 
juryman asked a question. 

Jack. Was it the man in the fourth chair 
— first row? 

Helen. {Inquiringly.) Yes — ? 

Jack. Ah. 

Helen. Why? 

Jack. I think he 's a friend, that 's all. 

Helen. I should die, Jack, if it wasn't 
for your courage. You w^on't get tired 
of it — wall you — and forsake my poor 
boy — and me? 

Jack. {Encouragingly.) What do you 
think? 

Helen. All our lawj'ers are kindness it- 
self, but — but — you — Jack — you some- 
how — 

(Enter Viola.) 



794 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



Viola. Oh, Uncle Jack — here 's a note our 
lawyer asked me to give to you — I for- 
got it until this minute. 

Jack. Thank you. (Takes note.) 

Viola. Please try a cup of tea. 

Helen. No — no — Viola. {Exit Viola.) 
What is it, Jack? Are they afraid? 

Jack. It 's not about the trial at all. 

{Hands note to Prentice.) 

Helen. Really? 

Jack. Yes. 

Helen. But why don't you show it to us, 
then? 

Jack. (Prentice returns note.) I will — 
if my keeping it gives you so much 
alarm as that. {Turns on the large drop 
light and stands under it.) Colonel 
Bayley says — "Dear Jack, I 've seen the 
paper; Hardmuth will shoot on sight." 

Helen. {Quickly to Jack's side.) Oh, 
Jack, if anything should happen to you — 

Jack. "Anything" is quite as likely to 
happen to Mr. Hardmuth. 

Helen. But not even that — my boy has 
killed a man — and — you — Jack — you — 
well, you just must n't let it happen, 
that 's all. 

Jack. I mustn't let it happen because — ? 

Helen. Because — I — couldn't bear it. 
(Jack lifts her hand to his face and 
kisses it.) 

{Enter Alice.) 

Alice. What was the letter, Jack? 

Jack. {Hands letter to Alice as he 
passes, leading Helen to door.) And, 
now I '11 agree to do the best I can for 
Mr. Hardmuth if you '11 take a cup of 
tea and a biscuit. 

Helen. There isn't time. 

Jack. There 's plenty of time if the ad- 
journment was for an hour. 

Alice. {In alarm.) Jack! 

Jack. Eh — {Turns to Alice.) Wait one 
minute. {Goes on to door with Helen.) 
Go. {Exit Helen.) 

Alice. {As Jack returns.) He threatens 
your life. 

Jack. Not exactly. Simply Colonel Bay- 
ley's opinion that he will shoot on sight. 

Alice. (Impatiently.) Oh — 

Jack. There is a difference, you know. 

(Enter Jo.) 

Jo. Mr. Ellinger, sah. 

(Enter Lew.) 

Lew. (Briskly.) Hello, Jack. 

(Exit Jo.) 



Jack. W^ell, Lew? 

Lew. (With newspaper.) Why, that's 
the damnedest thing — (To Alice.) I 
beg your pardon. 

Alice. Don't, please, — some manly em- 
phasis is a real comfort, Mr. Ellinger. 

Lew. That charge of yours against Hard- 
muth is raisin' more h-h-high feeling 
than anything that ever happened. 

Jack. I saw the paper. 

Lew. You did n't see this — it 's an extra. 
(Reads.) "The charge read to the con- 
vention in night session at Frankfort — 
Bill Glover hits Jim Macey on the nose — 
De Voe of Carter County takes Jhn's 
gun away from him. The delegation 
from Butler get down to their stomachs 
and crawl under the benches — some 
statesmen go through the windows. Con- 
vention takes a recess till morning. Lo- 
cal sheriff swearin' in deputies to keep 
peace in the barrooms." That 's all 
you 've done. 

Jack. (To Alice.) Good! (To Pren- 
tice.) Well, they can't nominate Mr. 
Hardmuth now. 

Lew. (To Alice.) I been hedgin' — I 
told the fellows I 'd bet Jack had n't said 
it. 

Jack. Yes — I did say it. 

Lew. In just those words — ? (Reads.) 
"The poor fellow that crouched back of 
a window sill and shot Kentucky's gov- 
ernor deserves hanging less than the man 
whom he is shielding — the man who laid 
the plot of assassination, the present 
prosecuting attorney by appointment — 
Frank Allison Hardmuth." Did you say 
that? 

Jack. Lew, that there might be no mis- 
take — I wrote it. 

(Lew whistles; Jack takes the paper 
and scans it.) 

Lew. Is it straight? 

Jack. Yes. 

(Pushes hanging button and turns off 
the large drop-light.) 

Lew. He was in the plot to kill the gov- 
ernor? 

Jack. He organized it. 

Lew. Well, what do you think of that? 
And now he 's runnin' for governor him- 
self — a murderer? 

Jack. Yes. 

Lew. (To Prentice.) And for six 
months he 's been houndin' every fellow 
in Louisville that sat down to a game of 
cards. (Jack nods.) The damned ras- 
cal 's nearly put me in the poorhouse. 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



795 



Jack. Poor old Lew! 

Lew. {To Prentice.) Why, before I 
could get to that court-house to-day I 
had to take a pair of scissors that I used 
to cut coupons with and trim the whis- 
kers off o' my shirt cuffs. {To Jack.) 
How long have you known this? 

Jack. Ever since the fact. 

Prentice. Mm — 

Lew. Why do you spring it only now? 

Jack. Because until now I lacked the 
character and the moral courage. I 
spring it now by the advice of Justice 
Prentice to reach that convention at 
Frankfort. 

Lew. Well, you reached them. 

Prentice. The convention was only a 
secondary consideration with me — my 
real object was this jury with whom Mr. 
Hardmuth seemed too powerful. 

Lew. Reach the jury? 

Jack. {Enthusiastically.) The jury? 

Why, of course, — the entire jury, — and 
I was hoping for one man — 

Lew. Why, they don't see the papers — 
the jury won't get a line of this. 

Jack. I think they will. 

Lew. You got 'em fixed? 

Jack. {Indignantly.) Fixed? No. 

Lew. Then how will they see it? 

Prentice. {Firmly and slowly to Lew, 
who is half dazed.) How many people 
in Louisville have already read that 
charge as you have read it? 

Lew. Thirty thousand, maybe, but — 

Prentice. And five hundred thousand in 
the little cities and the towns. Do you 
think, Mr. Ellinger, that all those minds 
can be at white heat over that knowl- 
edge and none of it reach the thought 
of those twelve men? Ah, no — 

Jack. To half a million good Kentuck- 
ians to-night Frank Hardmuth is a repul- 
sive thing — and that jury's faith in him — 
is dead. 

Lew. {Pause.) Why, Jack, old man, 
you 're dippy. 

(Alice turns away wearily, agreeing 
with Lew.) 

Prentice. Then, Mr. ElHnger, I am 
dippy, too. (Alice turns hack.) 

Lew. You mean you think the jury gets 
the public opinion — without anybody 
tellin' them or their reading it. 

I'rentice. Yes. {Pause. Lew looks 
stunned.) In every widely discussed 
trial the defendant is tried not alone by 
his twelve peers, but by the entire com- 
munity. 



Lew. Why, b|ast it ! The community goes 
by wliat the newspaper says ! 

Prentice. That is often the regrettable 
part of it — but the fact remains. 

Jack. And that 's why you asked me to 
expose Frank Hardmuth? 

Prentice. Yes. 

Lew. Well, the public will think you did 
it because he closed your game. 

Jack. Hardmuth didn't close my game. 

Lew. Who did? 

Jack. {Pointing to Prentice.) This 
man. 

Prentice. {To Jack.) Thank you. 

Lew. How the he — er — heaven's name 
did he close it? 

Jack. He gave my self-respect a slap on 
the back and I stood up. {Exit.) 

Lew. {Thoroughly confused. Pause.) 
Stung! {Turns to Prentice.) So you 
are responsible for these — these new ideas 
of Jack's? 

Prentice. In a measure. Have the ideas 
apparently hurt Mr. Brookfield? 

Lew. They 've put him out of business — 
that 's all. 

Prentice. Which business? 

Lew. Why, this house of his. 

Prentice. I see. But his new ideas? 
Don't you like them, Mr. Ellinger? 

Lew. I love Jack Brookfield — love him 
like a brother — but I don't want even a 
brother askin' me if I 'm sure I 've 
"thought it over" when I 'm startin' to 
take the halter off for a pleasant evenin'. 
Get my idea? 

Prentice. I begin to. 

Lew. In other words — I don't want to 
take my remorse first. It dampens fun. 
The other day a lady at the races said, 
"We 've missed you, Mr. Ellinger." And 
I said, "Have you?— Well I '11 be up this 
evening," and I 'm pressing her hand and 
hanging on to it till I 'm afraid I '11 get 
the carriage grease on my coat — feelin' 
only about thirty-two, you know, then I 
turn round and Jack has those sleepy 
lamps on me — and "bla" — 

{Turns and sinks on to sofa.) 

Prentice. And you don't go ? 

Lew. {Bracing up.) 1 do go — as a mat- 
ter of self-respect — but I don't make a. 
hit. I 'm thinking so much more about 
those morality ideas of Jack's than I am 
about the lady that it cramps my style 
and we never get past the weather, and 
"when did you last hear from So-and- 
so?" {Rises.) I want to reform all 
right. I believe in reform. But first I 



796 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



want to have the fun of fallin' and fallin' 
bard. 
Jo. {Distant and outside.) 'Fore God, 

Mars Clay! 
Clay. Jo, is my mother here? 
Alice. {Entering left.) Why, that's 
Clay. 

{Voices off continue together and ap- 
proach.) 
Lew. {To Prentice.) It's the boy. 
Alice. His mother! {Starts to call 
Helen, then falters in indecision.) Oh! 
{The outside voices grow louder.) 
Prentice. Acquittal ! 

{Enter Clay, followed by Colonel Bay- 
ley, his attorney.) 

Alice. Clay, Clay! 
Clay. Oh, Mrs. Campbell. 

(Alice embraces Mm.) 

{Enter Jack, Helen, and Viola.) 

Jack. {Seeing Clay and speaking back to 

Helen. ) Yes. 
Helen. {As she enters.) My boy! 
Clay. Mother ! 

{They embrace. Clay slips to his 
knee with his face hidden in Helen's 
lap, repeating her name. Helen 
standitig sways and is caught by 
Jack. Clay noting this weakness 
rises and helps support her.) 
Jack. {Rousing her.) He's free, Helen, 

he 's free. 
Clay. Yes, mother, I 'm free. 

(Viola, wlio has crossed back of Clay 
and Helen, weeps on shoulder of 
Alice, who comforts her.) 
Helen. My boy, my boy! 

(Viola looks at them. Helen sees 
Viola and turns Clay toward her. 
Clay takes Viola in his arms.) 
Clay. Viola, my brave sweetheart! 
Viola. It 's really over? 
Clay. Yes. 

Jack. It 's a great victory, Colonel. 
Bayley. Thank you. 

Jack. If ever a lawyer made a good fight 

for a man's life, you did. Helen, Viola, 

you must want to shake this man's hand. 

Viola. I could have thrown my arms 

around you when you made that speech. 

Bayley. {Laughing.) Too many young 

fellows crowding into the profession as 

it is. 

Helen. {Taking his hand.) Life must be 

sweet to a man who can do SO much good 

as you do. 



Bayley. I could n't stand it, you know, 
if it wasn't that my ability works both 
ways. 

{Enter Harvey, left.) 

Harvey. Mars Clay. 
Clay. Harvey! Why, dear old Harvey. 
{Half embraces Harvey and pats him 
affectionately.) 
Harvey. Yes, sah. Could — could you eat 

anything. Mars Clay? 
Clay. Eat anything ! Why, I 'm starvin', 

Harvey. 
Harvey. Ha, ha. Yes, sah. 

{Exit quickly.) 
Clay. But you with me, mother — and 

Viola. 
Helen. My boy! Colonel! 

{Turns to Bayley. Exeunt Clay, 
Viola, Helen, Bayley, and Alice 
to dining-room.) 
Jack. {Alone with Prentice. Picks up 
Bayley's letter; takes hold of push but- 
ton over head.) I shall never doubt you 
again. 
Prentice. Mr. Brookfield, never doubt 
yourself. 

{Enter Hardmuth. He rushes down to- 
ward toward dining-room and turns back 
to Jack who is under the lamp with his 
hand on its button.) 

Hardmuth. You think you '11 send me to 
the gallows, but, damn you, you go first 
yourself. 

{Thrusts a derringer against Jack's 
body.) 

Jack. Stop! {The big light flashes on 
above Hardmuth's eyes. At Jack's 
''Stop/' Prentice inclines forward with 
eyes on Hardmuth so that there is a 
double battery of hypnotism on him. A 
pause.) You can't shoot — that — gun. 
You can't pull the trigger. {Pause.) 
You can't even hold the gun. {Pause. 
The derringer drops from Hardmuth's 
hand.) Now, Frank, you can go. 

Hardmuth. {Becoiling slowly.) I'd like 
to know — how in hell you did that — to 



ACT FOURTH. 

The scene is the same as in Act Third 
All the lights are on, including the large 
electric light. Clay and Viola seated on, 
sofa near the fire-place. 



I 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



797 



Viola. I must really say good-night and 

let you get some sleep. 
Clay. Not before Jack gets home. Our 

mothers have considerately left us alone 

together. They '11 just as considerately 

tell us when it 's time to part. 
Viola. My mother said it was time half 

an hour ago. 
Clay. Wait till Jack comes in. 

{Enter Jo.) 

Jo. Mars Clay? 

Clay. Well, Jo? 

Jo. Dey's another reporter to see you, 
sah? 

Viola. Send him away — Mr. Whipple 
won't see any more reporters. 

Clay. (Rises.) Wait a minute — who is 
he? (Jo hands card.) I've got to see 
this one, Viola. 

Viola. (Complaining.) Why "got to"? 

Clay. He 's a friend — I '11 see him, Jo. 

Jo. Yas, sail — (Exit.) 

Viola. (Rises.) You Ve said that all day 
— they 're all friends. 

Clay. Well, they are — but this boy es- 
pecially. It was fine to see you and 
mother and Jack when I was in that jail 
— great — but you were there daytimes. 
This boy spent hours on the other side of 
the bars helping me pass the awful 
nights. I tell you — death-cells would be 
pretty nearly hell if it was n't for the 
police reporters — ministers ain't in it 
with 'em. 

(Enter Emmett, a reporter.) 

Emmett. Good-evening. 

Clay. How are you, Ned? You know 
Miss Jampbell? 

Emmett. (Bowing.) Yes. 

Viola. Good-evening. 

Clay. Have a chair. 

Emmett. Thank you. (Defers to Viola 
who sits first on sofa. Pause.) This is 
different. 

(Looks around the room.) 

Clay. Some. 

Emmett. Satisfied? The way we han- 
dled the story? 

Clay. Perfectly. You were just bully, 
old man. 

Emmett. (To Viola.) That artist of 
ours is only a kid — and they work him 
to death on the "Sunday" — so — (Pause. 
To Clay.) You understand. 

Clay. Oh — I got used to the — ^pictures a 
year ago. 



Emmett. Certainly. (Pause.) Anything 

you want to 'say ? 
Viola. For the paper? 
Emmett. Yes. 
Clay. I think not. 

(Enter Helen and Alice. Emmett rises.) 

Helen. Clay, dear — (Pause.) Oh — 

Clay. You met my mother? 

Emmett. No — 

Clay. Mother — this is Mr. Emmett of 
whom I 've told you so often. 

Helen. Oh — the good reporter. 

Emmett. (To Clay.) Gee! That 'd be 
a wonder if the gang heard it. (Taking 
Helen's hand as she offers it.) We got 
pretty well acquainted — yes, 'm. 

Clay. (Introducing Alice.) Mrs. Camp- 
bell. 

Alice. Won't you sit down, Mr. Em- 
mett? 

Emmett. Thank you. I guess we 've cov- 
ered everything, but the chief wanted 
me to see your son — (turns to Clay) 
and see if you 'd do the paper a favor? 

Clay. If possible — gladly — 

Emmett. I don't like the assignment be- 
cause — well for the very reason that it 
was handed to me — and that is because 
we 're more or less friendly. 

(Enter Jack in fur coat with cap and gog- 
gles in hand.) 

Jack. Well, it's a wonderful night out- 
side. 
Alice. You 're back early. 
Jack. Purposely. (To Emmett.) How. 

are you? 
Emmett. (Rising.) Mr. Brookfield. 
Jack. I thought you girls might like a 

little run in the moonlight before I put in 

the machine. 
Helen. Mr. Emmett has some message 

from his editor. 
Jack. What is it? 
Emmett. There 's a warrant out for 

Hardmuth — you saw that? 
Viola. Yes, we saw that. 

(Goes to Jack.) 
Jack. To-night's paper — 
Emmett. If they get him and he comes 

to trial and all that, it '11 be the biggest 

trial Kentucky ever saw. 
Clay. Well? 
Emmett. Well — the paper wants you to 

agree to report it for them — the trial — 

there'll be other papers after you, of 

course. 
Viola. Oh, no — 



798 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



Emmett. Understand, Clay, I 'm not ask- 
ing it. {To Viola.) I'm here under 
orders just as I 'd be at a lire or a bread 
riot. 

Clay. {Demurring.) And — of course — 
you understand, don't you? 

Emmett. Perfectly — and I told the chief 
myself you would n't see it. 

Clay. Paper 's been too friendly for me 
to assume any — any — 

Jack. Unnecessary dignity — 

Clay. Exactly — but — I just could n't, you 
see — 

Emmett. {Going.) Oh, leave it to me — 
I '11 let 'em down easy. 

Clay. Thank you. 

Emmett. You expect to be in Europe or — 

Clay. But I don't. 

(Jack removes fur coat, puts it on 
chair up right center.) 

Viola. We 're going to stay right here in 
Louisville — 

Clay. And work out my — my own fu- 
ture among the people who know me. 

Emmett. Of course — Europe 's just to 
stall off the chief — get him on to some 
other dope — 

Helen. {Rising.) But — 

Jack. {Interrupting.) It's all right. 

Helen. ( To Jack. ) I hate to begin with 
a falsehood. 

Emmett. Not your son — me — . Saw 
some copy on our telegraph desk, Mr. 
Brookfield, that 'd interest you. 

Jack. Yes. 

Emmett. Or maybe you know of it? 
Frankfort — 

Jack. No. 

Emmett. Some friend named you in the 
caucus. 

Jack. What connection? 

Emmett. Governor. 

Viola. {To Emmett.) Uncle Jack? 

Emmett. Yes, 'm — that is, for the nom- 
ination. 

Jack. It's a joke. 

Emmett. Grows out of these Hardmuth 
charges, of course. 

Jack. That 's all. 

Emmett. Good-night — {Bows.) Mrs. 
Whipple — ladies — ( Exit. ) 

Clay. {Going to door with Emmett.) 
You '11 make that quite clear, won't you? 

Emmett. {Outside.) I'll fix it. 

Clay. {Returning.) If it wasn't for the 
notoriety of it, I 'd like to do that. 

{Sits right of table.) 

Helen. {Reproachfully.) My son! 

Jack. Why would you like to do it? 



Clay. To get even. I 'd like to see Hard- 
muth suffer as he made me suffer. I 'd 
like to watch him suffer and write of it. 

Jack. That 's a bad spirit to face the 
world with, my boy. 

Clay. I hate him. {Goes to Viola.) 

Jack. Hatred is heavier freight for the 
shipper than it is for the consignee. 

Clay. I can't help it. 

Jack. Yes, you can help it. Mr. Hard- 
muth should be of the utmost indifference 
to you. To hate him is w^eak. 

Viola. Weak? 

Jack. Yes, w^ak-minded. Hardmuth was 
in love with you at one time — he hated 
Clay. He said Clay was as weak as 
dishwater — {to Clay) — and you were at 
that time. You 've had your lesson — 
profit by it. Its meaning was self-con- 
trol. Begin now if you 're going to be 
the custodian of this girl's happiness. 

Helen. I 'm sure he means to, Jack. 

Jack. You can carry your hatred of 
Hardmuth and let it embitter your whole 
life — or you can drop it — so — {Drops a 
book on table.) The power that any 
man or anything has to annoy us we 
give him or it by our interest. Some 
idiot told your great-grandmother that a 
jewel with different colored strata in it 
was "bad luck" — or a "hoodoo" — she be- 
lieved it, and she nursed her faith that 
passed the lunacy on to your grand- 
mother. 

Helen. Jack, don't talk of that, please. 

Jack. I '11 skip one generation — but I 'd 
like to talk of it. 

Alice. {Rising, comes to Helen.) Why 
talk of it? 

Jack. It was only a notion, and an effort 
of will can banish it. 

Clay. It was more than a notion. 

Jack. Tom Denning's scarf-pin which 
he dropped there {indicates floor) was 
an exhibit in your trial — Judge Bayley 
returned it to me to-day. 

{Puts hand in pocket.) 

Viola. I wish you would n't. Uncle Jack. 

{Turns away.) 

Jack. {To Clay.) You don't mind, do 
you? 

Clay. I 'd rather not look at it — to-night. 

Jack. You need n't look at it. I '11 hold 
it in my hand and you put your hands 
over mine. 

Alice. I really don't see the use in this 
experiment. Jack. 

Jack. {With Clay's hand over his.) 
That doesn't annoy you, does i^** 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



799 



Clay. I 'm controlling myself, sir — but I 
feel the influence of the thing all through 
and through me. 

Helen. Jack ! 

(Viola turns away in protest.) 

Jack. Down your back, is n't it, and in 
the roots of your hair — tingling — ? 

Clay. Yes. 

Helen. Why torture him? 

Jack. Is it torture? 

Clay. (With brave self-control.) I shall 
be glad when it 's over. 

Jack. (Severely.) What rot! That's 
only my night-key — look at it. I have n't 
the scarf-pin about me. 

Clay. Why make me think it was the 
scarf-pin ? 

Jack. To prove to you that it 's only 
thinking — that 's all. Now, be a man — 
the cat's-eye itself is in that table drawer. 
Get it and show Viola that you 're not a 
neuropathic idiot. You 're a child of the 
everlasting God and nothing on the earth 
or under it can harm you in the slightest 
degree. (Clay opens drawer and takes 
pin.) That's the spirit — look at it — 
I 've made many a young horse do that to 
an umbrella. Now, give it to me. (To 
Viola.) You 're not afraid of it? 

Viola. Why, of course I 'm not. 

Jack, (Putting pin on her breast.) Now, 
if you want my niece, go up to that hoo- 
doo like a man. 

(Clay embraces Viola.) 

Helen. Oh, Jack, do you think that will 
last? 

Jack. Which — indifference to the hoodoo 
or partiality to my niece? 

Clay. They '11 both last. 

Jack. Now, my boy, drop your hatred of 
Hardmuth as you drop your fear of the 
scarf-pin. Don't look back — your life 's 
ahead of you. Don't mount for the race 
over-weight. 

(Enter Jo.) 

Jo. Mr. Ellinger. 

(Enter Lew.) 

Lew. I don't intrude, do I? 

Jack. Come in. 

Lew. (To Ladies.) Good-evening, Ah, 
Clay. (Shakes hands with Clay.) 
Glad to see you looking so well. Glad 
to see you in such good company. (To 
Jack^ briskly.) I've got him. 

Jack. Got whom? 

Lew. Hardmuth. (To Ladies.) Detec- 
tives been hunting him all day, you know. 



Helen. He 's caught, you say ? 

Lew. No — but" I 've treed him — (to Jack) 
— and I thought I 'd just have a word 
with you before passing the tip. (To 
Ladies. ) He 's nearly put me in the 
poorhouse with his raids and. closing 
laws, and I see a chance to get even. 

Jack. In what way? 

Lew. They 've been after him nearly 
twenty-four hours — morning paper 's go- 
ing to offer a rew^ard for him, and I 
understand the State will also. If I had 
a little help I 'd hide him for a day or 
two and then surrender him for those 
rewards. 

Jack. Where is Hardmuth? 

(Sits at table.) 

Lew. Hiding. 

Jack. (Writing a note.) Naturally. 

Lew. You remember Big George? 

Jack. The darkey? 

Lew. Yes — used to be on the door at 
Phil Kelly's? 

Jack. Yes. 

Lew. He 's there. In Big George's cot- 
tage — long story — Big George's wife — 
that is, she — well, his wife used to be 
pantry maid for Hardmuth's mother. 
When they raided Kelly's game. Big 
George pretended to turn State's evi- 
dence, but he really hates Hardmutli like 
a rattler — so it all comes back to. me. 
You see, if I 'd win a couple of hundred 
at Kelly's I used to slip George a ten 
going out. Your luck always stays by 
you if you divide a little with a nigger 
or a humpback — and in Louisville it's 
easier to find a nigger — so — 

Jack. He's there now? 

Lew. Yes. He wants to get away. He 's 
got two guns and he '11 shoot before he 
gives up — so I 'd have to con him some 
way. George's wife is to open the door 
to Kelly's old signal, you remember — 
(raps) — one knock, then two, and then 
one. 

Jack. Where is the cottage? 

Lew. Number 7 Jackson Street — little 
dooryard — border of arbor-vitse on the 
path. 

Jack. One knock — then two — and then 
one — (Rises with note written.) 

Lew. What you gonta do? 

Jack. Send for liim. 

Lew. Who you gonta send? 

Jack. That boy there. 

Clay. Me? 

Jack. Yes. 

Helen. Oh, no — no. 



800 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



Jack. And my niece. 

Viola. What! To arrest a man? 

Jack. {To Clay.) My machine is at the 
door. Give Hardmuth this note. He '11 
come with you quietly. Bring him here. 
We '11 decide what to do with him after 
that. 

Alice. I can't allow Viola on such an er- 
rand. 

Jack. When the man she 's promised to 
marry is going into danger — 

Viola. If Mr. Hardmuth will come for 
that note — why can't I deliver it? 

Jack. You may — if Clay '11 let you. 

Clay. {Quietly taking note as Jack ojfers 
it to Viola. ) I '11 hand it to him. 

Jack. I hope so. {Gives goggles and 
coat.) Take these — remember — one rap, 
then two, then one. 

Clay. I understand — number seven — ? 

Lew. Jackson Street. 

Alice. I protest. 

Helen. So do I. 

Jack. {To Clay and Viola.) You're 
both of age. I ask you to do it. If you 
give Hardmuth the goggles, nobody '11 
recognize him and with a lady beside him 
you '11 get him safely here. 

Clay. Come. {Exit with Viola.) 

Lew. {Following to door.) I oughtto be 
in the party. 

Jack. No — you stay here. 

Alice. That 's scandalous. 

Jack. But none of us will start the scan- 
dal, will we? 

Helen. Clay knows nothing of that kind 
of work — a man with two guns — think 
of it. 

Jack. After he's walked barehanded up 
to a couple of guns a few times, he '11 
quit fearing men that are armed only 
with a scarf-pin. 

Helen. {Hysterically.) It's cruel to 
keep constantly referring to that — that 
— mistake of Clay's — I want to forget it. 

Jack. {Going to Helen. Tenderly.) 
The way to forget it, my dear Helen, is 
not to guard it as a sensitive spot in your 
memory, but to grasp it as the wise ones 
grasp a nettle — crush all its power to 
harm you in one courageous contact. 
We think things are calamities and trials 
and sorrows — only names. They are 
spiritual gymnastics and have an eternal 
value when once you front them and 
make them crouch at your feet. Say 
once for all to your soul and thereby to 
the world — "Yes, my boy killed a man — 
because I 'd brought him up a half -ef- 



feminate, hysterical weakling, but he 's 
been through the fire and I 've been 
through the fire, and we 're both the bet- 
ter for it." 

Helen. I can say that truthfully, but I 
don't want to make a policeman of him, 
just the same. {Exit to dining-room.) 

Alice. {Following.) Your treatment 's a 
little too heroic. Jack. {Exit.) 

Lew. Think they'll fetch him? 

Jack. {Sits left of table.) Yes. 

Lew. He '11 come, of course, if he does, 
under the idea that you '11 help him when 
he gets here. 

Jack. Yes. 

Lew. Pretty hard double-cross, but he de- 
serves it. I 've got a note of fifteen thou- 
sand to meet to-morrow, or, damn it, I 
don't think I 'd fancy this man-hunting. 
I put up some Louisville-Nashville bonds 
for security, and the holder of the note '11 
be only too anxious to pinch 'em. 

Jack. You can't get your rewards in 
time for that. 

Lew. I know — and that 's one reason I 
come to you. Jack. If you see I 'm in a 
fair way to get a reward — 

Jack. I '11 lend you money, Lew. 

Lew. Thank you. (Jack takes check- 
book and writes.) I thought you would. 
If I lose those bonds they '11 have me sell- 
ing programs for a livin' at a grand- 
stand. You see, I thought hatin' Hard- 
muth as you do, and your reputation 
bein' up through that stuff to the 
papers — 

Jack. There. {Gives check.) 

Lew. Thank you, old man. I'll hand 
this back to you in a week. 

Jack. {Rises.) You needn't. 

Lew. What? 

Jack. You needn't hand it back. It's 
only fifteen thousand and you 've lost a 
hundred of them at poker in these rooms. 

Lew. Never belly-ached, did I? 

Jack. Never — but you don't owe me that 
fifteen. 

Lew. Rot ! I 'm no baby — square game, 
wasn't it? 

Jack. Perfectly. 

Lew. And I '11 sit in a square game any 
time I get a chance. 

Jack. I know, Lew, all about that. 

Lew. I '11 play you for this fifteen right 
away. {Displays check.) 

Jack. No. {Walks aside.) 

Lew. Ain't had a game in three weeks. 
— and, besides, I think my luck 's chang- 
in'? When Big George told me about 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



801 



Hardmuth I took George's hand before 

I thought what I was doin' — and you 

know what shakin' hands with a nigger 

does just before any play. 
Jack. {Resisting IjEw'^ plea.) No, thank 

you, Lew. 
Lew. My money 's good as anybody else's, 

ain't it? 
Jack. Just as good, but — 
Lew. It ain't a phoney check, is it? 

{Examines check.) 
Jack. The check 's all right. 
Lew. {Taunting.) Losing your nerves? 
Jack. No {pause) — suppose you shuffle 

those and deal a hand. 

{Indicates small table, right.) 
Lew. That 's like old times ; what is it 

— stud-horse or draw? {Sits at table.) 
Jack. {Goes to fireplace.) Draw if you 

say so. 
Lew. I cut 'em? 
Jack. You cut them. 
Lew. {Dealing two poker hands.) Table 

stakes — check goes for a thousand. 
Jack. That suits me. 

Lew. {Taking his own cards.) Sit down. 
Jack. {At other side of room looking into 

fire.) I don't need to sit down just yet. 
Lew. As easy as that, am I? 
Jack. Lew ! 
Lew. Yes? 
Jack. {Pause.) Do you happen to have 

three queens? 

(Lew looks at Jack, then carefully at 
hack of his own cards, then at the 
deck.) 
Lew. Well, I can't see it. 
Jack. No use looking — they 're not 

marked. 
Lew. Well, I shuffled 'm all right. 
Jack. Yes. 
Lew. And cut 'm? (Jack nods.) 

Couldn't 'a' been a cold deck? 
Jack. No. 
Lew. Then, how did you know I had 

three queens? 
Jack. I didn't know it. I just thought 

you had. 
Lew. Can you do it again? 
Jack. I don't know. Draw one card. 
Lew. {Drawing one card from deck.) 

All right. 
Jack. {Pause.) Is it the ace of hearts? 
Lew. It is. 
Jack. Mm — turns me into a rotter, 

doesn't it? 

{Comes gloomily to the big table.) 
Lew. Can you do that every time? 
Jack. I never tried it until to-night — that 



is, consciously. I 've always had luck 
and I thought it was because I took 
chances on a game — same as any player 
— but that don't look like it, does it? 

Lew. Beats me. 

Jack. And what a monster it makes of me 
— these years I 've been in the business. 

Lew. You say you did n't know it before ? 

Jack. I didn't know it — no — but — some 
things have happened lately that have 
made me think it might be so; that jury 
yesterday — some facts I 've had from 
Justice Prentice. Telepathy of a very 
common kind — and I guess it 's used in 
a good many games, old man, we are n't 
on to. 

Lew. Well — have you told anybody? 

Jack. No. 

Lew. {Excitedly.) Good! {Bises and 
comes to Jack.) Now, see here, Jack, if 
you can do that right along I know a 
game in Cincinnati where it 'd be like 
takin' candy from children. 

Jack. Good God ! you 're not suggesting 
that I keep it up ? 

Lew. Don't over-do it — no — {Pause.) 
Or you show me the trick and I 'II collect 
all right. 

Jack. {Slowly.) Lew — {Pause.) Some 
of the fellows I Ve won from in this 
house have gone over to the park and 
blown their heads off. 

Lew. Some of the fellows anybody wins 
from in any house go somewhere and 
blow their heads off. 

Jack. True — {Pause.) 

Lew. Three queens — before the draw — 
well, you could 'a' had me all right — and 
you won't tell me how you do it? 

Jack. I don't know how I do it; the 
thought just comes to my mind stronger 
than any other thought. 

Lew. {Reprovingly.) God A'mighty gives 
you a mind like that and you won't go 
with me to Cincinnati. 

{Goes to card table; studies cards.) 

{Enter Jo.) 

Jo. Justice Prentice, sah. 

Jack. Ask him to step up here. 

Jo. Yes, sah, {Exit.) 

Jack. {Goes to door, left.) Alice — Helen 

— Justice Prentice has called ; I 'd like 

you to join us. 
Lew. Can the old man call a hand like 

that, too? 
Jack. I 'm sure he could. 
Lew. And — are there others? 
Jack. I believe there are a good many 



802 



THE WITCHING HOUR 



others who unconsciously have the same 
ability. 
Lew. Well, it 's a God's blessin' there 's 
a sucker born every minute. I 'm a 
widow and an orphan ^ongside o' that. 
{Throws cards in disgust onto table.) 

{Enter Alice and Helen.) 

Alice. Been losing, Mr. Ellinger? 

Lew. Losing? I just saved lifteen thou- 
sand I was gonta throw 'way like sand in 
a rathole. I 'm a babe eatin' spoon vic- 
tuals and only gettin' half al that. 

{Enter Prentice.) 

Jack. Good-evening. 
Prentice. Good-evening. 

{Shakes hands with Alice and 
Helen.) 
Jack. I stopped at your hotel, Mr. Jus- 
tice, but you were out. 

{Enter Viola.) 

Alice. {Anxiously.) Viola. 
Helen. Where's Clay? 
Viola. Downstairs. Good-evening. 
Prentice. Good-evening. 
Jack. {To others.) Pardon. {To Vi- 
ola.) Did the — gentleman come with 

you? 
Viola. Yes. 

(Lew flutters and shows excitement.) 
Jack. Won't you ask Clay, my dear, to 

take him through the lower hall and into 

the dining-room until I 'm at liberty ? 
Viola. Certainly. {Exit.) 

Prentice. I am keeping you from other 

appointments? 
Jack. Nothing that can't wait. 
Prentice. I am leaving for Washington 

in the morning. 
Jack. We '11 all be at the train to see you 

off. 
Prentice. That 's good, because I should 

like to say good-bye to — to the young 

people — I can see them there — I shan't 

see you then, Mr. Ellinger — 

{Goes to Lew, who stands at card 
table.) 
Lew. Good-bye, Judge — you — you 've 

given me more of a "turn over" than you 

know. 
Prentice. Really? 
Lew. I 'd 'a' saved two hundred thousand 

dollars if I 'd 'a' met you thirty years 

ago. 
Prentice. Well, that's only about six 

thousand a year, is n't it ? 



Lew. That's so — and, damn it, I have 

lived. 

{Smiles — looks dreamily into the past.) 
Prentice. Good-night. {Exit Prentice.) 
Jack. Good-night — good-night. 
'Avce. Is that Hardmuth in there? 
'^''' {Points to dining-room.) 

Jack. Yes. 

Alice. I don't want to see him. 
Jack. Very well, dear, I '11 excuse you. 
Alice. {Going.) Come, Helen. 
Jack. {At door, left.) Come in. {To 

Helen, who is going with Alice.) 

Helen ! I 'd like you to stay. 
Helen. Me? 
Jack. Yes. {Exit Alice.) 

{Enter Clay, Hardmuth, and Viola. 
Viola lays automobile coat on sofa. 
Hardmuth bows to Helen. Helen 
bows.) 

Jack. Your mother has just left us, Vi- 
ola. You 'd better join her. . 

Viola. Very well. 

Jack. {Taking her hand as she passes 
him.) And I want you to know — I ap- 
preciate ver^ much, my dear, your going 
on this errand for me — you 're the right 
stuff. {Kisses her. Exit ViOLA. To 
Hardmuth. ) You 're trying to get 
away? 

Hardmuth. This your note? 

Jack. Yes. 

Hardmuth. You say you '11 help me out 
of the State? 

Jack. I will. 

Hardmuth. When ? 

Jack. Whenever you 're ready. 

Hardmutk. I 'm ready now. 

Jack. Then I '11 help you now. 

Lew. Now ? 

Jack. Yes. 

Helen. Doesn't that render you liable in 
some way. Jack, to the law? 

Jack. Yes — but I 've been liable to the 
law in some way for the last twenty 
years. {To Clay.) You go down and 
tell the chauffeur to leave the machine 
and walk home. I 'm going to run it 
myself and I '11 turn it in. 

Clay. Yes, sir. {Exit.) 

Hardmuth. You 're going to run it your- 
self? 

Jack. Yes. 

Hardmuth. Where to? 

Jack. Across the river, if that 's agree- 
able to you — or any place you name. 

Hardmuth. Is anybody — waiting for you 
— across the river? 



AUGUSTUS THOMAS 



803 



Jack. No. 

Hardmuth. {Again with note.) This is 

all on the level? 
Jack. Completely. 
Lew. Why, I think you mean that. 
Jack. I do. 
Lew. (Aggressively.) But I've got 

something to say, haven't I? 
Jack. I hope not. 
Lew. (Quitting.) If you're in earnest, 

of course. But I don't see your game. 
Jack. I 'm not fully convinced of Mr. 

Hardmuth's guilt. 
Lew. Why, he 's running away ? "^ 

(Enter Clay.) 

Hardmuth. I know what a case they 'd 
make against me, but I'm not guilty in 
any degree. 

Jack. I want to do this thing for you, 
Frank — don't make it too difficult by any 
lying. When I said I wasn't fully con- 
vinced of your guilt, my reservation was 
one you wouldn't understand. (To 
Clay.) He gone? 

Clay. Yes. 

Jack. My coat and goggles? 

Clay. Below in the reception-room. 

Jack. Thank you. I wish now you 'd go 
to Viola and her mother and keep them 
wherever they are. 

Clay. All right. (Exit.) 

Jack. (To Hardmuth.) Hungry? 

(Touches push button.) 

Hardmuth. No, tli^nk you. 

Jack. Got money? 

Hardmuth. Yes. 

(Enter Jo.) 

Jack. Jo, take Mr. Hardmuth below and 

lend him one of the fur coats. (To 

Hardmuth.) I'll join you immediately. 

(Exit Hardmuth with Jo.) 

Helen. What does it all mean. Jack? 

Jack. Lew, I called that ace of hearts, 
didn't I? 

Lew. And the three queens. 

Jack. Because the three queens and the 
ace were in your mind. 

Lew. I don't see any other explanation. 

Jack. Suppose, instead of the cards 
there 'd been in your mind a well- 
developed plan of assassination — the 
picture of a murder — 

Lew. Did you drop to him that way? 



Jack. No. Raynor told me all I know 
of Hardmuth — but here 's the very hell 
of it. Long before Scovill was killed I 
thought he deserved killing and I 
thought it could be done just — as — it- 
was done. 

Helen. Jack ! 

Jack. I never breathed a word of it to a 
living soul, but Hardmuth planned it 
exactly as I dreamed it — and by God, a 
guilty thought is almost as criminal as 
a guilty deed. I 've always had a con- 
siderable influence over that poor devil 
that 's running away to-night, and I 'm 
not sure that before the Judge of both 
of us the guilt is n't mostly mine. 

Helen. That 's morbid, Jack, dear, per- 
fectly morbid. 

Jack. I hope it is — we '11 none of us ever 
know — in this life — but we can all of 
us — (Pause.) 

Lew. What? 

Jack. Live as if it were true. (Change 
of manner to brisk command.) I'm 
going to help him over the line — the 
roads are watched, but the poUce won't 
suspect me and they won't suspect Lew 
— and all the less if there 's a lady with 
us — (To Lew.) Will you go? 

Lew. The limit. 

Jack. Get a heavy coat from Jo. 

Lew. Yes. (Exit.) 

Jack. (Alone with Helen.) You know 
you said I used to be able to make you 
write to me when I was a boy at college ? 

Helen. Yes. 

Jack. And you were a thousand miles 
away — while this fellow — Hardmuth — 
was just at my elbow half the time. 

Helen. It can't help you to brood over it. 

Jack. It can help me to know it, and make 
what amend I can. Will you go with 
me while I put this poor devil over the 
line? 

Helen. (Taking Viola's fur coat.) Yes, 
I '11 go with you. 

Jack. Helen, you stood by your boy in a 
fight for his life. 

Helen. Didn't you? 

Jack. Will you stand by me while I make 
my fight? 

Helen. (Giving her hand.) You've 
made your fight, Jack, and you 've won. 
(Jack kisses her hand, which he rev- 
erently holds in both of his.) 



THE FAITH HEALER 

BY 

William Vaughn Moody 



a 



Copyright, 1909, 1910, by William Vaughn Moody 

All Rights Reserved 

Reprinted by permission of Mrs. Harriet C. Moody and by 
special arrangement with the Houghton MiflQin Company. 



THE FAITH HEALEE 

The Faith Healer represents the drama of revolt, in which the protest of the 
individual is made against the controlling power of social law and custom. Only 
as long as the ' ' Faith Healer ' ' has .confidence in himself does his power survive 
the ever-present disbelief of the world. This drama of revolt found its most 
powerful expression in the work of a group of dramatists to which Mr. Moody, 
Mr. George Cabot Lodge, and, to a certain extent, Mr. Percy MacKaye, belonged. 

"William Vaughn Moody was born at Spencer, Indiana, July 8, 1869, the son 
of Francis Burdette Moody, a steamboat captain, and Henrietta Stoy, to whom 
he pays such an exquisite tribute in ' ' The Daguerreotype. ' ' He was brought up 
in the town of New Albany, Indiana, and after teaching in a neighboring school, 
came east to Riverside Academy, New York, where he also taught while prepar- 
ing to enter Harvard College, from which he graduated in 1893. Having al- 
ready completed his work for the bachelor's degree in 1892 he travelled in Europe 
for a year and then returning to the Graduate School at Harvard University he 
took his master's degree in 1894. After being a member of the Department of 
English at Harvard for a year, he became Instructor in English at the Univer- 
sity of Chicago in 1895 and remained there, as Instructor and Assistant Professor, 
until 1903. Two European trips occurred during this period and Mr. Moody's 
poems, especially the lyrics and the verse plays, show the result of the experi- 
ences encountered in his wanderings. Notwithstanding his success as a teacher 
and lecturer, he gave up active work at the University of Chicago after 1902, 
retaining merely a nominal connection with the English department. He felt 
that his best work was to be done as a poet and to do that work well he must 
have freedom from academic drudgery. His History of English Literature writ- 
ten in collaboration with Robert M. Lovett, and the publications of which 
he was editor, served simply to provide him with the means to devote himself to 
poetry. Already he had become recognized through his poems on public affairs, 
such as the "Ode in Time of Hesitation," as one of the foremost of American 
poets, and though his first volume, published in 1902, contained only a small 
number of poems, this was due to his capacity for selection rather than to lack 
of inspiration. 

Mr. Moody 's early death, which occurred at Colorado Springs, October 17, 
1910, cut short his career just as his work was reaching its best development. 
His lyrics are exquisite and at times magnificent in their phrasing. In the poems 
on public affairs he expresses true patriotism and concern for his country's fidel- 
ity to her ideals. In his love poetry he shows deep insight into the emotional 

807 



SOS INTRODUCTION 



pliases of life. Besides the lyrics he had to his credit the verse dramas, and the 
prose plays with which his widest public notice came. The Fire Bringer, which 
celebrated the sacrifice of Prometheus in bringing fire to mankind ; The Masque 
of Judgment, which had for its theme the conquest of all things by the serpent; 
and the incomplete fragment, The Death of Eve, were to have formed a trilogy 
in which the relations of God and man were to have been developed dramatically, 
according to the modern doctrine of revolt. The plays in verse show the influ- 
ence of the Greek drama, and, as is the case with all Mr. Moody's work, the 
influence of Puritanism and the reaction against it. The Fire Bringer was 
written with the idea of actual stage production. 

As early as 1898 Mr. Moody had begun to think of the theme of a faith healer 
as a fit subject for a play, which at first he planned to write in verse. He put 
aside this theme for a time, however, to write The Great Divide, which was per- 
formed first under the title of The Saline ^Yoman by .Miss Margaret Anglin in 
Chicago, ]\Iarch, 1906. It was afterward played at the Princess Theatre, New 
York, in October, 1906, by j\Ir. Henry ]\Iiller and Miss Anglin and had a long run 
there and throughout the United States. In September, 1909, it w^as produced 
for a short run at the Adelphi Theatre in London. The Great Divide portrayed 
the conflict of the ideals of Puritanism, with its capacity of self-torture, and the 
freer conceptions of life prevalent in the West. 

The Faith Healer w^as first played in St. Louis on jMarch 15, 1909. It was 
put on at the Savoy Theatre, New York, January 19, 1910, and was played at 
Cambridge, Massachusetts, on January 24, 1910. It was not a popular success 
but it is a significant play. The situation is dramatic and the handling con- 
vincing, while the native quality of the play is apparent. The struggle which 
is the essential part of every drama occurs here between human love and the 
dedication to a purpose and is only incidentally associated with the religious 
type. The obvious means of ending the struggle would have been to have "The 
Healer" either renounce love for his dedicated purpose or renounce the purpose 
in favor of his love. ]\Ir. JMoody w^ith a finer art shows in the play that love 
and work are not necessarily irreconcilable interests and that by substituting 
for the selfishness of a personal claim the more impersonal and unselfish type of 
love, the hero could make a resolution of his problem which included every as- 
pect of a man's life. 

The most convenient form in w^hich to read ]\Ir. Moody's work is in the com- 
plete edition, the Poems and Plays of William Vaughn Moodij, in two volumes, 
published by the Houghton, IMifflin Company in 1912. This edition contains a 
study of Mr. Moody's work and a brief biography by Professor John M. ^Manly, 
to whom the present editor acknowledges his indebtedness. The separate pub- 
licatioji? of Mr. Moody include The Masque of Judgment (1900), Poems (1902); 



INTRODUCTION 800 



The Fire Bringer (1904), The Great Divide (1909)^ and The Faith Healer 
(1909) and (1910). An interesting volume entitled Some Letters of William 
Vaughn Moody, edited by Daniel E. Mason, was published in 1913. For gen- 
eral criticism of Moody's work, see articles by N. 0. Barr, The Lyrist and Lyric 
Dramatist, and by C. H. Caffin, The Dramatist, in The Drama, No. 2, May, 1911. 
For criticism of The Faith Healer see The Nation, vol. 88, pp. 175-76, Feb., 
1909, Hampton's Magazine, Vol. 24, pp. 561-65, April, 1910. Criticism of The 
Great Divide is found in The Nation, Vol. 89, p. 387, October, 1909, and by B. R. 
Hertz in The Forum, vol. 43, pp. 90-92, Jan., 1910. 

Mrs. Moody has kindly revised the text of the edition of 1912 for the present 
editor, who gratefully acknowledges her courtesy in obtaining for him the right 
to reprint the play and for valuable biographical information. 



THE ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS 

St. Louis, March 15, 1909 

Ulrich Michaelis Mr. Henry Miller 

Matthew Beeler Mr. William J. Butler 

Mary Beeler, his wife Miss Gertrude Berkeley 

Martha Beeler, his sister Miss Lillian Dix 

Annie Beeler, his daughter Miss Gladys Heulette 

Rhoda Williams, Mrs. Beeler 's niece Miss Thais Lawton 

Dr. George Littlefield Mr. George Saule Spencer 

Rev. John Culpepper Mr. Henry Hanscombe 

Uncle Abe, an old negro Mr. James Kirkwood 

Lazarus, an Indian boy Mr. Henry B. Walthall 

A Young Mother with Her Child Miss Laura Hope Crews 

Various sick people and others attendant upon them. 



THE FAITH HEALER 



ACT FIRST. 

A large old-fashioned room in Matthew 
Beeler's farm-house, near a small town 
in the Middle West. The room is used 
for dining and for general living pur- 
poses. It suggests, in architecture and 
furnishings, a past of considerable pros- 
perity, which has noiv given place to 
more humble living. The house is, in 
fact, the ancestral home of Mr. Beeler's 
wife, Mary, born Beardsley, a famihj of 
the local farming aristocracy, now de- 
cayed. At the rear is a large douhle 
window, set in a broad alcove. To the 
right of the window is the entrance door, 
which opens upon the side yard, showing 
bushes, trees, and farm buildings. 

In the right wall of the room a door and 
covered stairway lead to the upper story. 
Farther forward is a wall cupboard, and 
a door leading into the kitchen. Oppo- 
site this cupboard- in the left-hand wall 
of the room, is a mantel-piece and grate ; 
farther back a double door, leading to a 
hall. Off the hall open two bedrooms 
{not seen), one belonging to ]\Ir. and 
Mrs. Beeler, the other to Rhoda Wil- 
liams, a niece of Mrs. Beeler, child of 
her dead sister. 

The room contains, among other articles of 
furniture, a dining table {with detach- 
able leaves to reduce its bulk when not 
in use for eating purposes) , an invalid's 
wheel-chair, a low sofa of generous size, 
and a book-shelf, upon which are ar- 
ranged the scientific books which Mr. 
Beeler takes a somewhat untutored but 
genuine delight in. Tacked upon the 
wall near by are portraits of scientific 
men, Darwin and Spencer conspicuous 
among them, cut from periodicals. 
Other pictures, including family daguer- 
reotypes and photographs, are variously 
distributed about the walls. Over the 
mantel shelf hangs a large map of the 
United States and Mexico, faded and 
fly-specked. 

As the curtain rises, the room is dark, ex- 
cept for a dull fire in the grate. The 
tickina of the clock is heard: it strikes 



six. Martha Beeler^ a woman of for- 
ty-five, enters from the kitchen, carrying 
a lighted lamp. She wears a shawl over 
her shoulders, a print dress, and a kitchen 
apron. She places the lamp on the 
table, which is set for breakfast, and 
puts coal on the grate, which soon flames 
more brightly. 
Site goes into the hall and is heard knocking 
and calling. 

Martha. Rhody! Rhody! (IVIatthew 
Beeler, a man of fifty, enters. He is 
yiot quite dressed, but finishes as he comes 
in. Martha follows him.) Where's 
that niece of yours got to now? 

Beeler. She 's helping Mary dress. 

Martha. What in time 's Mary gettin' np 
for? She's only in the way till the 
work 's done. 

Beeler. She's restless. 

Martha. {Significantly.) I shouldn't 
wonder. {Pause.) I hope you know 
why Mary did n't sleep. 

Beeler. {Evasively.) She's always been 
a light sleeper, since she got her stroke. 

Martha. Look here, Mat Beelor! I'm 
your bom sister. Don't try to fool me! 
You know why your wife didn't sleep 
last night. 

Beeler. Maybe I do, Sis. {Points to the 
ceiling.) Is he up yet? 

IMartha. Up ! I don't believe he 's been 
abed. {They listen, as to the tread of 
some one on the fioor above.) Back and 
forth, like a tiger in a cage! 

Beeler. {Shrugs.) Queer customer. 

Martha. Yes. {Imitates him.) "Queer 
customer," that 's you. But come to 
doin' anything about it! 

Beeler. Give me time, Sis, give me time! 

Martha. How much time do you want? 
He 's been in this house since Wednes- 
day night, and this is Saturday morn- 
ing. 

Beeler. Well, he 's payin' his board, ain't 
he? {At window, rolls up curtain.) 
Goin' to have just such another day as 
yesterday. Never seen such a fog. 

Martha. Never seen such a fog, eh? 
{Comes nearer and speaks mysteriously.) 



^n 



81: 



THE FAITH HEALER 



Did you happen to notice how long that 
t'oj»' lias been hangni' over this house"? 

Beeler. How long? Why, since Thurs- 
day. 

Martha. No, sir, since Wednesday night. 

Beeler. {Looking at her, astonished.) 
Martha Beeler! You don't mean to say 
— he brought the fog? {She jounces 
out icithout answering. He lights lan- 
tern, with dubious head-shaking, and 
holds it up before the print portraits.) 
Mornin', Mr. Darwin. Same to you, Mr. 
Spencer. Still keepin' thing's straight? 
{Grunts as he turns down his lantern, 
which is smoking.) I guess not very. 

{The hall door again opens, and Rhoda 
Williams, a girl of twenty, enters, with 
Annie Beeler, a child of ten. Rhoda 
is running, with Annie in laughing pur- 
suit. ) 

Rhoda. {Taking refuge behind the table.) 
King's X! 

Annie. {Catching her.) You did n't have 
your fingers crossed. 

Rhoda. {Turning Annie about, and be- 
ginning to button the child's long slip.) 
And you didn't have your dress but- 
toned. 

Anxie. That does n't count. 

Rhoda. Yes, it does, before breakfast! 

Beeler. {At the outer door.) How does 
your aunt strike you this morning? 

Rhoda. {Sobered.) She seems wonder- 
fully better. 

Beeler. Better! 

Rhoda. I don't mean her poor body. 
She 's got past caring for that. 

Beeler. {With sarcasm.) You mean in 
her mind, eh? 

Rhoda. Yes, I mean better in her mind. 

Beeler. Because of what this fellow has 
been sayin' to her, I suppose. 

Rhoda. Yes, because of that. 

Beeler. {As he puts on an old fur cap.) 
An out-and-out fakir! 

Rhoda. You don't know him. 

Beeler. I suppose you do, after forty- 
eight hours. What in the name of non- 
sense is he, anyway? And this deaf and 
dumb Indian boy he drags around with 
him. What's his part in the show? 

Rhoda. I know very little about either of 
them. But I know Mr. Michaelis is not 
— what you say. 

Beeler. Well, he 's a crank at the best of 
it. He 's worked your aunt up now so 's 
she can't sleep. You brought him here, 
and you 've got to get rid of him. {Exit 



by outer door, with inarticulate grum- 
blings, among which can be distin- 
guished.) Hump! Ulrich Michaelis! 
There 's a name for you. 
Annie. What's a fakir? (Rhoda does 
not answer.) Cousin Rho, what's a 
fakir? 
Rhoda. {Humoring her.) A man, way 
off on the other side of the world, in 
India, who does strange things. 
Annie. What kind of things? 
Rhoda. Well, for instance, he throws a 
rope up in the air, right up in the empty 
air, with nothing for it to catch on, and 
then — he — climbs — up — the — rope ! 
Annie. Don't he fall? 

(Rhoda shakes her head in portentous 
negation. Steps are heard descend- 
ing the stairs. The child fidgets 
nervously.) 
Annie. Listen! He 's coming down ! 
Rhoda. Yes, he 's coming down, right out 

of the blue sky. 
Annie. {In a panic.) Let me go. 

{She breaks away and retreats to the 
hall door, watching the stair door 
open, and Ulrich Michaelis ew- 
ter. Thereupon, with a glance of 
frightened curiosity, she flees. Mi- 
chaelis is a man of twenty-eight or 
thirty, and his dark, emaciated face, 
wrinkled by sun and wind, looks 
older. His abundant hair is worn 
longer than common. His frame, 
though slight, is powerful, and his 
way of handling himself has the 
freedom and largeness which come 
from much open-air life. There is 
nevertheless something nervous and 
restless in his movements. He has 
a trick of handling thiyigs, putting 
them down only to take them up 
again immediately, before renounc- 
ing them for good. His face shows 
the effect of sleeplessness, and his 
gray flannel shirt and dark, coarse 
clothing are rumpled and neglected.) 
Rhoda. {As he enters.) Good morning. 
Michaelis: ( Watching Annie's retreat.) 

Is — is that child afraid of me? 
Rhoda. {As she adds the finishing touches 
to the breakfast table.) Oh, Annie's a 
queer little body. She has her mother's 
nerves. And then she sees no one, living 
here on the back road. If this dreadful 
fog ever lifts, you '11 see that, though 
we 're quite near town, it 's almost as if 
we were in the wilderness. {The stair 
door opens, and an Indian boy, about 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



813 



sixteen years old, enters. He is dressed 
in ordinary clothes; his dark skin, long- 
ish hair, and the noiseless tread of his 
moccasined feet, are the only suggestions 
of his race. He hows to Rhoda, who re- 
turns his salutation ; then, with a glance 
at MiCHAELis, he goes out doors. Rhoda 
nods toward the closing door.) It 's 
really him Annie 's afraid of. He ^s like 
a creature from another world, to 
her. 

MiCHAELis. {Looks at her in an odd, star- 
tled way.) Another world? 

Rhoda. Oh, you 're used to his people. 
Your father was a missionary to the In- 
dians, you told me. 

MiCHAELis. Yes. 

Rhoda. Where"? 

MiCHAELis. At Acoma. 

Rhoda. Where is that? 

MiCHAELis. {Standing near the wall map, 
touches- It.) In New Mexico, by the 
map. 

Rhoda. {Comes nearer.) What is it like ? 

MiCHAELis. It's — as you say — another 
world. 

Rhoda. Describe it to me. 

MiCHAELis. I couldn't make you see it. 
It's — centuries and centuries from our 
time. — And since I came here, since I en- 
tered this house, it has seemed centuries 
away from my own life. 

Rhoda. My life has seemed far off, too — 
my old life — 

MiCHAELis. What do you mean by your 
old life? 

Rhoda. {She breaks out impulsively.) I 
mean — I mean — . Three days ago I was 
like one dead ! I walked and ate and did 
my daily tasks, but — I wondered some- 
times why people didn't see that I was 
dead, and scream at me. 

MiCHAELis. It was three days ago that I 
first saw you. 

Rhoda. Yes. 

MiCHAELis. Three nights ago, out there in 
the moonlit country. 

Rhoda. Yes. 

MiCHAELis. You were unhappy, then? 

Rhoda. The dead are not unhappy, and I 
was as one dead. 

MiCHAELis. Why was that? 

Rhoda. I think we die more than once 
when things are too hard and too bitter. 

MiCHAELis. Have things here been hard 
and bitter? 

Rhoda. No. All that was before I came 
here! But it had left me feeling — . 
The other uight, as I walked through the 



streets of the town, the people seemed 
like ghosts 'to me, and I myself like a 
ghost. 
MiCHAELis. I cannot think of you as any- 
thing but glad and free. 
Rhoda. When you met me on the road, 
and walked home with me, and said those 
few words, it was as if, all of a sudden, 
the dead dream was shattered, and I be- 
gan once more to live. {Bell rings.) 
That is Aunt Mary's bell 

(Rhoda goes out hy the hall door, 
wheeling the invalid chair. Martha 
enters from the kitchen, carrying a 
steaming coffee-pot and a platter of 
smoking meat, which she places on 
the table. Michaelis bows to her.) 
Martha. {Snappishly.) Hope you slept 
well ! 

{She goes to the outer door, rings the 
breakfast bell loudly, and exit to 
kitchen. Rhoda enters, wheeling 
Mrs. Beeler in an invalid chair. 
Mrs. Beeler is a woman of forty, 
slight of body, with hair just be- 
ginning to silver. Her face has the 
curious refinement which physical 
suffering sometimes brings. Annie 
lingers at the door, looking timidly 
at Michaelis, as he approaches Mrs. 
Beeler and takes her hand from the 
arm of the chair.) 
Michaelis. You are better? 
Mrs. Beeler. {Speaks with loiu intensity.) 
Much, much better. 

{He puts her hand gently back on the 
chair arm. Martha enters with 
other dishes. She pours out coffee, 
putting a cup at each plate. Mr. 
Beeler has entered from the kitchen, 
and the boy from outside. Beeler, 
with a glance of annoyance at his 
wife and Michaelis, sits down at 
the head of the table. Rhoda 
pushes Mrs. Beeler's chair to the 
foot of the table and stands feeding 
her, eating her own breakfast mean^ 
while. 
(Michaelis sits at Mrs. Beeler's 
right, Martha opposite. At Mr. 
Beeler's right is the Indian boy, at 
his left Annie's vacant chair, 
Martha beckons to Annie to come 
to the table, but the child, eyeing 
the strangers, refuses, taking a chair 
behind her mother by the mantel- 
piece. Mrs. Beeler speaks after 
the meal has progressed for some 
time in silence.) 



814 



THE FAITH HEALER 



Mrs. Beeler. Mat, you have n't said good 

morning to our g-uest. 
Beeler. {Gruffly.) How are you*? 

{He helps himself to meat and passes 
it to the others; the plate goes round 
the table. There is a constrained si- 
lence. Annie tugs at Rhoda's skirt, 
and asks in dumb show to have her 
breakfast given her. Rhoda fills the 
child's plate, with which she retreats 
to her place by the mantel.) 
Mrs. Beeler. Why does n't Annie come to 
the table*? {She tries to look around. 
Rhoda whispers to Mrs. Beeler, ivho 
looks at her, puzzled.) Why doesn't 
Annie come? 
Rhoda. She's afraid. 
Mrs. Beeler. Afraid! What is she 

afraid of? 
Rhoda. You know how shy she is, before 

strangers. 
Mrs. Beeler. Annie, please come here! 
Annie ! 

{The child refuses, pouting, and gazing 
at Michaelis.) 
Rhoda. I would n't urge her. She 

does n't want to come. 
Martha. {Trenchantly.) Don't blame 

her! 
Mrs. Beeler. {Gently reproving.) Mar- 
tha! 
Michaelis. {Holding out his hand to 
Annie.) Won't you come here, my 
child? (Annie approaches sloivly, as if 
hypnotized.) You're not afraid of me, 
are you? 
Annie. {Shyly.) Not if you won't climb 

up the rope. 
Michaelis. {Puzzled.) Climb up what 

rope? 
Rhoda. It 's a story I was foolish enough 
to tell her. — Do eat something, Auntie. 
Mrs Beeler. I '11 drink a little more 
tea. 

(Rhoda raises the cup to Mrs. Bee- 
ler's lips.) 
Beeler. You can't live on tea, Mary. 
Martha. I guess she can live on tea bet- 
ter than on some things! {With a re- 
sentful glance at Michaelis.) Some 
things that some folks seem to live on, 
and expect other folks to live on. 

(Michaelis looks up from Annie, 
who has been whispering in his ear. 
Beeler nods at Martha in covert 
approval, as she takes up dishes and 
goes into the kitchen.) 
Mrs. Beeler. (Leans forward across the 
table to Michaelis.) Don't mind my 



sister-in-law, Mr. Michaelis. It's her 
way. She means nothing by it 
Beeler. {Between gulps of coffee, as he 
finishes his meal.) Don't know as you 've 
got any call to speak for Martha. She 
generally means what she says, and I 
guess she means it now. And what's 
more, I guess I do, too! 
Mrs. Beeler. {Beseechingly.) Mat! 
Beeler. {Throws down his napkin and 
rises.) Very well. It's none of my 
business, I reckon, as long as it keeps 
within reason. 

{He puts on his cap and goes out 
through the kitchen.) 
Annie. {To Michaelis, oontinuing the 
whispered conversation.) And if you do 
climb up the rope, do you promise to 
come down? 
Michaelis. Yes, I promise to come down. 
Mrs. Beeler. {Leans over her plate. 
The others bow their heads.) Bless this 
food to our use, and this day to our 
strength and our salvation. 
Rhoda. {As they lift their heads.) Per- 
haps it will be light enough now without 
the lamp. 

(Michaelis, holding Annie's hand, 
rises, goes to the window, and rolls 
up the shades, while Rhoda extin- 
guishes the lamp. The fog is still 
thick, and the light which enters is 
dull. Rhoda unpins the napkin 
from her aunt's breast, and wheels 
her back from the table. The boy 
crouches down by the grate, Indian 
fashion. Annie looks at him with 
shy, half-frightened interest.) 
Mrs. Beeler. {Gazing out, from where 
she sits reclining. ) The blessed sun ! I 
never thought to see it rise again so beau- 
tiful. 
Rhoda. {Looks at her aunt, puzzled and 
alarmed.) But, Auntie, there isn't any 
sun ! It 's — 

{She breaks of, seeing Michaelis 
place his fingers on his lips as a sig- 
nal for her to be silent. Mrs. 
Beeler turns to Rhoda, puzzled.) 
Mrs. Beeler. There isn't any sun? 
Why — (Rhoda pretends not to hear. 
Mrs. Beeler turns to Michaelis.) 
What does she mean by saying there is 
no sun? 
Michaelis. She means she doesn't see it. 
Mrs. Beeler. {Still puzzled.) But — you 

see it, don't you? 
Michaelis. I see the same sun that you 
see, 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



815 



Mrs. Beeler. {Looks again at Rhoda, 
then dismisses her wonderment, and looks 
out at the window dreamily.) Another 
day — and to-morrow the best of all the 
days of the year. 

AxxiE. What day is to-morrow? {She 
leaves Michaelis and comes to her 
mother's side.) What day is to-morrow? 

Mrs. Beeler. {With exultation in her 
voice.) My child, to-morrow is the -most 
wonderful and the most beautiful day of 
all the year. The day when — all over 
the whole world — there is singing in the 
air, and everything rises into new life 
and happmess. 

AxxiE. {Fretfully.) Mamma, I don't 
understand! What day is to-morrow? 

Mrs. Beeler. To-morrow is Easter. 

AxxiE. {With sudden interest.) Easter! 
Can I have some eggs to color? 

Mrs. Beeler. Ask Aunt Martha. 

AxxiE. {Singsong^ as she skips out.) 
Eggs to color! Eggs to color! 

(Rhoda has meanwhile fetched a large 
tray from the cupboard 'and has 
been piling the dishes noiselessly 
upon it.) 

Rhoda. Shall I wheel you in, Aunt Mary? 

Mrs. Beeler. Yes, please. (Rhoda 
wheels the chair toward the hall door, 
which Michaelis opens. Mrs. Beeler 
ga^es at him as she passes.) Will you 
come in soon, and sit with me? There 
is so much that I want to hear. 

Michaelis. Whenever you are ready. 

Mrs. Beeler. I will ring my bell. 

{As they go out, Martha hustles in, 
gathers up the dish tray and is about 
to depart, ivith a vindictive look. 
At the door she turns, and jerks her 
head toward the boy.) 

Martha. Is it against the law to work 
where he comes from? 

Michaelis. {Abstractedly.) What? — 
No. 

Martha. Then he might as well do me 
some chores. Not but right, payin' only 
half board. 

Michaelis. {To the boy.) Do whatever 
she tells you. {The boy follows Martha 
out. Michaelis stands by the window 
in thought. As Rhoda reenters, he looks 
up. He speaks significantly, with sup- 
pressed excitement.) She saw the sun! 

Rhoda. Poor dear Auntie! 

Michaelis. You pity her? 

Rhoda. {After an instant's silence, dur- 
ing which she ponders her reply.) I 
think I envy her. 



{She removes the cloth from the table, 
and begins deftly to put the room in 
order. Michaelis watches her with 
a kind of vague intentness.) 

Michaelis. How long did you say she 
had been sick? 

Rhoda. More than four years — nearly 
five. 

Michaelis. She has never walked in that 
time? 

Rhoda. {Shakes her head.) Nor used her 
right hand, either. 

Michaelis. {With intensity.) Are you 
certain? 

Rhoda. {Surprised at his tone.) Yes — 
I haven't lived here long, but I am 
certain. 

Michaelis. She has tried medicine, doc- 
tors? 

Rhoda. Uncle has spent everything he 
could earn on them. She has been three 
times to the mmeral baths, once as far as 
Virginia. 

Michaelis. But never as far as Bethesda ? 

Rhoda. Bethesda? Where is that? 

Michaelis. The pool, which is called 
Bethesda, having five porches. 

Rhoda. Oh, yes. The pool in the Bible, 
where once a year an angel troubled the 
waters, and the sick and the lame and 
the blind gathered, hoping to be healed. 

Michaelis. And whoever first, after the 
troubling of the waters, stepped in, he 
was made whole of whatsoever disease he 
had. 

Rhoda. If anybody could find the way 
there again, it would be Aunt Mary. 
{Pause.) And if anybody could show 
her the way it would be — you. {She 
goes on in a different tone, as if to es- 
cape from the embarrassment of her last 
speech.) Her saying just now she saw 
the sun. She often says things like that. 
Have you noticed? 

Michaelis. Yes. 

Rhoda. {With hesitation.) Her brother 
Seth — the one w-ho died — has she told you 
about him? 

Michaelis. Yes. 

Rhoda. What she thinks happens — since 
— he died? (Michaelis nods assent.) 
And yet in most other ways her mind is 
perfectly clear. 

Michaelis. Perhaps in this way it is 
clearer still. 

Rhoda. {Startled.) You mean — that 
maybe she really does — see her brother? 

LIiCHAELis. It may be. 

Rhoda, It would make the world a very 



816 



THE FAITH HEALER 



different — a very strange place, if that 
were true. 

MiCHAELis. The world is a very strange 
place. {Pause.) 

Rhoda. Tell me a little about your life. 
That seems to have been very strange. 

MiCHAELis. {Vaguely, as he seats him- 
self by the table.) I don't know. I can 
hardly remember what my life was. 

Rhoda. Why is that? 

MiCHAELis. {Gazing at her.) Because, 
since I came into this house, I have seen 
the vision of another life. 

Rhoda. {With hesitation.) What — other 
life? 

MiCHAELis. Since my boyhood I have 
been — {He hesitates.) I have been a 
wanderer, almost a fugitive — . And I 
never knew it, till now — I never knew it 
till — I looked into your face! 

Rhoda. {Avoiding his gaze.) How 
should that make you know? 

MiCHAELis. {Leans nearer.) All my life 
long I have walked in the light of some- 
thing to come, some labor, some mission, 
I have scarcely known what — but I have 
risen with it and lain down with it, and 
nothing else has existed for me. — Noth- 
ing, until — I lifted my eyes and you 
stood there. The stars looked down from 
their places, the earth wheeled on among 
the stars. Everything was as it had 
been, and nothing was as it had been; 
nor ever, ever can it be the same again. 

Rhoda. {In a low and agitated voice.) 
You must not say these things to me. 
You are — I am not — . You must not 
think of me so. 

^IiCHAELis. I must think of you as I must. 
{Pause. Rhoda speaks in a lighter 
tone, as if to relieve the tension of 
their last words.) 

Rhoda. Tell me a little of your boyhood. — 
What was it like — that place where you 
lived? 

MiCHAELis. {Becomes absorbed in his own 
mental pictures as he speaks.) A great 
table of stone, rising live hundred feet 
out of the endless waste of sand. A lit- 
tle adobe house, halfway up the mesa, 
with the desert far below and the Indian 
village far above. A few peach trees, 
and a spring — a sacred spring, which the 
Indians worshipped in secret. A little 
chapel, which my father had built with 
his own hands. lie often spent the night 
there, praying. And there, one night, he 
died. I found him in the morning, lying 
as if in quiet prayer before the altar, 



you 



Rhoda. {After a momenfs hush.) What 
did you do after your father died? 

MiCHAELis. I went away south, into the 
mountains, and got work on a sheep 
range. I was a shepherd for five years. 

Rhoda. And since then? 

MiCHAELis. {Hesitates.) Since then I 
have — wandered about, working here and 
there to earn enough to live on. 

Rhoda. I understand well why men take 
up that life. I should love it myself. 

MiCHAELis. I did n't do it because I loved 
it. 

Rhoda. Why, then? 

MiCHAELis. I was waiting my time. 

Rhoda. {In a low tone.) Your time — for 
what ? 

MiCHAELis, To fulfil my life — my real 
life. 

Rhoda. Your — real life? {He sits ab- 
sorbed in thought without answering. 
Rhoda continues, after a long pause.) 
There in the mountains, when you were 
a shepherd — that was not your real 
life? 

MiCHAELis. It was the beginning of it. 

Rhoda. {With hesitation.) Won't 
tell me a little about that time? 

MiCHAELis. In the fall I would drive the 
sheep south, through the great basin 
which sloped down into Mexico, and in 
the spring back again to the mountains. 

Rhoda. Were you all alone ? 

MiCHAELis. There were a few men on the 
ranges, but they were no more to me than 
the sheep — not so much. 

Rhoda. Weren't you dreadfully lonely? 

MiCHAELis. No. 

Rhoda. You had n't even any books to 
read? 

MiCHAELis. {Takes a book from his coat 
pocket.) I had this pocket Bible, that 
had been my father's, I read that some- 
times. But always in a dream, without 
understanding, without remembering. 
{His excitement increases.) Yet there 
came a time when whole chapters started 
up in my mind, as plain as if the printed 
page were before me, and I understood 
it all, both the outer meaning and the 
inner. 

Rhoda. And you did n't know what madfc 
the difference? 

MiCHAELis. Yes. 

Rhoda. What was it? 

]\IiciiAELis. I can't tell you that. 

Rhoda. Oh, yes I 

MiCHAELis. There are no words to tell 
of it 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



817 



Rhoda. Yet tell me. I need to know. 
Believe me, I need to know ! 

MiCHAELis. {Slowly, groping for his 
words.) It was one morning in the 
fourth spring. We were back in the 
mountains again. It was lambing time, 
and I had been up all night. Just be- 
fore sunrise, I sat down on a rock to 
rest. Then — it came. 

Rhoda. What came*? {He does not an- 
swer.) You saw something? {He 'nods 
for yes.) What was if? 

MiCHAELis. {Rises, lifting his arms, a 
prey to uncontrollahle excitement.) The 
living Christ! — Standing before me on 
the mountain, amid the grazing sheep. — 
With these eyes and in this flesh, I saw 
Him. {Long pause.) 

Rhoda. {In a low tone.) You had fallen 
asleep. It was a dream. 

MiCHAELis. {Shakes his head in nega- 
tion.) That wasn't all. 

{He turns away. She follows him, and 
speaks after a silence.) 

Rhoda. Tell me the rest. What hap- 
pened to you, after — after what you saw 
— that morning in the mountains'? 

MiCHAELis. {Begins to talk slowly and re- 
luctantly.) I lived straight ahead, with 
the sheep for two years. 

Rhoda. {Hesitating.) Did you ever see 
anything again '? 

MiCHAELis. No. — But twice — I heard a 
voice. 

Rhoda. What kind of a voice? 

MiCHAELis. The first time it came at night. 
I was walking on the top of the moun- 
tain, in a stony place. It — it was like 
a wind among the stones. 

Rhoda. What did it say? 

MiCHAELis. It said, "Prepare! Pre- 



pare 



I" 



Rhoda. And the second time? 

MiCHAELis. In the same place, at dawn. 
The voice said, "Go forth, it is finished !" 
I looked round me and saw nothing. 
Then it came again, like a wind among 
the stones, "Go forth, it is begun !" 

Rhoda. And you obeyed? 

MiCHAELis. I found a man to take my 
place, and started north. Three days 
after, I climbed the mesa toward my old 
home. Above, in the pueblo, I heard the 
sound of tom-toms and wailing squaws. 
They told me that the young son of the 
chief lay dead in my father's chapel. I 
sat beside him all day and all night. 
Just before daylight — 

{He breaks off abruptly.) 



Rhoda. Go pn! 

MiCHAELis. Just before daylight, when 
the other watchers were asleep, the power 
of the spirit came strong upon me, I 
bowed myself upon the boy's body, and 
prayed. My heart burned within me, 
for I felt his heart begin to beat! His 
eyes opened. I told him to arise, and he 
arose. He that was dead arose and was 
alive again! 

{Pause. Mrs. Beeler's bell rings. 
MiCHAELis starts, looks about him 
as if awakened from a dream, then 
slowly goes toward the hall door. 
Rhoda follows and detains him.) 
Rhoda. {In a low tone.) How long had 

he lain — for dead? 
MiCHAELis. Three days. 
Rhoda. {With hesitation.) I have heard 
that people have lain as long as that in 
a trance, breathing so lightly that it 
could not be told, except by holding a 
glass before the face. 
MiCHAELis. {Startled.) Is that true? 
Rhoda. I have read so. 
MiCHAELis. I wonder — I wonder. {He 
stands in deep thought.) But I have 
had other signs. 
Rpioda. What other signs? 
MiCHAELis. Many, many. Up and down 
the land! {Pause.) I wonder. — I — I 
almost wish it were so ! 

{With bent head he goes out. Rhoda 

stands looking after him until the 

inner door closes, then sits before 

the fire in revery. Beeler comes in 

from the barn. He wears his old 

fur cap, and holds in one hand a 

bulky Sunday newspaper, in the 

other some battered harness, an awl, 

twine, and wax, which he deposits on 

the window seat. He lays the paper 

on the table, and unfolds from it a 

large colored print, which he holds 

up and looks at with relish.) 

Beeler. These Sunday papers do get up 

fine supplements. I wouldn't take 

money for that picture. 

Rhoda. {Looks at it absently.) What 

does it mean? 
Beeler. {Beads.) "Pan and the Pil- 
grim." Guess you never heard of Pan, 
did you? 
Rhoda. Yes. One of the old heathen 

gods. 
Beeler. Call him heathen if you like! 
The folks that worshipped him thought 
he was orthodox, I guess. 

{He pins up the print, which repre- 



818 



THE FAITH HEALER 



sents a palmer of crusading times 
surprised in the midst of a forest by 
the god Pan.) 

Rhoda. What does the picture mean? 

Beeler. Well, Pan there, he was a kind of 
a nature god. The old Romans thought 
him out, to stand for a lot of things. 

Rhoda. What kind of things'? 

Beeler. Natural things, with plenty of 
sap and mischief in 'em. Growin' plants, 
and frisky animals, and young folks in 
love. {He points to the figure of Pan, 
then to the Pilgrim, as he talks.) There 
he sits playin' Jeniiy-come-kiss-me on 
his dod-gasted mouth-organ, when along 
comes one of them fellows out of a 

- monastery, with religion on the brain. 
Pikin' for Jerusalem, to get a saint's toe- 
nail and a splinter of the true cross. 
(Martha enters from the kitchen and 
potters about the room ^'redding up.") 
Look at him! Do you think he'll ever 
get to Jerusalem"? Not this trip! He 
hears the pipes o' Pan. He hears women 
eallin' and fiddles squeakin' love-tunes in 
the woods. It '11 take more than a 
monk's robe on his back and a shaved head 
on his shoulders to keep him straight, 
I reckon. He '11 call to mind that 
young fellows had blood in their veins 
when Adam was a farmer, and whoop-la ! 
he '11 be oft' to the county fair, to dance 
ring-around-a-rosy w^ith Matildy Jane! 
{Pause, as he takes of his cap and lights 
his pipe.) Like to see our friend Mi- 
chaelis meet up with Mr. Pan. Don't 
believe Michaelis ever looked cross-eyed 
at a girl. {He examines Rhoda quiz- 
zicallij.) You wouldn't make up bad as 
Matildy Jane yourself, Rho, but sufferin' 
Job, he can't tell the difference between 
crow's feet and dimples! 

Martha. Don't you be so sure! 

Beeler. Hello! Dan'el come to judg- 
ment! Never seen an old maid yet that 
could n't squeeze a love story out of a 
flaf-iron. 

Martha. I may be an old maid, and you 

may be an old wind-bag, but I 've got 

eyes in my head. {To Rhoda.) Where 

did you meet up with him, anyway? 

(Rhoda, plunged in thought, does not 

answer.) 

Beeler. Wake up, Rhody ! Marthy asked 
you where you met up with our new 
boarder, 

Rhoda. On the road, coming home from 
the village. 

Beelee_ What made you bring him here? 



Rhoda, He wanted a quiet place to stay, 
and this was the best I knew. 

Martha. Guess it was ! — A snap for him. 

{She goes out by the hall door.) 

(Rhoda rises, takes the lamp off the 

mantel, and during the following 

cleans and refills it.) 

Beeler. {xis he takes off his coat, and 
hangs it up.) Rhody, ain't this religious 
business rather a new thing with you? 
Up there in St. Louis, did n't go in for it 
much up there, did you? 

Rhoda. {Looks at him quickly.) Why do 
you ask that? 

Beeler. Oh, I gathered, from things I 
heard, that you eared more about dancin' 
than about prayin', up there. {She turns 
away.) That yomig fellow that was so 
sweet on you in St, Louis year before 
last, he wa' n't much in the psalm-singin' 
line, was he? 

Rhoda. {Startled and pale.) Who told 
you about him? 

Beeler. Oh, Mary's friends, the Hig- 
ginses, used to write us about your af- 
fairs. We thought it would be a 
hitch-up, sure as shootin'. Studyin' to 
be a doctor, wasn't he? 

Rhoda. L^ncle, please never speak to me 
about him again! 

Beeler. All right, all right, my girl. 
I 've been young myself, and I know 
youth is touchy as a gum-boil when it 
comes to love affairs. So it's all off, 
is it? 

Rhoda. Yes. 

Beeler. {Sits down to mend the harness.) 
If you 're partial to the pill trade, we 've 
got a brand new doctor in town now. 
Took old Doctor Martin's place. He'll 
be up here to see Mary in a day or two^ 
and you can look him over. 

Rhoda, What is his name? 

Beeler. {Tries in vain to recall it.) 
Blamed if I can remember. Only seen 
him once. But I tell you, he 's smart as 
tacks. Chuck full of Jamaica ginger. 
The very kind I 'd have swore you 'd 
take to, a while back, before you lost 
your fun and your spirit. When I first 
saw you on your father's farm out in 
Kansas, you was as wild a little gypsy 
as I ever set eyes on, I said then to your 
dad, "There 's a filly that '11 need a good 
breakin'," I never thought I 'd see you 
takin' up with these Gospel pedlers, 

(Martha comes in from the hall and fusses 
about, dusting, etc. She points in the di- 
rection of Mrs. Beeler's mom.) 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



819 



Martha. They 're prayer-meetin' it again. 
And Mary lyin' there as if she 
saw the pearly gates openin' before 
her eyes. 

Beeler. {Half to Jiimself as he works.) 
Poor Mary ! — Mary 's a strange woman. 

Martha. (To Rhoda.) Your mother was 
the same way, Rhody. The whole 
Beardsley tribe for that matter. But 
Mary was the worst. It begun with 
Mary as soon as her brother Seth . got 
drowned. 

Beeler. {Looks up, angry.) None of 
that, Sis ! 

Martha. I guess my tongue 's my own. 

Beeler. No, it ain't. I won't have any 
more of that talk around me, do you 
hear f I put my foot down a year ago. 

Martha. {Points to Ms foot derisively.) 
It 's big enough and ugly enough, Heaven 
knows, but you can put it down as hard 
as you like, it won't keep a man's sperrit 
in his grave — not when he 's a mind to 
come out! 

Beeler. {Astonished.) Martha Beeler! 

Martha. That's my name. 

{She flounces out into the kitchen, cov- 
ering her retreat with her last 
speech.) 

Beeler. {Looking after her.) My king- 
dom ! Martha ! I thought she had some 
horse sense left. 

Rhoda. {Slowly, as she finishes with the 
lamp.) Uncle, it's hard to live side by 
side with Aunt Mary and not — 

Beeler. {In angry challenge.) And not 
what? 

Rhoda. And not believe there 's something 
more in these matters than "horse sense" 
will account for. 

Beeler. {Hotly, as if a sore point has 
been touched upon.) There's nothing 
more than science will account for. {He 
points to a shelf of hooks.) You can 
read it up any day you like. Read that 
book yonder, chapter called Hallucina- 
tions. Pathological, that 's what it is, 
pathological. 

Rhoda. What does that mean? (Beeler 
taps his forehead significantly.) Uncle, 
you know that 's not true ! 

Beeler. {Growls to himself.) Patholog- 
ical, up and down. 

(Rhoda replaces the lamp on the man- 
tel. Martha opens the kitchen door 
and calls in.) 

Maptha. Here 's Uncle Abe ! 

Beeler. Uncle Abe? Thought he was a 
goner. 



(Uncle Abe enters. He is an old negro, 
with gray hair and thin, gray heard. He 
is somewhat bowed, and carries a stick, 
but he is not decrepit. His clothes are 
spattered with mud. Martha enters 
with him; she is stirring something in a 
bowl, and during the following continues 
to do so, though more and more inter- 
ruptedly and absent-mindedly.) 

Beeler. Hello, Uncle Abe. 

Uncle Abe. Good-mawnin', Mista. Beeler. 

Beeler. Where 've you been all winter ? 
Thought you 'd gone up Salt River. 

Uncle Abe. {Shakes his head reassur- 
ingly.) Ain' nevah goin' up no Salt 
River, yo' Uncle Abe ain't. 

Beeler. {Indicating Rhoda.) Make you 
acquainted with my wife's niece. Miss 
Williams. 

(Uncle Abe hows.) 

Rhoda. {Pushing forward a chair.) Sit 
down. Uncle. I don't see how you found 
your way in this dreadful fog. 

Uncle Abe. Fawg don' matta' nothin' to 
me, honey. Don' mean nothin' 'tall. 
{He speaks with exaltation and re- 
strained excitement.) Yo' ol' Uncle 
keeps on tellin' 'em, dis hyah fawg an' 
darkness don' mean nothin' 'tall! 

(Rhoda and Martha look at him puz- 
zled. Beeler, busy over his har- 
ness, has not been struck by the old 
negro's words.) 

Beeler. How 's the ginseng crop this 
year? 

Uncle Abe. They ain' no mo' gimsing! 

Beeler. No more ginseng? What do you 
mean? 

Uncle Abe. De good Lawd, he ain' goin' 
fool roun' no mo' wif no gimsing! 

Beeler. {Amused.) Why, I thought 
your ginseng bitters was His main holt. 

Uncle Abe. {With a touch of regret.) 
Use to be, Mars' Beeler. It shore use to 
be. — Yes, sah. Bless de Lawd! {Shakes 
his head in reminiscence.) He sartinly 
did set sto' by them thah bitters. 

Beeler. {With lazy amusement.) So the 
Lord 's gone back on ginseng now, has 
He? 

Uncle Abe. Yes, sah. 

Beeler. What makes you think so? 

Uncle Abe. {Solemnly.) Roots all kill 
by de fros'! {His manner grows more 
and more mysterious; he half closes his 
eyes, as he goes on in a strange, mounting 
singsong.) Knowed it more'n a monf 
ago, fo' dis hyah blin' worl' lef de 



820 



THE FAITH HEALER 



plough in de ploughshare an' de ungroun' 
wheat betwixen de millstones, and went 
a-follerin' aftah dis hyah new star outen 
de Eas', like a bride follerin' aftah de 
bridegToom ! 

(Martha taps her forehead signifi- 
cantly, and goes hack to her hatter.) 

Beeler. New star, Uncle"? Tell us about 
it. Sounds interesting. 

Uncle Abe. {Stares at each of them in 
turn.) Ain' you-all heerd"? 

Beeler. You've got the advantage of 
us. 

Uncle Abe. Ain' you-all heerd 'bout de 
Healer? 

Beeler. Healer'? What kind of a healer "? 

Uncle Abe. {With mounting indignation 
at Beeler's tone.) De Bible kin', dat 's 
what kin' ! De kin' what makes de lame 
fer to walk, and de blin' f er to see, an' de 
daid fer to riz up outen their daid col' 
graves. That 's what kin' ! Mean to say 
you-all ain' heerd nothin' 'bout him, you 
po' chillun o' dawkness? 

(Martha and Beeler look at each 
other in amazement. Rhoda sits 
looking at the old negro, white and 
tense with excitement.) 

Beeler. Nope. {Recollecting.) Hold 
on! 

Martha. {To Beeler.) Don't you re- 
member, in the papers, two or three 
weeks ago*? Where was if? Some- 
wheres out West. 

Beeler. Believe I did read some such 
goin's-on. Don't pay much attention to 
such nonsense. 

Uncle Abe. {Solemn and threatening.) 
Tek keer, Mistah Beeler ! Tek keer what 
you say 'fore dese here cloudy witnesses. 
Don' you go cuttin' yo'self off from de 
Kingdom. Nor you, Mis' Martha, nor 
you, honey. Don' ye do it ! It 's 
a-comin'. Yo' ol' Uncle Abe he 's seen 
and heerd. 

Rhoda. Tell us quickly what you mean ! 

Uncle Abe. Mean jes' what I says, honey. 
Night fo' last, de Healer, he come, like's 
if he jes' plum' drop from de sky. {More 
m.ysteriously.) An' whar 's he gone to? 
You listen to yo' ol' Uncle Abe a-tellin' 
you. He ain' gone nowhars! He's jes' 
meechin' roun' in de fawg, a-waitin' fer 
de Lawd to call folks. En He 's a-callin' 
'em! He's a-callin' 'em by tens an' by 
hundreds. Town 's full a'ready, honey. 
Main Street look jes' lak a fiel' hospital, 
down Souf durin' de wah ! 

Martha. {Meeting Beeler's astonished 



look.) What did I tell you? Maybe 
you '11 listen to me next time. 

Rhoda. {To Uncle Abe, in a low, agi- 
tated voice.) This man you call the 
Healer — is he alone? 

Uncle Abe. No, honey ; folks says he don' 
nevah go nowheres by hisse'f. Always 
got that thah young man wif 'im what 
he raise from de daid. 

Beeler. {Rises, with a shrug.) Good 
evening! {He crosses to the portraits of 
Darwin and Spencer.) You made quite 
a stir in your time, didn't you? Well,. 
it 's all up with you ! 

Martha. {In a voice strident with nerv- 
ousness.) Raised from the dead? 

Uncle Abe. That 's what they says, Mis^ 
Martha. Folks calls 'im Laz'rus in ref- 
ence to de Bible ehil' what riz up jes' 
same way lak', outen de daid col' tomb. 

{The Indian hoy enters from the kitchen, 
his shoes and trousers spattered with 
mud. Uncle Abe looks at him, then at 
the others, and whispers to Rhoda. 
Martha hustles forward, hiding her agi- 
tation in scolding sj 



Martha. Well, did you get my coffee and 
my sal-soda? 

(Lazarus points, without speaking, to 
the kitchen.) 
Beeler. {To Martha.) Did you send 

him to the store? 
Martha. Yes, I did send him to the store. 
If I had my way, I 'd send him — further. 
{The hoy hesitates, then goes stolidly 
out hy the stair door. Uncle Abe 
lifts his arm ecstatically.) 
Uncle Abe. That 's him ! I tell ye that 's 
the chil' what 's said "Howdy" to the daid 
folks down yonder. I 'se seen 'im in my 
dreams, an' now I 'se seen 'im wif dese 
hyah two eyes. — Lawd, bless dis hyah 
house o' grace! 
Beeler. I guess it 's about time that fel- 
low come out and exploded some of this 
tomfoolery. 

{U^e starts towards his wife^s room.) 
Rhoda. {Stopping him.) Please don't. 
Beeler. {Peevishly.) There's got to be- 
an end to this hoodoo business in my 
house. 

(Annie enters from the kitchen, dahhled 
with dye. She holds two colored eggs in 
her hands.) 

Annie. Look ! 1 've colored two. 
Martha. Good gracious, child. What a 
mess! 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



821 



Annie. Pa! Play crack with me! Just 

once, to see how it goes. 
Beeler. Go in and ask your mother if 
she '11 let you. 

(Annie, her eggs in her apron, opens 
the hall door. About to pass out, 
she stops, drops the eggs with a 
scream, and runs hack, gazing to- 
wards the hall as she takes refuge he- 
hind Rhoda's skirts.) 
Annie. Pa ! Auntie ! Ma 's walking ! 

(Mrs. Beeler enters, walking uncertainly, 
her face full of intense exaltation. 
MiCHAELis comes just hehind her, trans- 
figured hy spiritual excitement.) 

Beeler and Martha. {Starting forward.) 

Mary ! 
Ehoda. Aunt Mary! 

(Mrs. Beeler advances into the room, 

reaching out her hand to Annie, who 

takes it in speechless fright. She 

bends over and kisses the child's 

head, then stretches out her other 

hand to her husband.) 

Mrs. Beeler. Mat, I 'm cured ! The Lord 

has heard our prayers, for His saint's 

sake. 

Beeler. Why, Mary, I can't believe this — 

it 's too — it 's not possible ! 
Mrs. Beeler. {Looking at Michaelis.) 
It is written that he who has faith, even 
as a grain of mustard seed — . I have 
had faith. 
Martha. Law, you 've had faith enough 
any time these live years, Mary. There 
was something else wanting, 'pears to me. 
Mrs. Beeler. There was wanting the word 
of true belief, saying, "Suffer no more! 
Stoop and drink of the waters of mercy 
and healing." 

{Outside, the shrill soprano of a woman 
is heard, taking up a hymn. At the 
sound Michaelis goes to the win- 
dow. He stands rigid, listening to 
the hymn to the end of the verse, 
when other voices join in the chorus. 
The fog has partially cleared. 
Michaelis. {Turning slowly to Rhoda.) 

Who are they*? 
Rhoda. Sick people. 
Michaelis. How did they find out I was 

here? 
Rhoda. It was known you were some- 
where near. — They have been gathering 
for days. — They saw the boy, just now, 
in the village. 
Mrs. Beeler. {Comes a step or two nearer 



Michaelis.) Your great hour is at 
hand ! 

{He looks distractedly about. The 
light has faded from his face, giving 
place to strong nervous agitation, re- 
sembling fear. He speaks as if to 
himself.) 
Michaelis. My hour ! — My hour !— And I 
—and I—! 

{He puts his hand over his eyes, as if 
to shut out some vision of dread.) 
Mrs. Beeler. You will not fail them? 
You cannot fail them now. 

(Michaelis looks at Mrs. Beeler, 

then for a long time at Rhoda. He 

gathers himself together, and gazes 

steadfastly before him, as at some 

unseen presence.) 

Michaelis. No. — I have waited so long. 

I have had such deep assurances. — I must 

not fail. I must not fail. 



ACT SECOND. 

It is late afternoon of the same day. Mrs. 
Beeler sits in a low chair near the win- 
dow. She has ceased reading the Testa- 
ment, ivhich lies open in her lap. Uncle 
Abe. sits on the floor ivith Annie. They 
are playing with building blocks, piling 
up and tearing down various ambitious 
structures. 

(Rhoda enters from outside, with hat and 
cloak, carrying a large bunch of Easter 
lilies.) 

Rhoda. {Kissing her aunt.) Still sitting 
up ! You 're not strong enough yet to 
do this. See, I 've brought you some 
Easter lilies. {She hands one to Mrs. 
Beeler. As she takes off her things, she 
sees the old negro gazing at her.) Well, 
Uncle Abe? 

Uncle Abe. I 's awake an' a-watchin', 
honey ! 

{He turns again to the child, shaking 
his head as at some unspoken 
thought, while Rhoda arranges the 
flowers in a vase.) 

Mrs. Beeler. Rhoda! 

Rhoda. Yes, Aunt Mary? 

Mrs. Beeler. Come here. (Rhoda ap- 
proaches. Mrs. Beeler speaks low, with 
suppressed excitement.) What is the 
news, outside? 

Rhoda. You must n't excite yourself. 
You must keep your strength. 

Mrs. Beeler. I shall be stpong enough. — 



822 



THE FAITH HEALER 



Are the people still gathering from the 

town f 
Rhoda. Yes, and they keep coming in 

from other places. 
Mrs. Beeler. Are there many of them^ 
Rhoda. Many ! Many ! It 's as if the 

whole world knew. 
Mrs. Beeler. The more there are, the 

greater will be the witness. — {Pause.) 

When do you think he will go out to 

them? 
Rhoda. They believe he is waiting for 

Easter morning. 

(Martha enters from kitchen, with bonnet 
and sliaicl on, and a large basket in her 
hand.) 

Martha. Mary, you 'd ought to be abed. 
You 're tempting Providence. {She 
takes off her bonnet and shawl, and de- 
posits the basket.) I saw your doctor 
dow^n in the village, and he allowed he 'd 
come up to see you this afternoon. He 
was all on end about your bein' able to 
walk. 
Rhoda. I did n't know till to-day you had 

a doctor. 
Mrs. Beeler. Yes. He 's a young man 
who 's just come here to build up a prac- 
tice. 
Martha. {To Rhoda.) You better finish 
packin' the basket. There 's a lot o' hun- 
gry mouths to feed out yonder. 

{Exit by hall door. Rhoda continues 
the preparation of the basket, taking 
articles from the cupboard and pack- 
ing them. AxNiE has climbed on a 
chair by the picture of Pan and the 
Pilgrim. She points at the figure of 
Pan.) 
Annie. Uncle Abe, tell me who that is. 
Uncle Abe. {Glancing at Mrs. Beeler 

ant/ Rhoda.) H'sh! 
Annie. What 's he doing up there in the 

bushes, blowing on that funny whistle? 
Uncle Abe. Look hyah, chil', you jus' 
wastin' my time. I got frough wif dis 
hyah fool pictuh long 'go ! 

{He tries to draw her away; she re- 



Annie. {Petulantly.) Uncle Abe! Who 

is it? 
Uncle Abe. {Whispers, makes big eyes.) 
That thah's Ole Nick, that's who that 
thah is ! That thah 's de Black Man ! 
(Annie, terror-stricken, jumps down 
and retreats to her mother's chair. 
Mrs. Beeler rouses from her r every 
and strokes her child's head.) 



Mrs. Beeler. Oh, my child, how happy 
you are to see this while you are so 
young! You will never forget, will you, 
dear? 

Annie. {Fidgeting.) Forget what? 

Mrs. Beeler. Tell me that whatever hap- 
pens to you in the world, you w^on't for- 
get that once, w^hen you were a little 
girl, you saw the heavens standing open, 
and felt that God was very near, and full 
of pity for His children. 

Annie. I don't know w^hat you 're talking 
about! I can't hardly breathe the way 
people are in this house. 

Mrs Beeler. You will understand, some 
day, what wonderful things your childish 
eyes looked on. 

(Annie retreats to Uncle Abe, who 
bends over the child and whispers in 
her ear. She grows amused, and be- 
gins to sway as to a tune, then chants. 

Annie. 

"]\rary an' a' INIartha 's jus' gone along, 
^lary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along, 
j\Iary an' a' ]Martlia 's jus' gone along, 
Ring dem charmin' bells." 

{As she finishes the rhyme she runs out 
into the hall. Mrs. Beeler begins 
again to read her Testament. The 
old negro approaches Mrs. Beeler 
and Rhoda, and speaks mysteri- 
ously.) 

Uncle Abe. That thah chil' she 's talkin' 
sense. They's sumpin' ain't right about 
dis hyah house. 

Mrs. Beeler. Not right? What do you 
mean? 

Uncle Abe. {Shakes his head dubiously.) 
Dunno, Mis' Beeler. I 's jes' a ole fool 
colored pusson, been waitin' fer de great 
day what de 'Postle done promise. En 
hyah 's de great day 'bout to dawn, an' de 
Lawd's Chosen 'bout to show Hisse'f in 
clouds o' gloiy 'fore de worF, an' lo 'n' 
behol' — {He leans closer and whispers.) 
de Lawd's Chosen One, he 's done got a 
spell on 'im! 

Mrs. Beeler. {Shocked and startled.) 
Uncle Abe! 

Uncle Abe. {Pointing at the Pan and the 
Pilgrim.) Why do you keep that thah 
pictuh nail up thah fur? 

Mrs. Beeler. ]\Iy husband likes it. 

Uncle Abe. Mighty funny kin' o' man, 
like to hev de Black Man lookin' pop-eyed 
at folks all day an' all night, puttin' de 
spell on folks! 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



823 



Mrs. Beeler. That 's not the Black Man. 

Uncle Abe. That 's him, shore 's yo' born ! 
Jes' what he looks like. I seen 'im, 
more'n once. 

Rhoda. Seen the Black Man, Uncle ? 

Uncle Abe. Yais, ma'am. I 's spied 'im, 
sittin' in de paw-paw bushes in de spring- 
time, when de snakes a-rmmin', an' de 
jays a-hollerhi', an de crick a-talkin' sassy 
to hisse'f. {He leans nearer ^ more mys- 
teriously.) En what you s'pose I heerd 
him whis'lin', for all de worl' lak dem 
scan'lous blue jays'? {Chants in a high, 
trilling voice.) "Chillun, chillun, they 
ain' no Gawd, they ain' no sin nor no 
jedgment, they 's jes' springtime an' 
happy days, and folks carryin' on. 
Whar's yo' lil gal, Abe Johnson*? 
Whar 's yo' lil sweet-heart gal f An' me 
on'y got religion wintah befo', peekin' 
roun' pie-eyed, skeered good. En fo' 
you could say "De Lawd 's my Shepherd," 
kerchunk goes de Black Man in de mud- 
puddle, change' into a big green bull- 
frog ! 

Mrs. Beeler. You just imagined all that. 

Uncle Abe. {Indignant.) Jes' 'magine! 
Don' I know de Devil when I sees him, 
near 'nough to say "Howdy"? 

Mrs. Beeler. There is n't any Devil. 

Uncle Abe. {Astounded.) Ain't no 
Devil 'f 

Mrs. Beeler. No. 

(Uncle Abe goes, with puzzled head- 
shakings, towards the kitchen door. 
He stops to smell the Easter lilies, 
then raises his head and looks at her 
again, with puzzled scrutiny.) 

Uncle Abe. Mis' Beelah, did I understan' 
you to say — they ain' — no Devil? 

Mrs. Beeler. {Touching her breast.) Only 
here. Uncle Abe. {The old negro stares 
at her and Rhoda, and goes into the 
kitchen, feeling his own breast and shak- 
ing his head dubiously. Mrs. Beeler 
looks at the picture.) Do you think your 
Uncle Mat would mind if we took that 
picture down? (Rhoda unpins the pic- 
ture from the wall, rolls it up, and lays 
it on the bookshelf. Her aunt goes on, 
hesitatingly.) Do you know, Rhoda, I 
have sometimes thought — You won't be 
hurt? 

Rhoda. No. 

Mrs. Beeler. I — I know what that old 
negro says is all foolishness, but — there 
is something the matter wdth Mr. Mi- 
chaelis. Have you noticed? 

Rhoda. {Avoiding her aunt's gaze.) Yes. 



Mrs. Beeler. Just when his great work is 
about to begin! — What do you think it 
can be? 

Rhoda. How should I know, Aunt Mary? 

Mrs. Beeler. I thought maybe — Rhoda, I 
have seen him look at you so strangely ! 
Like — like the Pilgrim in the picture, 
when he hears that heathen creature play- 
ing on the pipe. — You are such a wild 
creature, or you used to be. 

(Rhoda comes to her aunt and stands 
a moment in silence.) 

Rhoda. Auntie. 

Mrs. Beeler. Yes? 

Rhoda. I think I ought to go away. 

Mrs. Beeler. {Astonished.) Go away? 
Why? 

Rhoda. So as not to — ^hinder him. 

Mrs. Beeler. {Caressing her.) There, 
you have taken what I said too seriously. 
It was only a sick woman's imagination. 

Rhoda. No, it was the truth. You see it, 
though you try not to. Even Uncle Abe 
sees it. Just when Mr. Michaelis most 
needs his strength, weakness has come 
upon him. 

Mrs. Beeler. You mean — ? {She hesi- 
tates.) You mean — because of you? — 
Rhoda, look at me. (Rhoda avoids her 
aunt's gaze; Mrs. Beeler draws down 
the girVs face and gazes at it.) Is there 
anything — that I don't know — ^between 
you and him? 

Rhoda. I— I must go away. — I ought to 
have gone before. 

Mrs. Beeler. My child, this — this troubles 
me very much. He is different from 
other men, and you — and you — 

Rhoda. {WitJi passion.) Say it, say it! 
Wliat am I? 

Mrs. Beeler. Don't be hurt, Rhoda, but — 
you have a wild nature. You are like 
your father. I remember when he used 
to drive over to see sister Jane, with his 
keen face and eagle eyes, behind his span 
of wild colts, I used to tremble for my 
gentle sister. You are just like him, or 
you used to be. (Rhoda breaks away 
from her aunt, and takes her hat and 
cloak. Mrs. Beeler rises with perturba- 
tion, and crosses to detain her.) What 
are you going to do? 

Rhoda. I am going away — I must go 
away. 

(Martha enters from the hall.) 

Mrs. Beeler. {Speaks lower.) Promise 

me you won't ! Promise me ! 
Martha. To look at that, now! Seein' 



824 



THE FAITH HEALER 



you on your feet, Mary, gives me a new 
start every time. 

Mrs. Beeler. {To Rhoda.) You prom- 
ise? 

(Rhoda bows her head as in assent.) 

Martha. Doctor 's in the parlor. Shall I 
bring him in here? 

Mrs. Beeler. No. I thmk I will rest 
awhile. He can come to my room. {She 
walks unsteadily. The others try to help 
her, hut she motions them hack.) No. 
It 's so good to feel that I can walk 
alone ! 

Martha. It does beat all ! 

Mrs. Beeler. I '11 just lie down on the 
couch. I want to go out, before dark, 
and speak to the people. 

(Mr. Beeler enters from the kitchen and 
crosses to help his wife. The others give 
place to him.) 

Oh, Mat, our good days are coming back ! 
I shall be strong and well for you again. 

Beeler. Yes, Mary. There will be noth- 
ing to separate us any more. 

Mrs. Beeler. {Points at his hooks.) Not 
even — them? {He goes to the alcove, 
takes the hooks from the shelf, raises the 
lid of the window-seat, and throws them 
in. Mrs. Beeler points to the pictures 
of Darwin and Spencer.) Nor them? 
{He unpins the pictures, lays them upon 
the heap of hooks, and returns to her.) 
You don't know how happy that makes 
me! 

{They go out hy the hall door. 
Martha, as she lowers the lid of the 
window-seat, points derisively at the 



Martha. That's a good riddance of bad 
rubbish! {She comes to the table and 
continues packing the hasket.) Y^ou 'd 
better help me with this basket. Them 
folks will starve to death, if the neigh- 
borhood round don't give 'em a bite to 
eat. (Rhoda fetches other articles from 
the cupboard.) I'd like to know what 
they think we are made of, with butter 
at twenty-five cents a pound and flour 
worth its weight in diamonds ! 

Rhoda. All the neighbors are helping, and 
none of them with our cause for thank- 
fulness. 

Martha. That 's no sign you should go 

plasterin' on that butter like you was a 

bricklayer tryin' to bust the contractor! 

{She takes the bread from Rhoda and 

scrapes the butter thin.) 

Rhoda. {As the clock strikes five.) It's 



time for Aunt Mary to have her tea. 
Shall I make it? 
Martha. You make it! Not unless you 
want to lay her flat on her back again ! 

{As she flounces out, Annie enters from 
the hall. She points with one hand at 
the retreating Martha, with the other to- 
ward her mother's room.) 

Annie. {Sings with sly emphasis.) 

"ISIary an' a' Martha 's jus' gone along, 
Mary an' a' Martha 's jus' gone along, 
Mary an' a' Martha 's jus' gone along. 
Ring dem charmin' bells." 

{She climbs upon a chair by the table, 
and fingers the contents of basket as 
she sings.) 

Rhoda. What 's got into you, little imp ? 

Annie. {Brazenly.) I've laeen peeping 
through mamma's keyhole. 

Rhoda. That 's not nice. 

Annie. I know it, but the minister's in 
there and Dr. Littlefield. 

Rhoda. {Startled.) Who? 

Annie. You know, mamma's doctor. — • 
Oh, he's never come since you've been 
here. 

Rhoda. {In a changed voice, as she takes 
the child by the shoulders.) What does 
he look like ? 

Annie. Don't, you 're hurting me ! — He 's 
too red in the face, and looks kind of — 
insulting — and he wears the most beau- 
tiful neckties, and — {Exhausted hy her 
efforts at description.) Oh, I don't 
know! {She sings as she climbs down, 
and goes out hy the kitchen door.) 

"Free grace, undyin' love, -^ 

Free grace, undyin' love, 
Free grace, undyin' love, 
Ring dem lovely bells." 

(Dr. Littlefield enters from Mrs. Bee- 
ler's room. He speaks back to Beeler 
on the threshold.) 

Littlefield. Don't bother ! I '11 find it. 
{Looking for something, he approaches 
Rhoda, who has her back turned.) Beg 
pardon. Have you seen a pocket ther- 
mometer I left here? {She faces him. 
He starts back in surprise.) Bless my 
soul and body! Rhoda Williams! {He 
closes the hall door, returns to her, and 
stands somewhat disconcerted.) Here of 
all places! 

Rhoda. Mrs. Beeler is my aunt. 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



825 



LiTTLEFiELD. Well, Well! The world is 
small. — Been here long'? 

Rhoda. Only a month. 

LiTTLEFiELD. And before that"? 

Rhoda. It's a long story. Besides, you 
would n't understand. 

LiTTLEFiELD. You might let me try. 
What in the world have you been doing 
all this time? 

Rhoda. I have been searching for some- 
thing. 

LiTTLEFiELD. What was if? 

Rhoda. My own lost self. My own — lost 
soul. 

LiTTLEFiELD. {Amused at her solemnity.) 
You 're a queer bundle of goods. Al- 
ways were. Head full of solemn notions 
about life, and at the same time, when 
it came to a lark, — Oh, I 'm no grand- 
mother, but when you got on your high 
horse — well ! 

{He leaves his hands expressively.) 

Rhoda. {Bursts out.) The great town, 
the people, the noise, and the lights — 
after seventeen years of life on a dead 
prairie, where I 'd hardly heard a laugh 
or seen a happy face ! — All the same, the 
prairie had me still. 

LiTTLEFiELD. You dou't mean you went 
back to the farm'? 

Rhoda. I mean that the years I 'd spent 
out there in that endless stretch of earth 
and sky — . {She breaks off, with a 
weary gesture.) There's no use going 
into that. You would n't understand. 

LiTTLEFiELD. No, I Walk on simple shoe 
leather and eat mere victuals. — Just the 
same, it wasn't square of you to clear 
out that way — vanish into air without a 
word or a sign. 

Rhoda. {Looking at him steadily.) You 
know very well why I went. 

LiTTLEFiELD. {Betuming her gaze, un- 
abashed, chants with meaning and relish.) 

"Hey diddle, diddle, 
The cat and the fiddle. 
The cow jumped over the moon." 

(Rhoda takes up the basket and goes 
toward the outer door. He inter- 
cepts her.) 
Rhoda. Let me pass. 
LiTTLEFiELD. You 're not taking part in 

this camp-meeting enthusiasm, are you'? 
Rhoda. Yes. 

{As he stares at her, his astonishment 
changes to amusement ; he chuckles 
to himself, then bursts out laughing, 
as in humorous reminiscence.) 



LiTTLEFiELD. Bless my soul! And to 
think that only a couple of little years 
ago — Oh, bless my soul! 

{The stair door opens. Michaelis 
appears. His face is flushed, his 
hair disordered, and his whole per- 
son expresses a feverish and pre- 
carious exaltation.) 
Micpiaelis. {Looks at Littlefield icitli 
vague query, then at Rhoda.) Excuse 
me, I am very thirsty. I came down for 
a glass of water. 

(Rhoda goes to the kitchen door, 
where she turns. The doctor puts 
on a pair of nose-glasses and scans 
Michaelis u-ith interest. He holds 
out his hand, which Michaelis 
takes.) 
Littlefield. We ought to know each 

other. We 're colleagues, in a way. 
Michaelis. Colleagues "? 
Littlefield. In a way, yes. I 'm a prac- 
tising physician. {Exit Rhoda.) You 
seem to have the call on us professionals, 
to judge by the number of your clients 
out yonder. {He points out of the win- 
dow.) To say nothing of Exhibit One! 
{He points to the hall door.) 
Michaelis. {Vaguely.) I — I don't know 
that I — (Rhoda enters from the 
kitchen, with water, which he takes.) 
Thank you. 

{He drinks thirstily. Mr. Beeler ap- 
pears in the hall door; he looks at 
the group, taken aback.) 
Beeler. Oh — ! 

Littlefield. I stopped to chat with your 
niece. She and I happen to be old ac- 
quaintances. 
Beeler. You don't say"? — Would you 

mind coming in here for a minute'? 
Littlefield. {Following him out.) 

What's up? 
Beeler. My wife 's got it in her head that 
she 's called upon to — 

{Door closes. Michaelis, who has 
followed Littlefield with his eyes, 
sets down the glass, and turns slowly 
to Rhoda.) 
Michaelis. Who is that? 
Rhoda. My aunt's doctor. 
Michaelis. You know him well? 
Rhoda. Yes. — No. 
Michaelis. What does that mean? 
Rhoda. I haven't seen him for nearly 
two years. — I can't remember much about 
tlie })erson I was, two years ago. 
Michaelis. Yes! Yes! I understand. 
{He turns away, lifting his hands, speak- 



826 



THE FAITH HEALER 



itig half to himself.) That these lives of 
ours should be poured like a jelly, from 
one mould into another, until God Him- 
self cannot remember what they were 
two years ago, or two hours ago ! 

Rhoda. Why do you say that? {He does 
not answer, hut walks nervously about. 
Rhoda, watching him, speaks, after a 
silence.) Last month — out West — were 
there many people there f 

MiCHAELis. No. — Two or three. 

Rhoda. The papers said — 

MiCHAELis. When the crowd began to 
gather, I — went away. 

Rhoda. Why? 

MiCHAELis. My time had not come. 

{He has stopped before the map and 
stands gazing at it.) 

Rhoda. Has it come now? {She comes 
closer.) — Has your time come now? 

MiCHAELis. Yes. 

Rhoda. How do you know? 

MiCHAELis. {Points at the map.) It is 
written there ! 

Rhoda. How do you mean, w^ritten there? 

MiCHAELis. Can't you see it? 

Rhoda. I see the map, nothing more. 

MiCHAELis. {Points again, gazing fixedly.) 
It seems to me to be written in fire. 

Rhoda. What seems written? 

MiCHAELis. What I have been doing, all 
these five years. 

Rhoda. Since your work began? 

MiCHAELis. It has never begun. Many 
times I have thought, "Now," and some 
man or woman has risen up healed, and 
looked at me with eyes of prophecy. 
But a Voice would cry, "On, on !" and I 
would go forward, driven by a force and 
a will not my own. — I did n't know what 
it all meant, but I know now. {He 
points at the map, his manner trans- 
formed with excitement and exaltation.) 
It is written there. It is w^ritten in let- 
ters of fire. My eyes are opened, and I 
see! 

Rhoda. {Following his gaze, then looking 
at him again, awed and bewildered.) 
What is it that you see? 

MiCHAELis. The cross! 

Rhoda. I — T don't understand. 

MiCHAELis. All those places w^iere the 
hand was lifted for a moment, and the 
power flowed into me — {He places his 
finger at various points on the map; 
these points lie in two transverse lines, 
between the Mississippi and the Pacific; 
one line runs roughli/ north and south, 
the other east and west.) Look! There 



was such a place, and there another, and 
there, and there. And there was one, 
and there, and there. — Do you see? 

Rhoda. I see. — It makes a kind of cross. 

MiCHAELis. You see it, too ! And do you 
see what it means — this sign that my i'eet 
have marked across the length and 
breadth of a continent? {He begins 
again to pace the room.) — And that 
crowd of stricken souls out yonder, raised 
up as by miracle, their broken bodies 
crying to be healed, — do you see what 
they mean? 

Rhoda. {In a steady voice.) They mean 
what my aunt said this morning. They 
mean that your great hour has come. 

MiCHAELis. My hour! my hour! {He 
comes nearer, and speaks in a quieter 
tone.) I knew a young Indian once, a 
Hopi boy, who made songs and sang 
them to his people. One evening we sat 
on the roof of the chief's house and asked 
him to sing. He shook his head, and 
went away in the starlight. The next 
morning, I found him among the rocks 
under the mesa, with an empty bottle by 
his side. — He never sang again ! Drunk- 
enness had taken him. He never sang 
again, or made another verse. 

Rhoda. What has that to do with you? 
It 's not — ? You don't mean that you — ? 

MiCHAELis. No. There is a stronger 
drink for such as I am! 

Rhoda. [Forcing herself to go on.) 
What — "stronger drink" ? 

MiCHAELis. {Wildly.) The wine of this 
world ! The wdne-bowl that crowns the 
feasting table of the children of this 
world. 

Rhoda. What do you mean by — the wine 
of this world? "^ 

MiCHAELis. You know that! Every 
woman knows. {He points out of the 
window, at the sky flushed with sunset 
color.) Out there, at this moment, in 
city and country, souls, thousands upon 
thousands of souls, are dashing in pieces 
the cup that holds the wine of heaven, 
the wine of God's shed blood, and lifting 
the cups of passion and of love, that 
crown the feasting table of the children 
of this earth ! Look ! The very sky is 
blood-red with the lifted cups. And we 
two are in the midst of them. Listen 
what I sing there, on the hills of light in 
the sunset: "Oh, how beautiful upon 
the mountains are the feet of my be- 
loved!" {A song rises outside, loud and 
near at hand — Michaelis listens, his ex^ 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



827 



pression gradually changing from pas- 
sionate excitement to brooding distress. 
Vaguely, as the music grows fainter and 
dies away.) I — we were saying — . {He 
grasps her arm in nervous apprehen- 
sion.) For God's sake, tell me. — Are 
there many people — waiting — out tliere? 
Rhoda. Hundreds, if not thousands. 
MiCHAELis. {Walks about.) Thousands. 
— Thousands of thousands ! — {He stops 
beside her.) You w^on't leave me alone ^ 
Rhoda. {Hesitates, then speaks with de- 
cision. ) No. 
MiCHAELis. {Continuing his walk.) 
Thousands of thousands! 

{The hall doo^r opens. Dr. Littlefield 
and a Clergyman, the Rev. John 
Culpepper, enter. The latter stares 
inquiringly from Michaelis to the 
DOCTOR;, who nods affirmatively, and 
adjusts his glasses.) 
Culpepper. {Mutters to Littlefield.) 

Nonsense ! Sacrilegious nonsense ! 
Littlefield. {Same tone.) I 've done my 
best. 

{Behind them comes Mrs. Beeler, sup- 
ported by her Husband. At the 
same moment Martha enters from 
the kitchen, with tea; Uncle Abe 
and Annie follow.) 
Beeler. {On the threshold.) Mary, take 
another minute to consider. 

(Mrs. Beeler, as if without hearing 
this protest, gazes at Michaelis, and 
advances into the room with a ges- 
ture of the arms which causes her 
supporter to loosen his hold, though 
he follows slightly bejiind, to render 
aid if necessary.) 
Mrs. Beeler. {To Michaelis.) Tell me 
that I may go out, and stand before them 
for a testimony ! 
Littlefield. As a physician, I must for- 
mally protest. 
Culpepper. And I as a minister of the 

Gospel. 
Mrs. Beeler. {To Michaelis, with a 
nervous, despairing gesture.) Speak to 
them! Explain to them! I am too 
weak. 

{There is a sound of excited voices out- 
side, near at hand, then a sudden 
trample of footsteps at the entrance 
door. As Beeler goes hurriedly to 
the door it bursts open and a young 
woman with a baby in her arms 
crowds past him, and stands looking 
wildly about the room.) 
Beelee. {As he forces the others back.) 



You can't come in here, my friends! 
Stand back! 

{The 'woman gazes from one to another 

of the men. The old nc^ro points 

at Michaelis. She advances to him, 

holding out the child.) 

Mother. Don't let my baby die! For 

Christ's sake, don't let him die ! 

{He examines the child's face, touches 

the mother's head tenderly, and signs 

to Rhoda to take them into the inner 

room.) 

Michaelis. Take her with you, I will 

come. 
Rhoda. {With gentle urgency, to the 
woman.) Come with me. 

{She leads the woman out through the 
hall door.) 
Michaelis. {To Mrs. Beeler, as he 
points outside.) Tell them to wait until 
to-morrow at sunrise. (Mr. and Mrs. 
Beeler move toward the entrance door ; 
some of the others start after, some lin- 
ger, curious to know what will happen 
to the child. Michaelis turns upon them 
with a commanding gesture.) Go, all of 
you! 

{The room is cleared except for Lit- 
tlefield, who goes last, stops in the 
doorway, closes the door, and ap- 
proaches Michaelis. He speaks in 
a friendly and reasonable tone.) 
Littlefield. You 're on the wrong track, 

my friend. 
Michaelis. I asked you to go. 
Littlefield. I heard you. I want to say 
a word or two first. For your own sake 
and for that woman's sake, you 'd bet- 
ter listen. You can't do anything for 
her baby. 
Michaelis. Is that for you to say 1 
Littlefield. Yes, sir! It is most decid- 
edly for me to say. 
Michaelis. By what authority? 
Littlefield. By the authority of medical 
knowledge. — You are a very remarkable 
man, with a very remarkable gift. In 
your own field, I take off my hat to you. 
If you knew yourself as science knows 
you, you might make the greatest doctor 
living. Your handling of Mrs. Beel- 
er's case was masterly. But — come 
right down to it — you didn't work the 
cure. 
Michaelis. I know that. 
Littlefield. Who do you think did? 
Michaelis. {Raising his hands.) He 
whom I serve, and whom you blaspheme ! 
Littlefield. No, sir! He whoni I serve, 



828 



THE FAITH HEALER 



and whom you blaspheme — Nature. Or 
rather, Mrs. Beeler did it herself. 

MiCHAELis. Herself "? 

LiTTLEFiELD. You gavG her a jog, so to 
speak, here, or here, {Touches his brain 
cfnd heart.) and she did the rest. But you 
can't do the same to everybody. Above 
all, you can't do it to a baby in arms. 
There 's nothing either here or here, 
{Touches brain and heart.) to get hold 
of. I 'm a modest man, and as I say, in 
your own field you 're a wonder. But in 
a case like this one — {He points to the 
hall door.) I 'm worth a million of you. 

MiCPiAELis. (Mores as if to give place to 
him, with a challenging gesture toward 
the door.) Tiy! 

LiTTLEj^iELD. {Shrugs.) Not much! The 
woman wouldn't listen to me. And if 
she did, and I failed — oh, I 'm no mira- 
cle worker ! — they 'd make short work 
of me, out there. {He points out and 
adds significantly.) They're in no mood 
for failures, out there. (Michaelis's 
gaze, as if in spite of himself, goes to the 
window. He rests his hand on the table, 
to stop its trembling. Littlefield goes 
on, watching him with interest.) Nerv- 
ously speaking, you are a high power 
machine. The dynamo that runs you is 
Avhat is called "faith," "religious inspira- 
tion," or what-not. It 's a dynamo 
which nowadays easily gets out of order. 
Well, my friend, as a doctor, I warn you 
that your little dynamo is out of order. — 
In other words, yo-u 've lost your grip. 
You 're in a funk. 

(Rhoda opens the hall door and looks 
anxiously '^t 4he tuM), Michaelis 
approaches her with averted eyes. 
As he is about to pass out, she speaks 
timidly.) 

Rhoda. Do you want mef 

Michaelis. {In a toneless voice.) No. 
{She watches him until the inner door 
shuts. She and Littlefield con- 
front each other in- silence for a mo- 
ment across the width of the room.) 

Rhoda. {Forcing herself to speak calmly.) 
Please go. 

Littlefield. {Drops his professional tone 
for one of cynical badinage.) You 
make up well as one of the Wise Vir- 
gins, w^hose lamps are trimmed and burn- 
ing for tlie bridegroom to pass by. I 
hope that personage won't disappoint 
you, nor the several hundred others, out 
yonder, whose lamps are trimmed and 
burning. 



{The outer door opens. Mrs. Beeler 
enters, supported by her husband, 
and accompanied by Martha and 
the Rev. Culpepper, with Uncle 
Abe following in the rear. Rhoda 
hastens to her aunt's side.) 
Mrs. Beeler. Ah, Rhoda, I wish you had 
been out there with me. Such beautiful 
human faces! Such poor, suffering, be- 
lieving human faces, lit up by such a 
w^onderful new hope! {She turns to the 
minister.) Wasn't it a wonderful thing 
to see? 
Culpepper. It is wonderful to see human 
nature so credulous. And to me, very 
painful. 
Mrs. Beeler. To-morrow you will see how 
right these poor souls are to lift their 
trust so high. — {To Rhoda.) Where 
is he now*? (Rhoda points in the direc- 
tion of her own room.) How happy 
that young mother's heart will be to- 
night ! 
Uxcle Abe. {Solemnly.) Amen! 
Culpepper. {In a dry tone.) We will 
hope so. 

{They move to the hall door, where 
Beeler resigns his wife to Rhoda. 
The two pass out. 
(Culpepper, Littlefield, and Beeler 
remain. During the- following con- 
versation, Martha lights the lamp, 
after directing UisrcffjE Abe, by a ges- 
ture, to take the provision basket 
into the kitchen. He does so.) 
Littlefield. {Pointing through the win- 
dow.) They're just laying siege to you, 
ain't they? I guess they won't let your 
man give them the slip, this time — even 
though you do let him run loose. 
Beeler. {With severity.) You have seen 
my wife walk alone to-day, the first time 
in five years. 
Littlefield. I beg your pardon. I un- 
derstand how you feel about it. (Mar- 
tha goes out into the kitchen.) And 
even if it proves to be only tempo- 
rary — 
Beeler. Temporary ! 

Littlefield. Permanent, let us hope. 
Anyway, it 's a very remarkable case. 
Astonishing. I 've only known one just 
like it — personally, I mean. 
Beeler. {xistounded.) Just like it? 
Littlefield. Well, pretty much. Hap- 
pened in Chicago when I w^as an interne 
at St. Luke's. 
Beeler. Then it 's not — there 's nothing — • 
peculiar about it? 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



829 



LiTTLEFiELD. Yes, sir-ree ! Mighty pecul- 
iar! 

Beeler. 1 mean nothing, as you might 
say, outside nature? 

LiTTLEFiELD. 0, bless you, you can't get 
outside nature nowadays! {Moves his 
hands in a wide circle.) Tight as a 
drum, no air-holes. — Devilish queer, 
though — pardon me, Mr. Culpepper — 
really amazing, the power of the mind 
over the body. 

Culpepper. Would you be good enough to 
let us hear some of your professional ex- 
periences •? 

LiTTLEFiELD. {Lights a cigarette, as he 
leans on the edge of the table.) Don't 
have to go to professional medicine for 
cases. They 're lying around loose. 
Why, when I was at Ann Arbor — in a 
fraternity initiation — we bared a chap's 
shoulders, showed him a white-hot poker, 
blindfolded him, told him to stand steady, 
and — touched him with a piece of ice. A 
piece of ice, I tell you ! What happened ? 
Damned if it — pardon me, Mr. Culpep- 
per — blessed if it did n't burn him — car- 
ries the scars to this day. Then there 
was that case in Denver. Ever hear 
about thaf? A young girl, nervous pa- 
tient. Nails driven through the palms 
of her hands, — tenpenny nails, — under 
the hypnotic suggestion that she was n't 
being hurt. Didn't leave a cicatrice as 
big as a bee sting ! Fact ! 

Beeler. You think my wife's ease is like 
these f 

LiTTLEFiELD. Precisely; with religious ex- 
citement to help out. {He points out- 
side.) They're getting ready for King- 
dom-come over it, out yonder, dear Dr. 
Culpepper. 

Beeler. They're worked up enough, if 
that 's all that 's needed. 

LiTTLEFiELD. Worked up! Elijah in a 
chariot of fire, distributing cure-alls as 
he mounts to glory. They 've got their 
ascension robes on, especially the niggers. 

Culpepper. {With severity.) I take it 
you are the late Dr. Martin's successor. 

LiTTLEFiELD. I have the honor. 

Culpepper. Old Dr. Martin would never 
have taken a flippant tone in such a 
crisis. 

LiTTLEFiELD. Flippant *? By no means! 
A little light-headed. My profession is 
attacked. At its very roots, sir. — 
{With relish.) As far as that goes, I 'm 
afraid yours is, too. 

Culpepper. {To Beeler, ignoring the 



gibe.) Am "I to understand that you 
countenance these proceedings'? 

Beeler. {Pointing to the invalid chair.) 
If your wife had spent five years help- 
less in that chair, I guess you 'd counte- 
nance any proceedings that set her on her 
feet. 

Culpepper. {Towers threateningly.) If 
your wife is the woman she was, she 
would rather sit helpless forever beside 
the Rock of Ages, than dance and flaunt 
herself in the house of idols ! 

Beeler. {With depreciating humor.) 0, 
I guess she ain't doin' much flauntin' of 
herself in any house of idols. — You 've 
heard Doctor here say it 's all natural 
enough. Maybe this kind of cure is the 
coming thing. 

LiTTLEFiELD. The Brother would drive us 
doctors into the poorhouse, if he could 
keep up the pace. And you preachers, 
too, as far as that goes. If he could 
keep up the pace! Well — {Sucks at his 
cigarette deliberately.) lucky for us, he 
can^t keep it up. 

Beeler. Why can't he keep it up? 

LiTTLEFiELD. Can't stand the strain. — 
Oh, I have n't seen him operate, but I 'm 
willing to bet his miracles take it out of 
him! 

Culpepper. {Takes his hat and goes to- 
luard the outer door.) Miracles, indeed! 

LiTTLEFiELD. {Following.) Oh, wait for 
me. Doctor ; we 're both in the same boat ! 

Beeler. Hope you gentlemen will come 
back again to-night, and soon, too. 
Don't know what '11 happen if thmgs go 
wrong in there. 

{Points towards the hall.) 

LiTTLEFiELD. All right — ^you can count on 
me — 

Beeler. {To Culpepper.) And you? 

Culpepper. I seldom shirk my duty. 

(Beeler closes the door after them.) 

(Martha enters from the kitchen, with a 

pan of dough, which she sets before the 

fire to raise.) 
Beeler. You keepin' an eye out, Marthy? 
Martha. Guess your bam 'd 'a' been afire, 

if I had n't been keepin' an eye out. 
Beeler. I warned 'em about fire! 
Martha. Haymow ketched. If I hadn't 

been there to put it out, we'd 'a' been 

without a roof by now. 
Beeler. Guess I better go keep an eye 

out myself. 
Martha. Guess you had ! 

(Beeler goes out by the kitchen. 



830 



THE FAITH HEALER 



Martha takes up mechanically her 
eternal task of setting things to 
rights — gathering up Annie's toys 
and arranging the furniture in more 
precise order. Meanwhile, Rhoda 
enters from the hall with the mother 
of the sick child, a frail young 
woman of nervous type. She clings 
to Rhoda feverishly.) 
Mother. Don't leave me! 
Rhoda. You must n't worry. Your baby 
will get well. (Rhoda sinks in a low 
easy chair before the fire, and the woman 
kneels beside her, her face hidden on the 
chair arm.) You must keep up your 
courage and your trust. That will help 
more than anything. 
Mother. I 'm afraid ! 
Rhoda. Think of those others out there, 
who are waiting too, without the glimpse 
of comfort you 've had. 
Mother. {Bursts out.) I ain't had no 
comfort ! When I heard him pray for 
miy child, I — I don't know — I kept sayin' 
to myself — '^0 God, it 's me that 's 
stretchin' out my hands to you, not him. 
Don't punish me for his cold words !" 
(Martha, who has been listening, 
shakes her head significantly.) 
Rhoda. Cold words ! 

Mother. Yes, I know it's wrong. I'll 
try to feel different. It 's because I ain't 
had nothin' to do with religion for so 
long. — If my baby gets well, I '11 make 
up for it. I '11 make up for everything. 
(The woman rises. Rhoda kisses her.) 
Rhoda. I shall be here if you want me. 
And I shall — pray for you. 

{The mother goes out. Distant sing- 
ing is heard. Martha comes to the 
mantelpiece with matches, which she 
arranges in the match tray. She 
looks at Rhoda, who sits with closed 
eyes.) 
Martha. Guess you're about dead beat. 
Rhoda. I think I never was so tired in my 

life. 
Martha. Worry does it, more'n work. 
Better try and doze off, Rhody. 

{The hall door opens, and Annie en- 
ters. She comes to Martha, and 
clings nervously to her skirts.) 
Annie. Aunt Martha ! I want to stay 
with you. You 're the only person in this 
house that ain't different. What 's the 
matter with Mamma f 
Martha. She 's cured, I reckon. 
Annie. How did she get cured? 
Martha. You can search me! 



Annie. Did that man cure her? 
Martha. That's what she says, and I 

don't hear him denyin' it. 
Annie. {Whining.) I don't want her to 

be cured! 
Martha. Annie Beeler! Don't want your 

mother to be cured? 
Annie. No, I don't. I want her to be 
like she always has been. She don't 
seem like my Mamma at all this way. 
What 's the matter with all those people 
out there? Why don't we have any sup- 
per? {She bursts out crying and clings 
feverishly to Martha.) Oh, what's go- 
ing to happen to us? 
Martha. There, Annie, don't cry. {She 
looks at Rhoda, throws a cover over her 
knees, and draws Annie away, speaking 
low.) Come out in the kitchen, and I'll 
give you your supper. 

{Exeunt. The singing grows louder 

and nearer. Michaelis enters from 

the hall. His hair is dishevelled, his 

collar open, his manner feverish and 

distraught. He looks closely at 

Rhoda, sees she is sleeping, then 

paces the floor nervously, gazing out 

of the window in the direction of the 

singing. At length he comes to 

Rhoda again, and bends over her, 

studying her face. She starts up, 

confused and terror-stricken, from 

her doze.) 

Rhoda. What — what is the matter? Oh, 

you frightened me so! (Michaelis 

turns away without answering.) What 

has happened? Why are you here? 

Michaelis. You had dropped asleep. 

You are weary. 
Rhoda. {Collecting her thoughts with dif- 
ficulty.) I was dreaming — such a strange 
dream. 
Michaelis. What did you dream? 
Rhoda. I thought it was morning ; the sun 
had risen, and — and you were out there, 
in the midst of the crowd. 
Michaelis. {Excitedly.) Go on ! What 

happened ? 
Rhoda. I — I can't remember the rest. 
Michaelis. {Grasps her arm, speaks 
low.) You must remember! Did I — 
succeed? 
Rhoda. {Helplessly.) I — it's all a blur 

in my mind. 
Michaelis. {Darkly.) You don't want 
me to know that, in your dream, I 
failed. 
Rhoda. No, no. That is not so. {Pause. 
She speaks with hesitation.) Perhaps 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



831 



this is not the time. Perhaps you are not 
ready. 

MiCHAELis. What does that matter? He 
is ready. 

{He points at the map.) 

Rhoda. {Gazing at the map, with mystic 
conviction.) You will succeed! You 
must succeed! {He paces the room. 
She stops him, pointing toward the hall 
door.) How is the child'? {He hesi- 
tates. She repeats the ivords anxiouslij.) 
How is the child'? {He shakes his head 
gloomily for answer.) It will get well, 
I am sure. 

IVIiCHAELis. If it does not, I am judged. 

Rhoda. Oh, don't say that or think it ! 

MiCHAELis. I am weighed in the balance 
and found wanting ! 

Rhoda. You cannot hang the whole issue 
and meaning of your life upon so slight 
a thread. 

MiCHAELis. The whole issue and meaning 
of the world hang on threads as slight. 
If this one is slight. To the mother it 
is not slight, nor to the God who put into 
her eyes, as she looked at me, all the 
doubt and question of the suffering earth. 

Rhoda. You must remember that it is only 
a little child. Its mind is not open. 
You cannot influence it — can you'? 

MiCHAELis. Once that little life in my 
hand would have been as clay in the 
hands of the potter. If I cannot help 
now, it is because my ministry has been 
taken from me and given to another, who 
will be strong where I am weak, and 
faithful where I am unfaithful. 

{Another song rises outside, distant.) 

Rhoda. {Comes closer to him.) Tell me 
this. Speak plainly to me. Is it be- 
cause of me that your weakness and un- 
f aith have come upon you '? Is it because 
of me? 

MiCHAELis. {Looking at her steadily.) 
Yes. — {He comes nearer.) Before cre- 
ation, beyond time, God not yet risen 
from His sleep, you stand and call to me, 
and I listen in a dream that I dreamed 
before Eden. 

Rhoda. {Shrinking from him.) You 
must not say such things to me. — You 
must not think of me so. — You must not ! 
{He follows her, his passion mount- 
ing.) 

MiCHAELis. All my life long I have 
known you, and fled from you. I have 
heard you singing on the hills of sleep 
and have fled from you into the waking 
day. I have seen you in the spring for- 



est, dancing .^and throwing your webs of 
sunlight to snare me; on moonlit moun- 
tains, laughing and calling; in the streets 
of crowded cities, beckoning and disap- 
pearing in the crowd — and everywhere I 
have fled from you, holding above my 
head the sign of God's power in me, my 
gift and my mission. — What use? What 
use? It has crumbled, and I do not 
care! 
Rhoda. Oh, don't speak such words, I be- 
seech you. Let me go. This must not, 
shall not be! 

{She makes another attempt to escape. 
He presses upon her until she stands 
at hay.) 
MiCHAELis. You are all that I have feared 
and shunned and missed on earth, and 
now I have you, the rest is as nothing. 
{He takes her, feebly resisting, into his 
arms.) 1 know a place out there, high 
in the great mountains. Heaven-pierc- 
ing walls of stone, a valley of trees and 
sweet water in the midst — grass and flow- 
ers, such flowers as you have never 
dreamed could grow. — There we will take 
our happiness. A year — a month — a day 
— what matter? We will make a life- 
time of each hour! 
Rhoda. {Yielding to Jiis embrace, whis- 
pers.) Don't talk. Don't think. Only 
— love me. A little while. A • little 
while. 

{The deep hush of their embrace is 
broken by a cry from within. The 
young mother opens the hall door in 
a distraction of terror and grief.) 
Mother. Come here! Come quick! 
(MiCHAELis and Rhoda draw apart. He 
stares at the woman, as if not remember- 
ing icho she is.) I can't rouse him ! My 
baby 's gone. Oh, my God, he 's dead ! 
{She disappears. Rhoda follows, 
drawing Michaelis^ dazed and half 
resisting, with her. The room re- 
mains vacant for a short time, the 
stage held by distant singing. 
Beeler enters from the kitchen. 
There is a knock at the outer door, 
which he opens. Littlefield, Cul- 
pepper, and Uncle Abe enter.) 
Littlefield. Your man hasn't va- 
moosed, has he? LTncle Abe here says he 
saw the Indian boy slipping by in the 
fog. 
Beeler. {Turns to the negro inquiringly.) 

Alone? 
Uncle Abe. {Mumbles half to himself.) 
'Lone. 'Spec' he was alone. Did n't 



832 



THE FAITH HEALER 



even have bis own flesh and bones wif 
'im! 

Beeler. What's that? 

Uncle Abe. {Holds up his right hand, 
which he eyes with superstitious inter- 
est.) Put dis hyar han' right frough 
him ! — Shore 's you 're bo'n. Right plum' 
frough 'im whar he lives. 

Culpepper. Mediaeval! Absolutely medi- 
a3val ! 

Littlefield. Not a bit of it. It 's up to 
date, and a little more, too. 

Culpepper. I 'm astonished that you take 
this situation flippantly. 

Littlefield. Not for a minute. My 
bread and butter are at stake. {Wick- 
edly.) Yours too, you know. 

(Mrs. Beeler enters, alone, from the hall. 
She is in a state of vague alarm. Her 
husband hastens to help her.) 

Mrs. Beeler. What is it? What is the 
matter? I thought I heard — 

{She breaks off, as a murmur of voices 
rises outside. There is a sound of 
stumbling and crowding on the outer 
steps, and violent knocking. The 
outer door is forced open, and a 
crowd of excited people is about to 
pour into the room. Beeler, the 
Doctor, and the Preacher are able 
to force the crowd back only after 
several have made an entrance.) 
Beeler. Keep back! You can't come in 
here. 

{As he pushes them roughly back, ex- 
cited voices speak together.) 
Voices in the Crowd. Where is he? — 
They say he 's gone away. We seen his 
boy makin' for the woods. — Oh, it 's not 
true! Make him come out. 
Beeler. Curse you, keep back, I say! 

(Rhoda has entered from the hall, and 
Martha from the kitchen. The two 
women support Mrs. Beeler, who 
remains standing, the fear deepen- 
ing in her face.) 
A Voice. {On the outskirts of the crowd.) 

Where's he gone to? 
Beeler. He's here. In the next room. 
Keep back ! Here he comes now. 

(MiCHAELis appears in the hall door. 
There is a low murmur of excitement, 
expectation, and awe among the peo- 
ple crowded in the entrance. Bee- 
ler crosses to help his wife, and the 
other men step to one side, leaving 
MiciiAELis to confront the crowd 



alone. Confused, half-whispered 
exclamations :) 

Voices in the Crowd. Hallelujah! Em- 
manuel ! 

A Negro. Praise de Lamb. 

A Woman. {Above the murmuring 
voices.) ''He hath risen, and His ene- 
mies are scattered." 

Michaelis. Who said that? 

{A woman, obscurely seen in the crowd, 
lifts her hands and cries again, this 
time in a voice ecstatic and pierc- 
ing. ) 

A Woman. "The Lord hath risen, and His 
enemies are scattered!" 

Michaelis. His enemies are scattered! 

' Year after year I have heard His voice 
calling me — and year after year I have 
said, "Show me the w^ay." And He 
showed me the way. He brought me to 
this house, and He raised up the believ- 
ing multitude around me. But in that 
hour I failed Him, I failed Him. He 
has smitten me, as His enemies are smit- 
ten. — As a whirlwind He has scattered 
me and taken my strength from me for- 
ever. {He advances into the room, with 
a gesture backward through the open 
door.) In yonder room a child lies dead 
on its mother's knees, and the mother's 
eyes follow me wath curses. {At the 
news of the child's death, Mrs. Beeler 
has sunk with a low moan into a chair, 
where she lies white and motionless. 
Michaelis turns to her.) And here lies 
one who rose at my call, and was as one 
risen; but now — {He breaks off, raises 
his hand to her, and speaks in a voice of 
pleading.) Arise, my sister! {She 
makes a feeble gesture of the left hand.^ 
Rise up once more, I beseech you ! 

{She attempts to rise, but falls back 
helpless.) 

Beeler. {Bending over her.) Can't you 
get up. Mother? 

{She shakes her head.) 

Michaelis. {Turning to the people.) 
Despair not, for another will come, and 
another and yet another, to show you the 
way. But as for me — {He sinks down 
by the table, and gazes before him, mut- 
tering in a tragic whisper.) Broken! 
Broken ! Broken ! 



ACT THIRD. 

The next morning, just before sunrise. 
Both door and windows are open, and a 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



833 



light breeze sways the curtains. Out- 
side is a tree-shaded and vine-clad porch, 
with balustrade^ beyond ivhich is a tan- 
gle of flowering bushes and fruit trees in 
bloom. The effect is of a rich warm 
dawn — a sudden onset of summer weather 
after a bleak spring. 
Beeler, with Uncle Abe looking on, is 
busy putting up the pictures which he 
has taken down in the preceding act. 
Martha enters from the hall. 

Beeler. {To Martha.) Is Mary up? 

Martha. Yes. Wants to go out on the 
porch and watch the sun rise, same as 
she 's done every Easter morning since 
Seth died. 

Beeler. Won't hurt her, I reckon, bad off 
as she is. — A reg'lar old-fashioned, sun- 
shiny, blossomy spring mornin' — summer 
here with a jump and fine growin' 
weather. {Pause.) All the same, sun 
might as well stay in China this Easter! 

Martha. Is that why you 're tackin' up 
them fool pictures again'? 

Beeler. Yes, ma'am. That 's just why. 
Religion ! 

Martha. You wa' n't so sure yesterday, 
when you saw your wife stand up on her 
two dead feet and walk. 

Beeler. Well, she ain't walkin' now. 

Martha. No, she ain't, poor thing. 

Beeler. Natural cure, natural relapse. 
Doctor says the new medical books ex- 
plain it. 

Martha. Give it a name, maybe ! 

Beeler. {Bursts out petulantly.) You 
women don't want things explained, any 
more'n Abe here! You prefer hocus- 
pocus. And nothin' will teach you. 
Take Rhody! Sees Michaelis flunk his 
job miserable. Sees Mary go down like 
a woman shot, hands and legs paralyzed 
again, — Doctor says, for good, this time. 
And what does the girl do about if? 
Spends the night out yonder laborin' 
with them benighted sick folks, tellin' 
'em the healer will make good. Lots of 
makin' good he '11 do ! {He points at 
the ceiling.) A fine picture of a healer 
he makes, 

Martha. {Looking up.) Still as a stone! 
I 'd rather have him ragin' round same as 
yesterday, like a lion with the epizootic. 

Beeler. He's a dead one. Rhody might 
as well give up tryin' to make folks think 
different. 

Martha. Maybe Rhody holds she's to 
blame. 



Beeler. To blame? To blame for what? 

Martha. For him a-peterin' out. 

Beeler. What 's she got to do with it ? 

Martha. Maybe she ain't got nothin' to 
do with it, and maybe she 's got a whole 
lot. 

Beeler. Marthy, I don't want it to get 
out, but you 're a plum' luny sentimental 
old maid fool! 

(Uncle Abe has been hovering, with 
superstitious interest, near the pic- 
ture of Pan and the Pilgrim. With 
side glances at it, he speaks, taking 
advantage of the lull in conversation 
which follows Beeler's outburst.) 

Uncle Abe. Mistah Beelah, 'scuse me 
troublin' you, but — 'scuse me troublin' 
you. 

Beeler. What is it, Abe? 

Uncle Abe. It 's purty brash o' me to be 
askin', but — Mista Beelah, fur de Lawd's 
sake give me that thar devil — pictuh! 

Beeler. What do you want with it? 

Uncle Abe. Want to hang it up in my ole 
cabin. {His tone rises to one of eager 
pleading.) Mars Beelah, you give it to 
me! For Gawd's sake, say Ole Uncle 
Abe kin have it, to hang up in his ole 
cabin. 

Beeler. Well, if you feel as strong as 
that about it, Abe, take it along. 

Uncle Abe. {As he unpins it with fever- 
ish eagerness.) Thank ye, Mistah Bee- 
lah, thank ye. I '11 wo'k fur ye and I '11 
slave fur ye, long as the worl' stan's. 
Maybe it ain't goin' to stan' much longer 
af tah all. Maybe de chariot s comin' 
down in de fiery clouds 'fo' great while. 
An' what '11 yo' ole Uncle Abe be doin' ? 
He '11 be on his knees 'fo' a big roarin' 
fire, singing hallelujah, an' a-jammin' 
red-hot needles right plum' f rough dis 
lieah black devil's breas' bone ! I 'se got 
him now! I'll fix'm. {Shakes his fist 
at the print, as he goes toward the 
kitchen.) Put yo' black spell on the 
Lawd's chosen, would ye ? I 'se got ye. 
I'll make ye sing, "Jesus, my ransom," 
right out 'n yo' ugly black mouf ! 

{Exit.) 

Beeler. There ^s a pnrty exhibition for 
this present year o' grace! Thinks our 
friend Pan there has bewitched the 
healer. 

Martha. Maybe he has! 

Beeler. Thought you said Rhody done it. 

Martha. Same thing, I reckon, by all that 
you tell about that Pan;jandruni and liis 
goin's on! 



834 



THE FAITH HEALER 



Beeler. Nonsense ! 

Martha. If you 're so wise, why do you 

think Michaelis petered out? 
Beeler; Could n't stand the strain. Bit 
off more 'n he could chaw, in the healin' 
line. — Never looked at Rhody. 
Martha. Looked at her till he couldn't 
see nothin' else, in heaven or earth or the 
other place. 
Beeler. You 're dead wrong. I tell you 
he never looked cross-eyed at Rhody, nor 
Rhody at him. Doctor's more in her 
line. — By the way, did you give the Doc- 
tor a snack to stay his stomach ? 
Martha. Done nothin' but feed him all 
night long. Seems to be mighty ex- 
haustin' work to tend a sick baby. 
Beeler. Does he think it'll live? 
Martha. Not likely. But he thinks he 
will, if fed reg-'lar. — What do you call 
that trance the baby 's in f 
Beeler. Doctor calls it comy. Spelled it 
out for me: c-o-m-a, comy. 

(Beeler goes out on the porch and 
disappears. Martha continues her 
task of tidying up the room. Mi- 
chaelis enters from the stair, carry- 
ing his hat and a foot-travellefs 
knapsack. Martha regards him 
with curiosity, tempered now hy 
feminine sympathy with the de- 
feated.) 
Martha. Good morning, sir. 
Michaelis. (Tonelessly.) Good morning. 
Martha. (Pointing at his hat and knap- 
sack.) Hope you ain't off. Don't mind 
sayin' the way you acted w^as human de- 
cent, sendin' for Doctor when you found 
the baby wa' n't dead, an' you wa' n't no 
healer any more. 
Michaelis. Is it any better? 

(Martha makes a disconsolate gesture, 
implying that there is little or no 
hope. Michaelis turns away with 
. bent head. Anxie enters from the 
kitchen. Michaelis holds out his 
hand to her, and she takes it with 
shy hesitation.) 
Martha. Guess you 'd like to know where 
Rhody is, wouldn't you? She's where 
she 's been all night, — out yonder with 
the sick folks. 
Michaelis. What is she doing there? 
Martha. Feedin' 'em, first off, an' then 
heart'nin' of 'em up. That's a purly 
hard job, I reckon ; but it 's the way o' 
women when they feel like she does. 
(Michaelis sinks in a chair, drawing 
Annie to him. Mrs. Beeler's hell 



rings; Martha goes out hy the hall 
door. Annie watches his hent head 
in silence for a moment.) 
Annie. Are you ever going up again, on 

the rope? 
Michaelis. {Not remembering.) On the 

rope? 
Annie. You know . . . the magic rope, — 

Ain't you ever going to climb up in the 

sky again? 
Michaelis. (Recollecting.) Never again, 

Annie. Never again. 
Annie. Have you got the rope still? 
Michaelis. No, I have lost it. 
Annie. Won't you ever find it? 
Michaelis. It can only be found by some 

one who will know how to use it better 

than I did. 
Annie. How better? 
Michaelis. By some one who can climb 

up, toward the sun and the stars, and yet 

never leave the earth, the cities, and the 

people. 
Annie. Then he'll have to take them up 

with him. (Michaelis nods for yes.) 

Gracious! (She runs to the porch door 

to meet Rhoda, wlio appears outside.) 

Cousin Rhoda! What do you think he 

says about the magic rope? 
Rhoda. What, Annie? 
Annie. He says that first thing you know, 

everything will be going up in the air, 

towns and people and everything. 
Rhoda. Does he? 
Annie. (Runs out into the hall, balancing 

her arms above her head and gazing up 

laughingly.) Dear me! That will be 

veiy tippy! 

(Rhoda enters.) 

Michaelis. You are here! The fear 
came over me, just now — 

Rhoda. I could not go until I had told 
you the truth — about myself — about us. 

Michaelis. You will tell me the whole 
truth, and I will tell you the same. But 
that will be for later. Come! Come 
away with me, into the new life. 

Rhoda. A life rooted in the failure of all 
that life has meant to you from the be- 
ginning ! 

Michaelis. Until yesterday I did not 
know what my life was. 

Rhoda. You do not know that, even yet. 
You know it now less than ever — what 
your life is, what it means to you, w^hat 
it means to the world. 

Michaelis. To ihe world it can mean 
nothing. That is ended. But to us it 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



835 



can mean happiness. Let us make haste 
to gather it. Come! 

Rhoda. Where do you want me to gof 

MiCHAELis. Anywhere — to that place I 
told you of — high in the great mountains. 

Rhoda. I was there last night. 

MiCHAELis. In your thoughts'? 

Rhoda. I was there, and saw all the beauty 
of it, all the peace. But one thing was 
not there, and for lack of it, in a little 
while the beauty faded and the peace 
was gone. 

MiCHAELis. What was not there? 

Rhoda. The work you have to do. 

MiCHAELis. That was a dream I could not 
realize. I have striven, and I have 
failed. 

Rhoda. Do you know why you have 
failed'? 

MiCHAELis. Yes. 

Rhoda. Tell me why, 

MiCHAELis. Because I have loved you 
more than the visions that came to me in 
desert places, more than the powers that 
fell upon me at the bedside of the sick, 
more than the spirit hands and spirit 
voices that have guided me on my way. 

Rhoda. What of the sick and suffering 
out yonder, who are waiting and hoping 
against hope? What of them? 

MiCHAELis. I cannot help them. 

Rhoda. Once you dreamed you could. 

MiCHAELis. Yes. But that is over. 

Rhoda. And who is to blame that that 
great dream is over? 

MiCHAELis. No one is to blame. It has 
happened so. 

Rhoda. Doesn't it seem strange that the 
love of a woman entering into your heart 
should take away such a dream as that? 

MiCHAELis. I do not question. It is so. 

Rhoda. But if your love had fallen, by 
some sad chance, upon a woman who was 
not worthy of love ? 

MiCHAELis. What are you saying? 

Rhoda. You know less than nothmg of 
me. You have not asked me a single 
question about my life. 

MiCHAELis. There was no need. 

Rhoda. There was need! There was 
need! 

MiCHAELis. Be careful what you say. Go 
on! 

Rhoda. In the first hour of our meeting, 
and all the hours of the next day, you 
swept me along and lifted me above my- 
self, like a strong wind. I did n't know 
what you were. I did n't know why I 
was happy and exalted. It was so long 



smce I had been happy, and I had never 
been as happy as that, or anything like 
it. Then, yesterday morning, came the 
revelation of what you were, like a blind- 
ing light out of the sky! And while I 
stood dazed, trembling, I saw something 
descend upon you like a shadow. You 
loved me, and that love was dreadful to 
you. You thought it was so because I 
w^as a woman and stole your spirit's 
strength away. But it was not that. It 
was because I was a wicked woman. 

MiCHAELis. Why do you call yourself a 
wicked woman? 

Rhoda. Because I am so. 

MiCHAELis. I cannot believe it. 

Rhoda. It is true. 

MiCHAELis. Is that why you wanted to go 
away ? 

Rhoda. Yes, I tried to go away. You 
would n't let me go. Then I tried to tell 
you the truth. I knew why I took your 
strength away, and I had nerved myself 
to tell you why. But you began to 
speak — those wild words. I could not re- 
sist you. You took me in your arms ; and 
all the power of your soul went from 
you, and your life went crashing down 
in darkness. {Long pause.) 

MiCHAELis. Wicked? A wicked woman? 

Rhoda. I was young then, wild-hearted, 
pitifully ignorant. I thought that love 
had come to me. Girls are so eager for 
love. They snatch at the shadow of it. — 
That is what I did. — I am not tiding to 
plead for myself. — Some things are not 
to be forgiven. — Somewhere in my na- 
ture there was a taint — a plague-spot. — 
If life is given me, I shall find it and 
root it out. I only ask for time to do 
that. But meanwhile I have done what 
I could. I have told you the truth. I 
have set you free. I have given you 
back your mission. 

(Dr. Littlefield enters, carrying his hat 
and medicine case. He looks sharply at 
Rhoda, then turns to Michaelis. His 
m.anner towards him is politely con- 
temptuous, toward Rhoda it is full of 
covert passion, modified hy his habitual 
cynicism and satire.) 

Littlefield. {To Rhoda.) Good morn- 
ing. {To Michaelis.) Good morning, 
my friend. I understood that you sent 
for me, last night. 

Michaelis. I did. 

Littlefield. Glad to accommodate a fel- 
low practitioner, even if he is in a side 



836 



THE FAITH HEALER 



line. Some folks think your way of busi- 
ness is a little shady, but Lord, if they 
knew the secrets of owr charnel-house! 

MiCHAELis. How did you leave the child *? 

LiTTLKPiELD. Doue for. I said I was 
worth a million of you in a case like this, 
but I didn't realize how far things had 
gone. The next time, call me in a little 
sooner. {He writes on his note pad, 
tears out a leaf, and lays it on the table.) 
Mrs. Beeler will continue the old pre- 
scription, alternating with this. {He 
puts the note pad in his pocket, and turns 
to Rhoda. He speaks in a tone which 
implies command, under the veil of re- 
quest.) Will you walk a ways with me, 
Miss Williams? 

Rhoda. {Pale and trembling.) No. 

LiTTLEFiELD. Pardon ! I must have a 
short talk. It is important. 

Rhoda. I cannot go with you. 

LiTTLEFiELD. I think you had better re- 
consider. 

MiCHAELis. {Astonished at his tone.) 
You have heard that she does not wish 
to go. 

LiTTLEFiELD. {Ignoring Michaelis.) I 
have no time to waste, and I shall not 
stop to mince my words. You are com- 
ing with me, and you are coming now. 

Michaelis. {To Rhoda.) Who is this 
man? 

LiTTLEFiELD. {Wheeling upon him an- 
grily.) Ton my honor! "Who is this 
manf "Remove the worm!" Decidedly 
tart, from a miracle-monger in a state 
of bankruptcy. 

Michaelis. (To Rhoda.) Is this the man 
you told me of? 

Rhoda. {Steadily.) Yes. 

LiTTLEFiELD. {To Rhoda, as he eyes Mi- 
chaelis with dislike.) So you have 
called in a father confessor, eh? {To 
Michaelis.) Well, since the lady can't 
keep her secrets to herself, this is the 
man. Very painful, no doubt, but these 
little things will happen. {To Rhoda.) 
I should have chosen a more secluded 
nook to say this in, but you 're skittish, 
as I have learned to my cost, and likely 
to bolt. What I want to say is, don't 
bolt. It won't do you any good. — I 've 
found you once, and I '11 find you again, 
no matter what rabbit's hole you dodge 
into. {To Michaelis.) This ain't 
George Littlefield, M.D., talking now. 
It 's the caveman of Borneo. He 's got 
arms as long as rakes, and teeth that are 
a caution. — Look out for him ! 



Michaelis. {Holding himself in stern re- 
straint.) Your arms and teeth are long 
enough, and eager enough to do damage, 
but they will not avail you here. This 
girl is in other keeping, and I dare to 
say, better. 

Littlefield. In other keeping, eh? 
Yours, I suppose. 

Michaelis. Yes, mine. 

Littlefield. Bless my soul! {He turns 
to Rhoda, pointedly ignoring Mi- 
chaelis.) Look here, Rho, be sensible. 
I 'm tired of this hole of a town already. 
We'll go west and renew our youth. 
Country 's big, and nobody to meddle. 
You '11 flourish like a green bay tree. 
(Rhoda turns distractedly, as to escape; 
he intercepts her.) Confound it, if 
you 're set on it, I '11 marry you ! Say 
yes, and let John the Baptist here give us 
his blessing. Speak up. Is it a go? — 
Till death us do part. 

Michaelis. Death has already parted yon 
and her. 

Littlefield. So? I feel like a reason- 
ably healthy corpse. 

Michaelis. There is . no health in you. 
Every word you speak gives off corrup- 
tion. 

Littlefield. Indeed! My advice to you 
is, make tracks for your starvation desert. 
A parcel of locoed Indians are about 
right for a busted prophet. 

Michaelis. What I am is no matter. 
What this girl is, though you lived a 
thousand years, you would never have the 
grace to imagine. She gave you her 
young love, in childish blindness, not 
knowing what she did, and you killed it 
idly, wantonly, as a beast tortures its 
frail victim, for sport. You find her 
again, still weak and bleeding from her 
wounds, and you fling her marriage, in 
words whose every syllable is an insult. 
Marriage! When every fibre of her na- 
ture must cry out against you, if she is 
w^oman. Take your words and your looks 
from her, and that instantly, or you will 
curse the day you ever brought your evil 
presence into her life. {He advances 
upon him threateningly.) Instantly, I 
say, or by the wrath of God your 
wretched soul, if you have one, shall go 
this hour to its account ! 

Littlefield. {Backing toward the door, 
scared, but keeping his brazen tone.) 
All right. — I 'm off. — Caveman for cave- 
man, you 've got the reach ! ( To Rhoda. ) 
But remember, my lady, we 're not quits 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



837 



by a jug-full. You '11 hear from me yet. 
MiCHAELis. She shall never hear from 

you, nor of you. 
LiTTLEriELD. {In the door.) Last call, 

old girl! — Women! 

{He goes out, slamming the door be- 
hind him. Long pause.) 
MiCHAELis. Poor child ! Poor child ! 
Rhoda. I am sorry that you have had to 

suffer this. 
MiCHAELis. It is you who have suffered. 

(Martha enters from the hall, wheeling 
Mrs. Beeler in the invalid chair. She 
lies lower than in the first act, her man- 
ner is weaker and more dejected. Rhoda, 
whose hack is turned, goes on as the two 
women enter.) 

Rhoda. I deserve to suffer, but it will al- 
ways be sweet to me that in my need you 
defended me, and gave me back my cour- 
age. 

(MiCHAELis goes to Mrs. Beeler; she 
gives him her left hand as at first.) 

Mrs. Beeler. My poor friend! (Mar- 
tha, resigning the chair to Rhoda, goes 
out. Mrs. Beeler looks up at Rhoda 
anxiously.) What were you saying when 
I came in *? {As Rhoda does not answer, 
she turns to Michaelis.) Something 
about your defending her. — ^Against 
what? 

Michaelis. Nothing. Her nature is its 
own defence. 

Mrs. Beeler. {Caressing her.) Ah, no! 
She needs help. She cannot bear it that 
this disaster has come, through her. It 
has made her morbid. She says things 
about herself, that make me tremble. 
Has she spoken to you — about herself? 

Michaelis. She has laid her heart bare to 
me. 

Mrs. Beeler. That is good. Young peo- 
ple, when they are generous, always lay 
disaster at their own door. {She kisses 
Rhoda. The girl goes into the porch, 
where she lingers a moment, then disap- 
pears. Mrs. Beeler sinks hack in her 
chair again, overtaken hy despondency.) 
Is n't it strange that I should be lying 
here again, and all those poor people 
waking up into a new day that is no new 
day at all, but the old weary day they 
have known so long"? Isn't it strange, 
and sad'? 

Michaelis. I ask you not to lose hope. 

Mrs. Beeler. {Bousing from her dejec- 
tion into vague excitement.) You ask 
me that? — Is there — any hope? Oh, 



don't deceive. me — now! I couldn't bear 
it now! — Is there any hope? 

Michaelis. A half-hour ago I thought 
mere was none. But now I say, have 
hope. 

Mrs. Beeler. {Eagerly.) Do you? Do 
you? Oh, I wonder — I wonder if that 
could be the meaning — ? 

Michaelis. The meaning — ? 

Mrs. Beeler. Of something I felt, just 
now, as I sat there in my room by the 
open window. 

Michaelis. What was it? 

Mrs. Beeler. I — I don't know how to de- 
scribe it. — It was like a new sweetness in 
the air. 

{She looks out at the open tvindow', 
where the spring hreeze lightly 
wafts the curtains.) 

Michaelis. The lilacs have operi.ed dur- 
ing the night. 

Mrs. Beeler. It was not the lilacs. — I 
get it now again, in this room. {She 
looks toward the lilies and shakes her 
head. ) No, it is not the lilies either. If 
it w^ere anyone else, I should be ashamed 
to say what I think. {She draws him 
down and speaks mysteriously.) It is 
not real flowers at all! 
{Song rises outside — faint and distant.) 

Michaelis. What is it to you? 

Mrs. Beeler. It is like — it is like some 
kindness in the air, some new-born hap- 
piness — or a new hope rising. Now you 
will think I am — not quite right in my 
mind, as Mat does, and Martha ! 

Michaelis. Mrs. Beeler, there is such a 
perfume about us this beautiful Easter 
morning. You perceive it, with senses 
which suffering and a pure soul have 
made fine beyond the measure of woman. 
There is a kindness in the air, new-born 
happiness, and new-risen hope. 

Mrs. Beeler. From whose heart does it 
rise? 

Michaelis. From mine, from Rhoda's 
heart, though she knows it not, from 
yours, and soon, by God's mercy, from 
the heart of this waiting multitude. 

{The song, though still distant, grows 
louder. Mrs. Beeler turns to Mi- 
chaelis and gazes intently into his 
face. ) 

Mrs. Beeler. The light has come into 
your face again! You are — you are — 
Oh, my brother, what has come to you? 

Michaelis. I have shaken off my burden. 
Do you shake off yours. What is pain 
but a kind of selfishness? What is dis- 



838 



THE FAITH HEALER 



ease but a kind of sin 1 Lay your suffer- 
ing and your sickness from you as an 
out-worn garment. Rise up ! It is Eas- 
ter morning. One comes, needing you. 
Rise up and welcome her! 

(Mrs. Beeler rises and goes to meet 
Rhoda, entering from the porch.) 

Rhoda. Aunt Mary! You are walking 
again ! 

Mrs. Beeler. He told me to arise, and 
once more my dead limbs heard. 

Rhoda. God in His mercy be thanked ! 

Mrs. Beeler. I rose without knowing 
what I did. It was as if a wind lifted 
me. 

Rhoda. Yes, yes. For good, this time! 

Mrs. Beeler. So different from yester- 
day. I was still weak then, and my 
limbs were heavy. Now I feel as if 
wings were on my shoulders. {She 
looks toward the outer door, and listens 
to the singing, now risen to a more joy- 
ful strain.) 1 must go out to them. 
(She turns to Michaelis.) Say that I 
may go out, and give them the good tid- 
ings of great joy. 

Michaelis. May the Lord be with you as 
you go! {To Rhoda, who starts to help 
her aunt.) Alone! 

Mrs. Beeler. Yes, alone. I want to go 
alone. {She takes a lily from the vase, 
and lifting it above her head, goes out 
through the porch, which is now flooded 
with sunshine. As she goes out she 
says:) The Easter sun has risen, with 
healing in its wings! 
{She crosses the porch and disappears.) 

Rhoda. I felt something dragging me 
back. It was Aunt Mary's spirit. 

Michaelis. No, it was mine. 

Rhoda. Yours •? 

Michaelis. My spirit, crying to you that 
I was delivered. 

Rhoda. I delivered you. That is enough 
happiness for one life. 

Michaelis. You delivered me, yes. But 
not as you dream. Yesterday when the 
multitude began to gather, the thing I 
had been waiting for all my life was 
there, and I — because of you — I was not 
ready. In that blind hour my life sank 
in ruin. — I had thought love denied to 
such as had my work to do, and in the 
darkness of that thought disaster over- 
whelmed me. — I have come to know that 
God does not deny love to any of his 
children, but gives it as a beautiful and 



simple gift to them all. — Upon each 
head be the use that is made of it! 

Rhoda. It is not I — who — harm you? 

Michaelis. It is you who bless me, and 
give me back the strength that I had lost. 

Rhoda. I"? 

Michaelis. A little while ago you told me 
your life's bitter story. I tasted your 
struggle, went down with you into the 
depths of your anguish, and in those 
depths, — the miracle ! Behold, once more 
the stars looked down upon me from 
their places, and I stood wondering as a 
child wonders. Out of those depths 
arose new-born happiness and new-risen 
hope. For in those star-lit depths of 
pain and grief, I had found at last true 
love. You needed me. You needed all 
the powers I had thrown away for your 
sake. You needed what the whole world 
needs — healing, healing, and as I rose to 
meet that need, the power that I had lost 
poured back into my soul. 

Rhoda. Oh, if I thought that could be ! 

Michaelis. By the mystery that is man, 
and the mercy that is God, I say it is so. — 
{Puts his hand on her head, and gazes 
into her face.) I looked into your eyes 
once, and they were terrible as an army 
with banners. I look again now, and 1 
see they are only a girl's eyes, very weak, 
very pitiful. I told you of a place, high 
in the great mountains. I tell you now 
of another place higher yet, in more mys- 
terious mountains. Let us go there to- 
gether, step by step, from faith to faith, 
and from strength to strength, for I see 
depths of life open and heights of love 
come out, which I never dreamed of till 
now! 

{A song rises outside, nearer and 
louder than before.) 

Rhoda. Against your • own words they 
trust you still. 

Michaelis. It was you who held them to 
their trust ! 

Rhoda. You will go out to them now. 

Michaelis. {As he kisses her.) Until the 
victory ! 

{The song rises to a great hymn, of 
martial and joyous rhythm. They 
go together to the threshold. They 
look at each other in silence. Rhoda 
speaks, with suppressed meaning.) 

Rhoda. Shall it be — on earth? 

Michaelis. On the good human earth, 
which I never possessed till now ! 

Rhoda. But now — these waiting souls, 
prisoned in their pain — 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



839 



MiCHAELis. By faith all prisoned souls 

shall be delivered. 
Rhoda. By faith. 
MiCHAELis. By faith which makes all 

things possible, which brings all things 

to pass. 

{He disappears. Rhoda stands look- 



ing after him. The young mother 
hurries in.) 
The Young Mother. {Ecstatic, breath- 
less.) Come here — My baby! I believe 
— I do believe — {She disappears.) 

Rhoda. {'Following her.) I believe. I 
do believe! 

{The music rises into a vast chorus of 
many mingled strains.) 



THE SCARECROW 

A TRAGEDY OF THE LUDICROUS 
BY 

Percy MacKaye 



Copyright, 1908, by The Macmillan Company 

Copyright, 1914, by Percy MacKaye 

Copyright, 1916, by Percy MacKaye 

All Rights Reserved 

Including stage and platform rights and the right of trans- 
lation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian. 

This play ''The Scarecrow" ho^ been duly copyrighted in the 
United States of America, The Dominion of Canada, and in 
all countries of the copyright union. 

No performance, amateur or professional, can legally he 
given without permission first obtained from the author and 
payment of royalty. Infringement of copyright involves lia- 
bility to prosecution by law. 

No public reading of this play for money can legally be 
given without permission first obtained from the author. 

To obtain such permission communication should be made 
with the author direct, in care of the publishers. 

Reprinted by permission of Mr. Percy MacKaye and by 
special arrangement with the Macmillan Company. 



THE SCARECROW 

The Scarecrow represents the romance of the fantastic, with its basis in 
American history. It was suggested by Hawthorne's story of ' ' Feathertop, " 
published originally in 1852 and afterwards included in the Mosses from an Old 
Manse. Mr. MacKaye has modified the nature of the characters decidedly, has 
added characters, and, as he says in the preface to the published play, has sub- 
stituted the element of human sympathy for that of irony. 

Percy MacKaye was born in New York City, March 16, 1875, the son 
of Steele MacKaye and Mary Medbery, who herself dramatized Fride and 
Prejudice. He grew up in the atmosphere of the theatre and before enter- 
ing Harvard College in 1893 he had written a series of choral songs for his 
father's projected ''Spectatorio" at the World's Fair in 1893. He graduated 
from Harvard College in 1897. During his junior year, he wrote a poetical play 
Sappho, which was acted by Harvard and Wellesley students. After two years 
of European travel and study he returned to New York and taught in a private 
school, continuing to write plays. The turning point in his career came when 
his Canterbury Pilgrims was accepted by E. H. Sothern in 1903. Since 1904 he 
has devoted himself entirely to dramatic work, living at Cornish, New Hampshire. 
Mr. MacKaye stands in our drama for high standards of dramatic writing. 
He represents the movement for a civic and national theatre, untrammelled by 
commercial considerations, and he has brought into recent prominence the idea 
of the community masque or pageant, in itself one of the most significant 
dramatic movements of the time. At the same time he is not simply a theorist, 
but has proved his ability to write plays that succeed upon the stage. 

He has written sixteen plays, ten masques or pageants, and four operas. 
His plays have been performed except the first, A Garland to Sylvia, and Fenris 
the Wolf, a masterly study of the mutual effects of purity and passion, laid in a 
setting of Northern mythology. The acted plays, arranged in the order of their 
composition and with their dates of publication indicated in parentheses, are: 
The Canterbury Pilgrims (1903), a dramatization of the relations between Chaii- 
cer and his characters, first performed at the Park Extension Theatre, Savannah, 
Georgia, April 30, 1909; The Scarecrow (1908); Jeamie d'Arc, an historical 
play (1906), first produced at the Lyric Theatre, Philadelphia, October 15, 1906; 
Sappho and Phaon (1907), a Greek play with the theme of the contrasted influ- 
ence of family ties and sexual love, first performed at the Opera House, Provi- 
dence, Rhode Island, October 14, 1907; Mater (1908), a comedy based on Amer- 
ican politics, first performed at the Van Ness Theatre, San Francisco, California, 
August 3, 1908; Anti-Matrimony (1910), a clever satire upon the influence of 

843 



844 INTRODUCTION 



modern continental playwrights upon the ideas of marriage held by two young 
Americans, first performed in the Theatre at Ann Arbor, Michigan, March 10, 
1910; Tomorrow (1912), a play dealing seriously with the problem of selec- 
tion in the matter of marriage, first performed at the Little Theatre, Philadel- 
phia, October 31, 1913; A Thousand Years Ago (1914), an Oriental romance, 
first performed at the Shubert Theatre, New York, December 1, 1913, and 
Yankee Fantasies (1912), five one-act plays, four of which have been performed, 
and two of which, Getty shurg and Sam Average, are upon national themes. 

The group of Masques and Pageants include the Saint Gaudens Masque- 
Prologue (1909), first produced June 20, 1905, by the Cornish Colony in honor 
of Augustus St. Gaudens; the Gloucester Pageant (1903), produced under the 
auspices of the city of Gloucester in honor of President Taft, August 3, 1909; 
A Masque of Lahor (1912), projected but not yet performed; Sanctuary, a Bird 
Masque (1914), given first, September 12, 1913, in honor of President and Mrs. 
Wilson, at Meriden, New Hampshire, and repeated many times, 120 perform- 
ances being given in the Southern and Western States before over 200,000 spec- 
tators by the Redpath Chautauqua players ;>S^ai«^ Louis: A Civic Masque (1914), 
given in St. Louis to celebrate the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the 
founding of the city, from May 28 to June 1, 1914; The New Citizenship, a 
Civic Ritual (1915), given February 14, 1916, in New York City, on Lincoln's 
Birthday and, most significant, Caliban, A Community Masque (1916), produced 
May 25 to June 2, 1916, in New York City as a part of the Shakespeare Tercen- 
tenary Celebration. This masque, founded on The Tempest, and having as its 
main theme the regeneration of Caliban through his love for Miranda, was mag- 
nificently produced at the Stadium of the College of the City of New York and 
marks a new epoch in the community drama. Of the operas, Sinhad the Sailor 
(1917) and The Immigrants (1915), with music by Mr. F. S. Converse, have not 
as yet been produced. The Canterhury Pilgrims (1916), with music by Mr. 
Reginald de Koven, was first produced at the Metropolitan Opera House m 
New York, March 8, 1917. 

The Scarecrow was first performed by the Harvard Dramatic Club, on De- 
cember 7, 1909. Its first professional performance was given at the Middlesex 
Theatre, Middletown, Connecticut, December 30, 1910. The cast as given re- 
mained the same at its first New York performance, at the Garrick Theatre, 
January 17, 1911, except that the part of ''Rachel" was taken by Miss Fola La 
Follette. The play is dedicated by the author to his mother, for the reason (as 
he has told the editor) that, but for her sympathetic interest and assistance, it 
would probably not have been written. The version here printed has been 
revised by Mr. MacKaye and represents the acting version used by Mr. Frank 
Reicher during two seasons in the United States, and by Miss Muriel Pratt at 
the Theatre Royal, Bristol, England. It is also the version translated into 



INTRODUCTION 845 



German by Dr. Walther Fischer, of the University of Pennsylvania, for the 
professional use of Herr Rudolf Schildkraut in Germany, at the "Deutsches 
Theater," Berlin, under the direction of Professor Max Reinhardt. It has also 
been translated into French by Professor M. Garnier, of the Sorbonne, Paris. 

The individual plays may be found in printed form, as indicated above. 
Mr. MacKaye's poems, which have appeared in several editions, may be had 
most conveniently in the complete edition of his Poems and Plays, in two vol- 
umes, issued by Macmillan Company in 1916. In this edition. The Canterbury 
Pilgrims, Jeanne d'Arc, Sappho and Phaon, The Scarecrow, and Mater have 
been reprinted. His essays on dramatic subjects may be found in The Playhouse 
and the Play (1909), and The Civic Theatre (1912). He has also in press: 
Steele MacKaye, A Memoir and Two Plays. For an interesting foreign criti- 
cism of his work, especially of The Scarecrow, see M. Garnier, M. Percy Mac- 
Kaye, in La Revue du Mois, April 10, 1909. 

The editor is indebted to the courtesy of Mr. MacKaye for permission to 
reprint the play and for the biographical details and the information concern- 
ing the plays upon which this introduction is based. 

Note to Revised Edition 

Since the publication of the First Edition, Mr. Mackaye has produced the 
following dramatic works: 

Plays — Washington, the Man Who Made Us (1919), a Ballad Play, was first 
produced in its entirety (under the title ''George Washington") at the 
Belasco Theatre, Washington, D. C., February 23, 1920, one portion of it (the 
Valley Forge Action) having been previously produced in French — translated 
by Pierre de Lanux — at Copeau's Theatre du Vieux Colombier, New York, 
Feb. 17, 1919. This Action and other Actions of the play have also been trans- 
lated into, fourteen different languages by the Foreign Language Information 
Service Bureau of the Red Cross for publication and production in foreign 
language theatres in America. 

Masques — Caliban was also presented on a still more splendid scale, by 
co-operation of nineteen districts of Greater Boston, at the Harvard Stadium, 
Cambridge, June 28 to July 21 (inclusive), 1917. 

The Evergreen Tree (1917), a Christmas Masque, was first produced by 
North Dakota Agricultural College, at Fargo, N. D., Dec. 15, 1917. 

The Roll Call (1918), a Masque of the Red Cross, was first produced dur- 
ing Roll Call Week. December 16-23, 1918, simultaneously in different states 
throughout America. The Will of Song (with Harry Barnhart, 1919), a 
Dramatic Service of Community Singing, was first produced at Orange, N. J., 
May 2 and 3, 1919. 

Operas — Rip Van Winkle, a Folk Opera (1919), with music by Reginald 
p Koven, was first produced by the Chicago Opera Association at the Audi- 
rium Theatre, Chicago, Jan. 2. 1920, 



TO 

MY MOTHER 

In Memory of Auspicious 

"Counting of the Crows" 

By Old New England Cornfields 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

At the First Professional Performance 
Middlesex Theatre, Middletown, Connecticut, December 30, 1910 

Justice Gilead Merton Mr. Brigham Royce 

Goody Rickey ("Blacksmith Bess") Miss Alice Fischer 

Lord Ravensbane (''Marquis of Oxford, Baron of Wittenberg, 
Elector of Worms, and Count of Cordova"), their hypothetical 

son Mr. Frank Reicher 

Dickon, a Yankee improvisation of the Prince of Darkness. .Mr. Edmund Breese 

Rachel Merton, niece of the Justice Miss Beatrice Irwin 

Mistress Cynthia Merton, sister of the Justice Mrs. Felix Morris 

Richard Talbot, Esquire, betrothed to Rachel Mr. Earle Browne 

Sir Charles Reddington, Lieutenant-Governor Mr. H. J. Carvill 

Mistress Reddington 1,. , , f Miss Zenaidee Williams 

Amelia Reddington j ' j^ Miss Georgia Dvorak 

Captain Bugby, the Governor's Secretary Mr. Regan Hughston 

Minister Dodge Mr. Clifford Leigh 

Mistress Dodge, his wife Miss Eleanor Sheldon 

Rev. ]\Iaster Rand, of Harvard College Mr. William Lewis 

Rev. Master Todd, of Harvard College Mr. Harry Lillf ord 

MiCAH, a servant of the Justice Mr. Harold N. Cheshir 

Time — Late seventeenth century. 
Place — A town in Massachusetts. 



THE SCARECROW 



ACT FIRST. 

The interior of a blacksmith shop. On the 
right of the stage toward the center 
there is a forge. On the left stands a 
loft, from which are hanging dried corn- 
stalks, hay, and the yellow ears of cattle- 
corn. Toward the rear is a wide double 
door, closed when the curtain rises. 
Through this door — when later it is 
opened — is visible a New England land- 
scape in the late springtime : a distant 
wood; stone walls, high elms, a well- 
sweep; and, in the near foreground, a 
ploughed field, from which the green 
shoots of early corn are just appearing. 
The blackened walls of the shop are cov- 
ered with a miscellaneous collection of 
old iron, horseshoes, and cart-wheels, the 
usual appurtenances of a smithy. In 
the right-hand corner, however, is an 
array of things quite out of keeping with 
the shop proper: musical instruments, 
puppets, tall clocks, and fantastical junk. 
Conspicuous amongst these articles is a 
large standing mirror, framed gro- 
tesquely in old gold and curtained by a 
dull stuff, embroidered with peaked caps 
and crescent moons. 

Just before the scene opens, a hammer is 
heard ringing briskly upon steel. As 
the curtain rises there is discovered, 
standing at the anvil in the flickering 
light of a bright flame from the forge, a 
woman — powerful, ruddy, proud with a 
certain masterful beauty, white-haired 
(as though prematurely), bare-armed to 
the elbows, clad in a dark skirt (above 
her ankles), a loose blouse, open at the 
throat; a leathern apron and a work- 
man's cap. The woman is Goody Rick- 
by. On the anvil she is shaping a piece 
of iron. Beside her stands a framework 
of iron formed like the ribs and back- 
bone of a man. For a few moments she 
continues to ply her hammer, amid a 
shower of sparks, till suddenly the flame 
on the forge dies down. 

Goody Rickby. Dickon! More flame. 
A Voice. {Above her.) Yea, Goody. 



{The flame in the forge spurts up high 
and suddenly.) 

Goody Rickby. Nay, not so fierce. 

The Voice. {At her side.) Voire par- 
don, madame. {The flame subsides.) Is 
that better? 

Goody Rickby. That will do. {With her 
tongs, she thrusts the iron into the flame; 
it turns white-hot.) Quick work; noth- 
ing like brimstone for the smithy trade. 
{At the anvil, she begins to weld the iron 
rib onto the framework.) There, my 
beauty ! We '11 make a stout set of ribs 
for you. I '11 see to it this year that I 
have a scarecrow can outstand all the 
nor'easters that blow. I 've no notion to 
lose my corn-crop this summer. {Out- 
side, the faint cawings of crows are 
heard. Putting down her tongs and 
hammer, Goody Rickby strides to the 
double door, and flinging it wide open, 
lets in the gray light of dawn. She 
looks out over the fields and shakes her 
fist. ) So ye 're up before me and the 
sun, are ye? {Squinting against the 
light. ) There 's one ! Nay, two. Aha ! 

One for sorrow. 
Two for mirth — 

Good! This time we'll have the laugh 
on our side. {She returns to the forge, 
where again the fire has died out.) 
Dickon! Fire! Come, come, where be 
thy wits? 

The Voice. {Sleepily from the forge.) 
'T is early, dame. 

Goody Rickby. The more need — 

{Takes up her tongs.) 

The Voice. {Screams.) Ow! 

Goody Rickby. Ha! Have I got thee? 
{From the blackness of the forge she 
pulls out with her tongs, by the right 
ear, the figure of a devil, horned and 
tailed. In general aspect, though he re- 
sembles a mediceval familiar demon, yet 
the suggestions of a goatish beard, a 
shrewdly humorous smile, and (when he 
speaks) the slightest of nasal drawls, re- 
motely simulate a species of Yankee rus- 
tic. Goody Rickby substitutes her fin- 



849 



gers for the tongs.) Now, Dickon! 



850 



THE SCARECROW 



Dickon. Deus! I haven't been nabbed 
like that since St. Dunstan tweaked my 
nose. Well, sweet Goody? 

Goody Rickby. The bellows! 

Dickon. {Going slowly to the forge.) 
Why, 'tis hardly dawn yet. Honest 
folks are still abed. It makes a long 
day. 

Goody Rickby. {Working while Dickon 
plies the bellows.) Aye, for your black 
pets, the crows, to work in. That 's why 
we must be at it early. You heard 'em. 
We must have this scarecrow of ours out 
in the field at his post before sunrise. 
Here, I 've made the frame strong, so as 
to stand the weather; you must make the 
body lifelike so as to fool the crows. 
This year, we must make 'em think it's 
a real human crittur. 

Dickon. To fool the philosophers is my 
specialty, but the crows — hm! 

Goody Rickby. Pooh! That staggers 
thee! 

Dickon. Madame Rickby, prod not the 
quick of my genius. I am Phidias, I am 
Raphael, I am the Lord God ! — You shall 
see — {Demands with a gesture.) Yonder 
broom-stick. 

Goody Rickby. {Fetching him a broom 
from the corner.) Good boy! 

Dickon. {Straddling the handle.) Ha, 
ha! gee up! my Salem mare. {Then, 
pseudo-philosophically. ) A broomstick 
— that's for imagination! {He begins 
to construct the scarecrow, while Goody 
Rickby, assisting, brings the construc- 
tive parts from various nooks and cor- 
ners.) We are all pretty artists, to be 
sure, Bessie. Phidias, he sculptures the 
gods; Raphael, he paints the angels; the 
Lord God, he creates Adam ; and Dickon 
— fetch me the poker — aha! Dickon! 
What doth Dickon? He nullifies 'em 
all ; he endows the Scarecrow ! A poker : 
here 's his conscience. There 's two fine 
legs to walk on, — imagination and con- 
science. Yonder flails now! The ideal 
— the beau ideal, dame — that 's what we 
artists seek. The apotheosis of scare- 
crows ! And pray, what 's a scarecrow ? 
Why, the antithesis of Adam. — "Let 
there be candles!" quoth the Lord God, 
sitting in the dark. "Let there be can- 
dle-extinguishers," saith Dickon. "I am 
made in the image of my maker," quoth 
Adam. "Look at yourself in the glass," 
saith Goodman Scarecrow. {Taking two 
implements from Goody Rickby.) Fine! 
fine ! here are flails — one for wit, t' other 



for satire. Sapristi! with two such 
arms, my lad, how thou wilt work thy 
way in the world! 

Goody Rickby. You talk as if you were 
making a real mortal, Dickon. 

Dickon. To fool a crow. Goody, I must 
fashion a crittur that will first deceive a 
man. 

Goody Rickby. He '11 scarce do that with- 
out a head. {Pointing to the loft.) 
What think ye of yonder Jack-o'-lan- 
tern ? 'T was made last Hallowe'en. 

Dickon. Rare, my Psyche! We shall 
collaborate. Here! {Running up the 
ladder, he tosses down a yellow hollowed 
pumpkin to Goody Rickby, who catches 
it. Then rummaging forth an armful of 
cornstalks, ears, tassels, dried squashes, 
gourds, beets, etc., he descends and 
throws them in a heap on the floor.) 
Whist! {As he drops them.) Gourd, 
carrot, turnip, beet: — the anatomy. 

Goody Rickby. {Placing the pumpkin on 
the shoulders.) Look! 

Dickon. Johannes Baptista! What 
wouldst thou have given for such a head ! 
I helped Salome to cut his off, dame, and 
it looked not half so appetizing on her 
charger. Tut! Copernicus wore once 
such a pumpkin, but it is rotten. Look 
at his golden smile! Hail, Phoebus 
Apollo ! 

Goody Rickby. 'Tis the finest scarecrow 
in town. 

Dickon. Nay, poor soul, 'tis but a skel- 
eton yet. He must have a man's heart 
in him. {Picking a big red beet from 
among the cornstalks, he places it under 
the left side of the rihs.) Hush! Dost 
thou hear it beat? 

Goody Rickby. Thou merry rogue ! ^ 

Dickon. Now for the lungs of him. 
{Snatching a small pair of bellows from 
a peg on the wall. ) That 's for elo- 
quence ! He '11 preach the black knaves 
a sermon on theft. And now — {Here, 
with Goody Rickby's help, he stuffs the 
framework with the gourds, corn, etc., 
from the loft, weaving the husks about 
the legs and arms.) Here goes for di- 
gestion and inherited instincts! More 
com. Goody. Now he'll fight for his 
own flesh and blood! 

Goody Rickby. {Laughing.) Dickon, I 
am proud of thee. 

Dickon. Wait till you see his peruke. 
{Seizing a feather duster made of crow's 
feathers.) Void! Scalps of the en- 
emy! {Pulling them apart, he arranges 



PERCY MACKAYE 



851 



the feathers on the pumpkin, like a gen- 
tleman's wig.) A rare conqueror! 

GaoDY RiCKBY. Oh, you beauty! 

Dickon. And now a bit of comfort for 
dark days and stormy nights. {Taking 
a piece of corn-cob with the kernels on 
it, Dickon makes a pipe, which he puts 
into the scarecrow's moutJi.) So! 
There, Goody! I tell thee, with yonder 
brand-new coat and breeches of mine — 
those there in my cupboard ! — we -11 
make him a lad to be proud of. {Tak- 
ing the clothes, which Goody Rickey 
brings — a pair of fine scarlet breeches 
and a gold-embroidered coat with ruffles 
of lace — he puts them upon the scare- 
crow. Then, eying it like a connoisseur, 
makes a few finishing touches.) Why, 
dame, he '11 be a son to thee. 

Goody Rickey. A son? Aye, if I had 
but a son ! 

Dickon. Why, here you have him. {To 
the scarecrow.) Thou wilt scare the 
crows off thy mother's cornfield — won't 
my pretty? And send 'em all over 
t' other side the wall to her dear neigh- 
bor's, the Justice Gilead Merton's. 

Goody Rickey. Justice Merton! Nay, if 
they 'd only peck his eyes out, instead of 
his com. 

Dickon. {Grinning.) Yet the Justice 
was a dear friend of "Blacksmith 
Bess." 

Goody Rickey. Aye, "Blacksmith Bess"! 
If I hadn't had a good stout arm when 
he cast me off with the babe, I might 
have starved for all his worship cared. 

Dickon. True, Bessie ; 't was a scurvy 
trick he played on thee — and on me, that 
took such pains to bring you together — 
to steal a young maid's heart — 

Goody Rickey. And then toss it away 
like a bad penny to the gutter! And 
the child — to die! {Lifting her hammer 
in rage.) Ha! If I could get the wor- 
shipful Justice Gilead into my power 
again — {She drops the hammer sullenly 
on the anvil.) But no! I shall beat my 
life away on this anvil, whilst my justice 
clinks his gold, and drinks his port to 
a fat old age. Justice! Ha — justice of 
God! 

Dickon. Whist, dame! Talk of angels 
and hear the rustle of their relatives. 

Goody Rickey. {Turning, watches out- 
side a girl's figure approaching.) His 
niece — Rachel Merton! What can she 
want so early? Nay, I mmd me; 'tis 
the mirror. She 's a maid after our own 



hearts, boy, — no Sabbath-go-to-meeting 
airs about herl She hath read the bool^ 
of the magi from cover to cover, and 
paid me good guineas for 'em, though 
her uncle knows naught on 't. Besides, 
she 's in love, Dickon. 

Dickon. {Indicating the scarecrow.) Ah? 
With himf Is it a rendezvous? 

Goody Rickey. {With a laugh.) Pff! 
Begone ! 

Dickon. {Shakes his finger at the scare- 
crow. ) Thou naughty rogue ! 

{Then, still smiling slyly, with his 
head placed confidentially next to 
the scarecrow's ear, as if whisper- 
ing, and with his hand pointing to 
the maiden outside, Dickon fades 
away into air. Rachel enters, nerv- 
ous and hesitant. Goody Rickey 
makes her a curtsy, which she ac- 
knowledges by a nod, half absent- 
minded. ) 

Goody Rickey. Mistress Rachel Merton — 
so early! I hope your uncle, our wor- 
shipful Justice, is not ill? 

Rachel. No, my uncle is quite well. The 
early morning suits me best for a walk. 
You are — quite alone? 

Goody Rickey. Quite alone, mistress. 
{Bitterly.) Oh, folks don't call on 
Goody Rickby — except on business. 

Rachel. {Absently, looking round in, the 
dim shop.) Yes — you must be busy. Is 
it — is it here? 

Goody Rickey. You mean the — 

Rachel. {Starting back, with a cry.) 
Ah! who's that? 

Goody Rickey. {Chuckling.) Fear not, 
mistress ; 't is nothing but a scarecrow. 
I 'm going to put him in my cornfield 
yonder. The crows are so pesky this 
year. 

Rachel. {Draws her skirts away with a 
shiver.) How loathsome! 

Goody Rickey. {Vastly pleased.) He'll 
do. 

Rachel. Ah, here! — This is the mirror? 

Goody Rickey. Yea, mistress, and a won- 
derful glass it is, as I told you. I 
would n't sell it to most comers, but see- 
ing how you and Master Talbot — 

Rachel. Yes; that will do. 

Goody Rickey. You see, if the town folks 
guessed what it was, well — You 've 
heard tell of the gibbets on Salem Hill? 
There 's not many in New England like 
you, Mistress Rachel. You know enough 
to approve some miracles — outside the 
Scriptures. 



852 



THE SCARECROW 



Rachel. You are quite sure the glass will 
do all you say? It — never fails? 

GooDBY RiCKBY. Ah, now, mistress, how 
could it? 'T is the glass of truth — (in- 
sinuatingly) — the glass of true lovers. 
It shows folks just as they are; no 
shams, no varnish. If a wolf should 
dress himself in a white sheep's wool, 
this glass would reflect the black beast 
inside it. 

Rachel. (With awe.) The black beast! 
But what of the sins of the soul, Goody? 
Vanity, hypocrisy, and — and in- 
constancy? Will it surely reveal 
them? 

Goody Rickby. I have told you, my 
young lady. If it doth not as I say, 
bring it back and get your money again. 
Oh, trust me, sweeting, an old dame hath 
eyes in her heart yet. If your lover be 
false, this glass shall pluck his fine 
feathers ! 

Rachel. (With aloofness.) 'T is no 
question of that. I wish the glass to — to 
amuse me. 

Goody Rickby. (Laughing.) Why, then, 
try it on some of your neighbors. 

Rachel. You ask a large price for it. 

Goody Rickby. (Shrugs.) I run risks. 
Besides, where will you get another? 

Rachel. That is true. Here, I will buy 
it. That is the sum you mentioned, I 
believe ? 

(She hands a purse to Goody Rickby, 
who opens it and counts over some 
coin.) 

Goody Rickby. Let see; let see. 

Rachel. Well? 

Goody Rickby. Good: 'tis good. Folks 
call me a witch, mistress. Well — harkee 
— a witch's word is as good as a justice's 
gold. The glass is yours — with my bless- 
ing. 

Rachel Spare yourself that, dame. But 
the glass: how am I to get it? How will 
you send it to me — quietly? 

Goody Rickby. Trust me for that. I 've 
a willing lad tliat helps me with such er- 
rands; a neighbor o' mine. (Calls.) 
Ebenezer ! 

Rachel. (Startled.) What! is he here? 

Goody Rickby. In the hayloft. The 
boy 's an orphan ; he sleeps there o' 
times. Ebenezer! 

(A raw, disheveled country hoy ap- 
pears in the loft, slides down the 
ladder, and shuffles up sleepily.) 

The Boy. Evenin'. 

Rachel. (Drawing Goody Rickby aside.) 



You understand; I desire no comment 
about this purchase. 
Goody Rickby. Nor I, mistress, be 
sure. 

Rachel. Is he — ? 

Goody Rickby. (Tapping her forehead 

significantly.) Trust his wits who hath 

no wit ; he 's mum. 
Rachel. Oh ! 

The Boy. (Gaping.) Job? 
Goody Rickby. Yea, rumple-head! His 

job this morning is to bear yonder glass 

to the house of Justice Merton — the big 

one on the hill ; to the side door. Mind, 

no gabbing. Doth he catch? 
The Boy. (Nodding and grinning.) 'E 

swallows. 
Rachel. But is the boy strong enough? 
Goody Rickby. Him? (Pointing to the 

anvil.) Ebenezer! 

(The boy spits on his palms, takes 
hold of the anvil, lifts it, drops it 
again, sits on it, and grins at the 
door, just as Richard Talbot ap- 
pears there, from outside.) 
R achel. Gra cious ! 
Goody Rickby. Trust him. He'll carry 

the glass for you. 
Rachel. I will return home at once, then. 

Let him go quietly to the side door, and 

wait for me. Good-morning. 

(Turning, she confronts Richard.) 
Richard. Good-morning. 
Rachel. Ricliard! — Squire Talbot, you — 

you are abroad early. 
Richard. As early as Mistress Rachel. 

Is it pardonable? I caught sight of you 

walking in this direction, so I thought it 

wise to follow, lest — 

(Looks hard at Goody Rickby.) 
Rachel. Very kind. Thanks. We can 

return together. (To Goody Rickby.) 

You will make sure that I receive the — 

the article. 
Goody Rickby. Trust me, mistress. 

(She curtsies to Richard.) 
Richard. (Bluntly, looking from one to 

the other.) What article? 

(Rachel ignores the question and 

starts to pass out. Richard frowns 

at Goody Rickby, who stammers.) 

Goody Rickby. Begging your pardon, 

sir? 
Richard. What article? I said. (After 

a short, embarrassed pause, more 

sternly.) Well? 
Goody Rickby. Oh, the article! Yonder 

old glass, to be sure, sir. A quaint 

piece, your honor. 



PERCY MACKAYE 



853 



Richard. Rachel, you have n't come l.ere 
at sunrise to buy — that thing? 

Rachel Verily, ^'that thing," and at sun- 
rise. A pretty time for a pretty pur- 
chase. Are you coming? 

Richard. {In a low tone.) More witch- 
craft nonsense? Do you realize this is 
serious ? 

Rachel. Oh, of course. You know I am 
desperately mystical, so pray let us not 
discuss it. Good-bye. 

Richard. Rachel, just a moment. If you 
want a mirror, you shall have the pretti- 
est one in New England. Or I will im- 
port you one from London. Only — I 
beg of you — don't buy stolen goods. 

Goody Rickey. Stolen goods? 

Rachel. {Aside to Richard.) Don't! 
don't! 

Richard. {To Goody Rickey.) Can you 
account for this mirror — how you came 
by it? 

Goody Rickey. I '11 show ye ! I '11 show 
ye ! Stolen — ha ! 

Richard. Come, old swindler, keep your 
mirror, and give this lady back her 
money. 

Goody Rickey. I '11 damn ye both, I 
will !— Stolen ! 

Rachel. {Imploringly.) Will you come? 

Richard. Look you, old Rickby; this is 
not the first time. Charm all the broom- 
sticks in town^ if you like; bewitch all 
the tables and saucepans and mirrors you 
please; but gull no more money out of 
young girls. Mind you ! We 're not so 
enterprising in this town as at Salem; 
but — it may come to it! So look sharp! 
I 'm not blind to what 's going on here. 

Goody Rickey. Not blind, Master Puri- 
tan? Oho! You can see through all 
my counterfeits, can ye ? So ! you would 
scrape all the wonder out'n the world, as 
I 've scraped all the meat out'n my 
punkin-head yonder! Aha! wait and 
see ! Afore sundown, I '11 send ye a nut 
to crack, shall make your orthodox jaws 
ache. Your servant, Master Deuteron- 
omy! 

Richard. {To Rachel, who has seized his 
arm.) We '11 go. 

{Exeunt Richard and Rachel.) 

Goody Rickey. {Calls shrilly after them.) 
Trot away, pretty team; toss your heads. 
I '11 unhitch ye and take off your blind- 
ers. 

The Slouching Boy. {Capering and 
yrimacing in front of the mirror, shrieks 
•with laughter.) Ohoho! 



Goody Rickey. {Eeturning, she mutters 
savagely.) -"Stolen goods!" {Screams.) 
Dickon! Stop laughing. 

The Boy. Lord! Lord! 

Goody Rickey. What tickles thy mirth 
now? 

The Boy. For to think that the soul of 
an orphan innocent, what lives in a hay- 
loft, should wear horns. 

{On looking into the mirror, the spec- 
tator perceives therein that the re- 
flection of the slouching hoy is the 
horned demon figure of Dickon, 
who performs the same antics in 
pantomime within the glass as the 
boy does without.) 

Goody Rickey. Yea; 'tis a wise devil 
that knows his own face in the glass. 
But hark now! thou must find me k 
rival for this cock-squire, — dost hear? 
A rival, that shall steal away the heart 
of his Mistress Rachel. 

Dickon. And take her to church? 

Goody Rickey. To church or to hell. 
All 's one. 

Dickon. A rival! {Pointing at the 
glass.) How would he serve — in there? 
Dear Ebenezer! Fancy the deacons in 
the vestry, Goody, and her uncle, the 
Justice, when they saw him escorting 
the bride to the altar, with his tail round 
her waist ! 

Goody Rickey. Tut, tut! Think it over 
in earnest, and meantime take her the 
glass. Wait, we 'd best fold it up small, 
so as not to attract notice on the road. 
(Dickon, who has already drawn the 
curtains over the glass, grasps one side 
of the large frame, Goody Rickey the 
other.) Now! '{Pushing %heir shoul- 
ders against the two sides, the frame dis- 
appears and Dickon holds in his hand 
a mirror about a foot square, of the same 
design.) So! Be off! And mind, a 
rival for Richard ! 

Dickon. 

For Richard a rival, 
Dear Goody Eickby 
Wants Dickon's connival: 
Lord! What can the trick be? 

{To the scarecrow.) By-by, Sonny; 
take care of thy mother. 

(Dickon slouches out with the glass, 

whistling.) 

Goody Rickey. Mother! Yea, if only I 

had a son — the Justice Merton's and 

mine ! If the brat had but lived now to 

remind him of those merry days, which 



854 



THE SCARECROW 



he lias forgotten. Zooks, would n't I put 
a spoke in his wheel! But no such luck 
for me! No such luck! 

{As she goes to the forge, the stout 
figure of a man appears in the door- 
way behind her. Under one arm he 
carries a large hook, in the other 
hand a gold-headed cane. He hesi- 
tates, embarrassed.) 
The Man. Permit me, madam. 
Goody Rickby. {Turning.) Ah, him — 

Justice Merton! 
Justice Merton. {Removing his hat, 
steps over the sill, and lays his great 
book on the table; then with a super- 
cilious look, he puts his hat firmly on 
again.) Permit me, dame. 
Goody Rickby. You! 

{With confused, affected hauteur, the 
Justice shifts from foot to foot, 
flourishing his cane. As he speaks, 
Goody Rickby, with a shrewd, pain- 
ful expression, draws slowly back- 
ward toward the door, left, which 
opens into an inner room. Reach- 
ing it, she opens it part way, stands 
facing him, and listens.) 
Justice Merton. I have had the honor — 
permit me — to entertain suspicions; to 
rise early, to follow my niece, to meet 
just now Squire Talbot; to hear his re- 
marks concerning — hem! — you, dame! to 
call here — permit me — to express myself 
and inquire — 
Goody Rickby. Concerning your waist- 
coat? 

{Turning quickly, she snatches an 

article of apparel which hangs on 

the inner side of the door, and holds 

it up.) 

Justice Merton. {Starting, crimson.) 

Woman ! 
Goody Rickby. You left it behind — the 

last time. 
Justice Merton. I have not the honor to 

remember — 
Goody Rickby. The one I embroidered? 
Justice Merton. 'T is a matter of — 
Goody Rickby. Of some two-and-twenty 
years. {Stretching out the narrow width 
of the waistcoat.) Will you try it on 
now, dearie? 
Justice Merton. Unconscionable! Un- 

un-unconseionable witch ! 
Goody Rickby. Witchling — thou used to 

say. 
Justice Merton. Pah! pah! I forget 
myself. Pride, permit me, goeth before 
a fall. As a magistrate, Rickby, I have 



already borne with you long! The last 
straw, however, breaks the camel's back. 

Goody Rickby. Poor camel! 

Justice Merton. You have soiled, you 
have smirched, the virgin reputation of 
my niece. You have inveigled her into 
notions of witchcraft; already the neigh- 
bors are beginning to talk. 'T is a long 
lane which hath no turning, saith the 
Lord. Permit me — as a witch, thou art 
judged. Thou shalt hang. 

A Voice. {Behind him.) And me, too? 

Justice Merton. {Turns about and 
stares.) I beg pardon. 

The Voice. {In front of him.) Not at 
all. 

Justice Merton. Did — did somebody 
speak ? 

The Voice. Don't you recognize my 
voice? Still and small, you know. If 
you will kindly let me out, we can chat. 

Justice Merton. {Turning fiercely on 
Goody Rickby.) These are thy sorcer- 
ies. But I fear them not. The right- 
eous man walketh with God. {Going to 
the book which lies on the table.) 
Satan, I ban thee ! I will read from the 
Holy Scriptures! 

{Unclasping the Bible, he flings open 
the ponderous covers. — Dickon 
steps forth in smoke.) 

Dickon. Thanks; it was stuffy in there. 

Justice Merton. {Clasping his hands.) 
Dickon ! 

Dickon. {Moving a step nearer on the ta- 
ble. ) Hullo, Gilly ! Hullo, Bess ! 

Justice Merton. Dickon! No! No! 

Dickon. Do ye mind Auld Lang Syne— 
the chorus that night, Gilly? {Sings.) 

Gil-ead, Gil-ead, Gil-ead Merton, ^ 

He was a silly head, silly head, Certain, 
When he forgot to steal a bed-Curtain. 

Encore, now! 

Justice Merton. No, no, be merciful! I 
will not harm her; she shall not hang; 
I swear it, I swear it! (Dickon disap- 
pears.) I swear — ah! Is he gone? 
Witchcraft! Witchcraft! I have wit- 
nesed it. 'T is proved on thee, slut. I 
swear it: thou shalt hang. 

{Exit wildly.) 

Goody Rickby. Ay, Gilead! I shall hang 
on! Ahalia! Dickon, thou angel! Ah, 
Satan! Satan! For a son now! 

Dickon. {Reappearing.) Videlicet, in 
law — a bastard. N' est ce pas f 

Goody Rickby. Yea, in law and in jus- 



PERCY MACKAYE 



855 



tice, I should ^a' had one now. Worse 
luck that he died. 

Dickon. One-and-twenty years ago? 
(Goody Rickey nods.) Good; he should 
be of age now. One-and-twenty — a 
pretty age, too, for a rival. Haha! — 
For arrival? — Marry, he shall arrive, 
then; arrive and marry and inherit his 
patrimony — all on his birthday! Come, 
to work! 

Goody Rickey. What rant is this? 

Dickon. Yet, Dickon, it pains me to per- 
form such an anachronism. All this 
medisevalism in Massachusetts ! — These 
old-fashioned flames and alchemic ac- 
companiments, when I Ve tried so hard 
to be a native American product; it jars. 
But che vuole! I'm naturally middle- 
aged. I have n't been really myself, let 
me think, — since 1492! 

Goody Rickey. What art thou mooning 
about? 

Dickon. (Still impenetrable.) There was 
my old friend in Germany, Dr. Johann 
Faustus; he was nigh such a bag of old 
rubbish when I made him over. Ain't it 
trite! No, you can't teach an old dog 
like me new tricks. Still, a scarecrow! 
that 's decidedly local color. Come, then ; 
a Yankee masterpiece! (Seizing Goody 
Rickey hy the arm, and placing her be- 
fore the scarecrow, he makes a bow and 
wave of introduction.) Behold, madam, 
your son — illegitimate; the future affi- 
anced of Mistress Rachel Merton, the 
heir-elect, through matrimony, of Merton 
House, — Gilead Merton second: Lord 
Ravensbane ! Your lordship — your 
mother. 

Goody Rickey. Dickon! Can you do it? 

Dickon. I can — try. 

Goody Rickey. You will create him for 
me? — (wickedly) — and for Gilead! 

Dickon. I will — for a kiss. 

Goody Rickey. (About to embrace him.) 
Dickon ! 

Dickon. (Dodging her.) Later. Now, 
the waistcoat. 

Goody Rickey. (Handing it.) Rare! 
Rare ! He shall go wooing in 't — like his 
father. 

Dickon. (Shifting the scarecrow's gold- 
trimmed coat, slips on the embroidered 
waistcoat and replaces the coat.) Stand 
still. Jack! So, my macaroni. Per- 
fecto! Stay — a walking-stick! 

Goody Rickey. (Wrenching a spoke out 
of an old rickety wheel.) Here: the 
spoke for Gilead. He used to take me 



to drive in the chaise it came out of. 
Dickon. (Plating the spoke as a cane, in 
the scarecrow's sleeve, views him with 
satisfaction.) Sic! There, Jacky! Filius 
fit non nascitur. — Sam Hill! My Latin 
is stale. "In the beginning, was the — 
gourd!" Of these thy modest ingredi- 
ents may thy spirit smack! 

(Making various mystic passes with his 
hands, Dickon intones, now deep 
and solemn, now with fanciful shrill 
rapidity, this incantation.) 

Flail, flip; 
Broom, sweep; 

Sic itur! 
Cornstalk 
And turnif), talk! 

Turn crittur! 

Pulse, beet; 
Gourd, eat; 

Ave Hellas! 
Poker and punkin, 
Stir the old junk in; 

Breathe, bellows! 

Corn-cob, 

And crow's feather, 
End the job; 
Jumble the rest o' the rubbish together; 
Dovetail and tune 'em, 
E pluribus unum! 

(The scarecrow remains stock still.) 
The devil! Have I lost the hang of it? 
Ah ! Hullo ! He 's dropped his pipe. 
What's a dandy without his 'baccy! 
(Picking up the pipe, he shows it to 
Goody Rickey, pointing into the pipe- 
bowl.) 'T is my own brand. Goody: 
brimstone. Without it he'd be naught 
but a scarecrow. (Restoring the corn- 
cob pipe to the scarecrow's mouth.) 
'Tis the life and breath of him. So; 
hand me yon hazel switch, Goody. 
(Waving it.) Presto! 

Brighten, coal, 
P the dusk between us! 
Whiten, soul! 
Propinquat Venus! 

(A whiff of smoke puffs from the 
scarecrow's pipe.) 
Sic! Sic! Jacobus! (Another whiff.) 
Bravo ! 

(The whiffs grow more rapid and the 
thing trembles.) 
Goody Rickey. Puff! puff, manny, for 

thy life! 
Dickon. Fiat, foetus ! — Huzza ! Noch ein- 
mal! Go it! 



856 



THE SCARECROW 



{Clouds of smoke issue from the pipe, 
half fill the shop, and envelop the 
creature, who staggers.^) 
Goody Rickby. See! See his eyes! 
Dickon. {Beckoning with one finger.) 
Veni fili! Veni! Take 'ee first step, 
bambino! — Toddle ! 

{The Scarecrow makes a stiff lurch 
forward and falls sidewise against 
the anvil, propped half -reclining 
against which he leans rigid, emit- 
ting fainter puffs of smoke in 
gasps.) 
Goody Rickby. {Screams.) Have a care! 

He 's fallen. 
Dickon. Well done, Punkin Jack! Thou 
shalt be knighted for that! {Striking 
him on the shoulder with the hazel rod.) 
Rise, Lord Ravensbane ! 

{The Scarecrow totters to his feet, 
and makes a forlorn rectilinear 
salutation.) 
Goody Rickby. Look! He bows. — He 
flaps his flails at thee. He smiles like a 
tik-doo-loo-roo ! 
Dickon. {With a profound reverence, 
backing away.) Will his lordship deign 
to follow his tutor? 

{With hitches and jerks, the Scare- 
crow follows Dickon.) 
Goody Rickby. Lord! Lord! the style 

o' the broomstick! 
Dickon. {Holding ready a high-backed 
chair.) Will his lordship be seated and 
rest himself? {Awkwardly the Scare- 
crow half falls into the chair; his head 
sinks sideways, and his pipe falls out. 
Dickon snatches it up instantly and re- 
stores it to his mouth.) Puff! Puff, 
puer; 'tis thy life. {The Scarecrow 
puffs again.) Is his lordship's tobacco 
refreshing ? 
Goody Rickby. Look now ! The red color 
in his cheeks. The beet-juice is pump- 
ing, oho! 
Dickon. {Offering his arm.) Your lord- 
ship will deign to receive an audience? 
{The Scarecrow takes his arm and 
rises.) The Marchioness of Rickby, 
your lady mother, entreats leave to pre- 
sent herself. 
Goody Rickby. {Curtsying low.) My 



son 



1 At Dickon's words, "Come to work!" on p. 855 
the living actor, concealed by the smoke, and dis- 
guised, has substituted himself for the elegantly 
clad effigy. His make-up, of course, approximates 
to the latter, but the grotesque contours of his ex 
piession gradually, throughout the remainder of 
the act. become refined and sublimated till, at the 
finale, they are of a lordly and distinguished caste. 



Dickon. {Holding the pipe, and waving 
the hazel rod.) Dicite! Speak! {The 
Scarecrow, blowing out his last mouth- 
ful of smoke, opens his mouth, gasps, 
gurgles, and is silent.) In principio erat 
verbum! Accost thy mother! 

{The Scarecrow, clutching at his side 
in a struggle for coherence, fixes a 
pathetic look of pain on Goody 
Rickby.) 

The Scarecrow. Mother! 

Goody Rickby. {With a scream of hys- 
terical laughter, seizes both Dickon's 
hands and dances him about the forge.) 
0, Beelzebub! I shall die! 

Dickon. Thou hast thy son. 

(Dickon whispers iyi the Scarecrow's 
ear, shakes his finger, and exit.) 

Goody Rickby. He called me "mother." 
Again, boy, again. 

The Scarecrow. From the bottom of my 
heart — mother. 

Goody Rickby. "The bottom of his heart" ! 
— Nay, thou killest me. 

The Scarecrow. Permit me, madam! 

Goody Rickby. Gilead! Gilead himself! 
Waistcoat, "permit me," and all ;_ thy 
father over again, I tell thee. 

The Scarecrow. {With a slight stam- 
mer.) It gives me — I assure you — lady 
— the deepest happiness. 

Goody Rickby. Just so the old hypocrite 
spoke when I said I 'd have him. But 
thou hast a sweeter deference, my son. 

{Reenter Dickon; he is dressed all in black, 
save for a ichite stock — a suit of plain 
elegance.) 

Dickon. Now, my lord, your tutor is 
ready. 

The Scarecrow. {To Goody Rickby.) 
I have the honor — permit me — to wish 
you — good-morning. 

{Bows and takes a step after Dickon, 
who, taking a three-cornered cocked 
hat from a peg, goes toward the 
door.) 

Goody Rickby. Whoa! Whoa, Jack! 
Whither away? 

Dickon. {Presenting the hat.) Deign to 
reply, sir. 

The Scarecrow. I go — with my tutor — 
Master Dickonson — to pay my respects — 
to his worship — the Justice — Merton — 
to solicit — the hand — of his daughter — 
the fair Mistress — Rachel. {With an- 
other bow.) Permit me. 

Goody Rickby. Permit ye? God speed 



PERCY MACKAYE 



857 



ye! Thou must teach him his tricks, 
Dickon. 
Dickon. Trust me, Goody. Between here 
and Justice Merton's, I will play the 
mother-hen, and I promise thee, our bant- 
ling shall be as stuffed with compliments 
as a callow chick with caterpillars. {As 
he throws open the hig doors, the caiv- 
ing of crows is heard again.) Hark! 
your lordship's retainers acclaim you on 
your birthday. They bid you welcome 
to your majority. Listen! "Long live 
Lord Ravensbane! Caw!" 
Goody Rickby. Look! Count 'em, 
Dickon. 

One for sorrow, 

Two for mirth, 

Three for a wedding. 

Four for a birth — 

Four on 'em! So! Good luck on thy 
birthday ! And see ! There 's three on 
'em flying into the Justice's field. 

— Flight o' the crows 

Tells how the wind blows! — 

A wedding! Get thee gone. Wed the 
girl, and sting the Justice. Bless ye, 



my son 



The Scarecrow. {With a profound rev- 
erence.) Mother — believe me — to be — 
your ladyship's — most devoted — and obe- 
dient — son. 
Dickon. {Prompting him aloud.) Ra- 
vensbane. 
^ HE ScARECROv^. {Donning his hat, lifts 
his head in hauteur, shakes his lace ruf- 
fle over his hand, turns his shoulder, nods 
slightly, and speaks for the first time 
with complete mastery of his voice.) 
Hm ! Ravensbane ! 

{With one hand in the arm of Dickon, 
the other twirling his cane {the con- 
verted chaise-spoke), wreathed in 
halos of smoke from his pipe, the 
fantastical figure hitches elegantly 
forth into the daylight, amid louder 
acclamations of the crows.) 

ACT SECOND. 

The same morning. Justice Merton's 
parlor, furnished and designed in the 
style of the early colonial period. On 
the right wall hangs a portrait of the 
Justice as a young man; on the left wall, 
an old-fashioned looking-glass. At the 
right of the room stands the Glass of 
Truth ^ draped — as in the blacksmith shop 



— with the strange, embroidered curtain. 
In front of it are discovered Rachel and 
Richard; Rachel is about to draw the 
curtain. 

Rachel. Now! Are you willing? 

Richard. So you suspect me of dark, vil- 
lainous practices? 

Rachel. No, no, foolish Dick. 

Richard. Still, I am to be tested; is that 
it? 

Rachel. That's it. 

Richard. As your true lover. 

Rachel. Well, yes. 

Richard. Why, of course, then, I con- 
sent. A true lover always consents to 
the follies of his lady-love. 

Rachel. Thank you, Dick; I trust the 
glass will sustain your character. Now; 
when I draw the curtain — 

Richard. {Staying her hand.) What if 
I be -false? 

Rachel. Then, sir, the glass will reflect 
you as the subtle fox that you are. 

Richard. And you — as the goose? 

Rachel. Very Hkely. Ah! but, Richard, 
dear, we mustn't laugh. It may prove 
very serious. You do not guess — you do 
not dream all the mysteries — 

Richard. {Shaking his head, with a grave 
smile.) You pluck at too many mys- 
teries. Remember our first mother Eve! 

Rachel. But this is the glass of truth; 
and Goody Rickby told me — 

Richard. Rickby, forsooth! 

Rachel. Nay, come ; let 's have it over. 
{She draws the curtain, covers her eyes, 
steps back by Richard's side, looks at the 
glass, and gives a joyous cry.) Ah! 
there you are, dear! There we are, both 
of us — just as we have always seemed to 
each other, true. 'T is proved. Is n't it 
wonderful ? 

Richard. Miraculous! That a mirror 
bought in a blacksmith shop, before sun- 
rise, for twenty pounds, should prove to 
be actually — a mirror! 

Rachel. Richard, I 'm so happy. 

{Enter Justice Merton and Mistress 
Merton. ) 

Richard. {Embracing her.) Happy, art 
thou, sweet goose ? Why, then, God bless 
Goody Rickby. 
Justice Merton. Strange words from 
you, Squire Talbot. 

(Rachel and Richard part quickly; 
Rachel draws the curtain over the 
mirror; Richard stands stiffly.) 



858 



THE SCARECROW 



Richard. Justice Merton! Why, sir, the 
old witch is more innocent, perhaps, than 
I represented her. 

Justice Merton. A witch, believe me, is 
never innocent. {Taking their hands, he 
brings them together and kisses Rachel 
on the forehead.) Permit me, young 
lovers. I was once young myself, young 
and amorous. 

Mistress Merton. {In a low voice.) 
Verily ! 

Justice Merton. My fair niece, my 
worthy young man, beware of witch- 
craft. 

Mistress Merton. And Goody Rickby, 
too, brother? 

Justice Merton. That woman shall an- 
swer for her deeds. She is proscribed. 

Rachel. Proscribed? What is that? 

Mistress Merton. {Examining the mir- 
ror.) What is this? 

Justice Merton. She shall hang. 

Rachel. Uncle, no! Not merely because 
of my purchase this morning? 

Justice Merton. Your purchase? 

Mistress Merton. {Pointing to the mir- 
ror.) That, I suppose. 

Justice Merton. What! you purchased 
that mirror of her? You brought it 
here? 

Rachel. No, the boy brought it; I found 
it here when I returned. 

Justice Merton. What! From her 
shop? From her infamous den, into my 
parlor! {To Mistress Merton.) Call 
the servant. {Himself calling.) Micah! 
Away with it! Micah! 

Rachel. Uncle Gilead, I bought — 

Justice Merton. Micah, I say! Where 
is the man? 

Rachel. Listen, uncle. I bought it with 
my own money. 

Justice Merton. Thine own money! 
Wilt have the neighbors gossip? Wilt 
have me, thyself, my house, suspected of 
complicity with witches? 

{Enter Micah.) 

Micah, take this away. 
Micah. Yes, sir; but, sir — 
Justice Merton. Out of my house! 
Micah. There be visitors. 
Justice Merton. Away with — 
Mistress Merton. {Touching his arm.) 

Gilead! 
Micah. Visitors, sir; gentry. 
Justice Merton. Ah! 
Micah. Shall I show them in, sir? 



Justice Merton. Visitors ! In the morn- 
ing? Who are they? 

Micah. Strangers, sir. I should judge 
they be very high gentry; lords, sir. 

All. Lords ! 

Micah. At least, one on 'em, sir. The 
other — the dark gentleman — told me they 
left their horses at the inn, sir. 

Mistress Merton. Hark! {The faces of 
all wear suddenly a startled expression.) 
Where is that unearthly sound? 

Justice Merton. {Listening.) Is it in 
the cellar? 

Micah. 'T is just the dog howling, ma- 
dam. When he spied the gentry he 
turned tail and run below. 

Mistress Merton. Oh, the dog! 

Justice Merton. Show the gentlemen 
here, Micah. Don't keep them waiting. 
A lord! {To Rachel.) We shall talk 
of this matter later. — A lord ! 

{Turning to the small glass on the 
wall, he arranges his peruke and at- 
tire. ) 

Rachel. {To Richard.) What a fortu- 
nate interruption! But, dear Dick! I 
wish we needn't meet these strangers 
now. 

Richard. Would you really rather we 
were alone together? 

{They chat aside, absorbed in each 
other.) 

Justice Merton. Think of it, Cynthia, a 
lord! 

Mistress Merton. {Dusting the furniture 
hastily with her handkerchief.) And 
such dust! 

Rachel. {To Richard.) You know, 
dear, we need only be introduced, and 
then we can steal away together. 

{Reenter Micah.) 

Micah. {Announcing.) Lord Ravens- 
bane : Marquis of Oxford, Baron of Wit- 
tenberg, Elector of Worms, and Count of 
Cordova; Master Dickonson. 

{Enter Ravensbane and Dickon.) 

Justice Merton. Gentlemen, permit me, 
you are excessively welcome. I am 
deeply gratified to meet — 

Dickon. Lord Ravensbane, of the Rook- 
eries, Somersetshire. 

Justice Merton. Lord Ravensbane — his 
lordship's most truly honored. 

Ravensbane. Truly honored. 

Justice Merton. {Turning to Dickon.) 
His lordship's — ? 

Dickon. Tutor, 



PERCY MACKAYE 



859 



Justice Merton. {Checking his effusive- 
ness.) Ah, so! 

Dickon. Justice Merton, I believe. 

Justice Merton. Of Merton House. — 
May I present — permit me, your lord- 
ship — my sister, Mistress Merton. 

Ravensbane. Mistress Merton. 

Justice Merton. And my — and my — 
{under his breath) — Rachel! (Rachel 
remains with a hored expression behind 
Richard.) — My young neighbor, Squire 
Talbot, Squire Richard Talbot of — 
of— 

Richard. Of nowhere, sir. 

Ravensbane. {Nods.) Nowhere. 

Justice Merton. And permit me. Lord 
Ravensbane, my niece — Mistress Rachel 
Merton. 

Ravensbane. {Bows low.) Mistress Ra- 
chel Merton. 

Rachel. ( Curtsies. ) Lord Ravensbane. 
{As they raise their heads, their eyes 
meet and are fascinated. Dickon 
just then takes Ravensbane's pipe 
and fills it.) 

Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel! 

Rachel. Your lordship! 

(Dickon returns the pipe.) 

Mistress Merton. A pipe! Gilead! — in 
the parlor! 

(Justice Merton frowns silence.) 

Justice Merton. Your lordship — ahem! 
— has just arrived in town? 

Dickon. From London, via New Am- 
sterdam. 

Richard. {Aside.) Is he staring at you? 
Are you ill, Rachel? 

Rachel. {Indifferently.) What? 

Justice Merton. Lord Ravensbane hon- 
ors my humble roof. 

Dickon. {Touches Ravensbane's arm.) 
Your lordship — "roof." 

Ravensbane. {Starting, turns to Mer- 
ton.) Nay, sir, the roof of my father's 
oldest friend bestows generous hospi- 
tality upon his only son. 

Justice Merton. Only son — ah, yes! 
Your father — 

Ravensbane. My father, I trust, sir, has 
never forgotten the intimate companion- 
ship, the touching devotion, the unceas- 
ing solicitude for his happiness which 
you, sir, manifested to him in the days 
of his youth. 

Justice Merton. Really, your lordship, 
the — the slight favors which — hem! some 
years ago, I was privileged to show your 
illustrious father — 

Ravensbane. Permit me! — Because, how- 



ever, of his present infirmities — for I re- 
gret to say 'that my father is suffering a 
temporary aberration of mind — 
Justice Merton. You distress me! 
Ravensbane. My lady mother has 
charged me with a double mission here in 
New England. On my quitting my 
home, sir, to explore the wideness and the 
mystery of this world, my mother bade 
me be sure to call upon his worship, the 
Justice Merton; and deliver to him, first, 
my father's remembrances; and secondly, 
my mother's epistle. 
Dickon. {Handing to Justice Merton a 
sealed document.) Her ladyship's letter, 
sir. 
Justice Merton. {Examining the seal 
with awe, speaks aside to Mistress Mer- 
ton.) Cynthia! — a crested seal! 
Dickon. His lordship's crest, sir: rooks 

rampant. 
Justice Merton. {Embarrassed, breaks 

the seal.) Permit me. 
Rachel. {Looking at Ravensbane.) 
Have you noticed his bearing, Richard: 
what personal distinction! what inbred 
nobility! Every inch a true lord! 
Richard. He may be a lord, my dear, but 

he walks like a broomstick. 
Rachel. How dare you! 

{Turns abruptly away; as she does so, 
a fold of her gown catches in a 
chair.) 
Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel — permit me. 
{Stooping, he extricates the fold of 
her gown.) 
Rachel. Oh, thank you. 

{They go aside together.) 

Justice Merton. {To Dickon, glancing 

up from the letter.) I am astonished — 

overpowered ! 

Richard. {To Mistress Merton.) So 

Lord Ravensbane and his family are old 

friends of yours? 

Mistress Merton. {Monosyllabically.) I 

never heard the name before, Richard. 
Ravensbane. {To Rachel, taking her 
hand after a whisper from Dickon.) 
Believe me, sweet lady, it will give me the 
deepest pleasure. 
Rachel. Can you really tell fortunes? 
Ravensbane. More than that; I can be- 
stow them. 

(Ravensbane leads Rachel off, left, 
into an adjoining room, the door of 
which remains open. Richard fol- 
lows them. Mistress Merton fol- 
lows him, murmuring, "BichardF^ 
Dickon stands where he can watch 



860 



THE SCARECROW 



them in the room off scene, while he 
speaks to the Justice.) 

Justice Merton. {To Dickon, glancing 
up from the letter.) I am astonished — 
overpowered ! But is her ladyship really 
serious? An offer of marriage! 

Dickon. Pray read it again, sir. 

Justice Merton. (Beads.) "To the 
Worshipful, the Justice Gilead Merton, 
Merton House. 
"My Honorable Friend and Benefactor : 

"With these brief lines I commend to 
you our son" — our son ! 

Dickon. She speaks likewise for his 
young lordship's father, sir. 

J.USTICE Merton. Ah! of course. (Reads.) 
"In a strange land, I entrust him to you 
as to a father." Honored, believe me! 
"I have only to add my earnest hope 
that the natural gifts, graces, and in- 
herited fortune" — ah — ! 

Dickon. Twenty thousand pounds — on 
his father's demise. 

Justice Merton. Ah! — "fortune of this 
young scion of nobility will so propitiate 
the heart of your niece, Mistress Rachel 
Merton, as to cause her to accept his 
proffered hand in matrimony"; — but — 
but — but Squire Talbot is betrothed to 
— well, well, we shall see; — "in matri- 
mony, and thus cement the early bonds 
of interest and affection between your 
honored self and his lordship's father; 
not to mention, dear sir, your worship's 
ever grateful and obedient admirer, 
"Elizabeth, 
"Marchioness of R." 
Of R.! of R.! Will you beheve me, my 
dear sir, so long is it since my travels in 
England — I visited at so many — hem! 
noble estates — permit me, it is so awk- 
ward, but — 

Dickon. (With his peculiar intonation of 
Act First.) Not at all. 

Ravensbane. (Calls from the adjoining 
room.) Dickon, my pipe! 

(Dickon glides away.) 

Justice Merton. (Starting in perturba- 
tion. To Dickon.) Permit me, one. mo- 
ment; I did not catch your name. 

Dickon. My name? Dickonson. 

Justice Merton. (With a gasp of relief.) 
Ah, Dickonson! Thank you, I mistook 
the word. 

Dickon. A compound, your worship. 
(With a malignant smile.) Dickon- 
(then, jerking his thumb toward the next 
room) son! (Bowing.) Both at your 
service. 



Justice Merton. Is he — he there? 

Dickon. Bessie's brat ; yes ; it did n't die, 
after all, poor suckling! Dickon weaned 
it. Saved it for balm of Gilead. Raised 
it for joyful home-coming. Prodigal's 
return! Twenty-first birthday! Happy 
son ! Happy father ! 

Justice Merton. My — son! 

Dickon. Felicitations ! 

Justice Merton. (Faintly.) What — 
what do you want? 

Dickon. Only the happiness of your dear 
ones — the union of these young hearts 
and hands. 

Justice Merton. What! he will dare — 
an illegitimate — 

Dickon. Fie, fie, Gilly! Why, the brat 
is a lord now. 

Justice Merton. Oh, the disgrace! 
Spare me that, Dickon. And she is in- 
nocent; she is already betrothed. 

Dickon. Twiddle-twaddle ! 'T is a bril- 
liant match ; besides, her ladyship's heart 
is set upon it. 

Justice Merton. Her ladyship — ? 

Dickon. The Marchioness of Rickby. 

Justice Merton. (Glowering.) Rickby! 
— I had forgotten. 

Dickon. Her ladyship has never forgot- 
ten. So, you see, your worship's alterna- 
tives are most simple. Alternative one: 
advance his lordship's suit with your 
niece as speedily as possible, and save all 
scandal. Alternative two: impede his 
lordship's suit, and — 

Justice Merton. Don't, Dickon ! don't re- 
veal the truth ; not disgrace now ! 

Dickon. Good; we are agreed, then? 

Justice Merton. I have no choice. 

Dickon. (Cheerfully.) Why, true; we 
ignored that, didn't we? "^ 

Mistress Merton. (Reentering.) This 
young lord — Why, Gilead, are you ill? 

Justice Merton. (With a great effort,, 
commands himself.) Not in the least. 

Mistress Merton. Rachel's deportment, 
my dear brother — I tell you, they are for- 
tune-telling ! 

Justice Merton. Tush! Tush! 

Mistress Merton. Tush? "Tush" to 
me? Tush! (She goes out right.) 

(Ravensbane and Rachel reenter from 
the adjoining room-, followed shortly by 
Richard.) 

Rachel. I am really at a loss. Your lord- 
ship's hand is so very peculiar. 
Ravensbane. Ah! Peculiar. 
Rachel, This, now, is the line of life. 



PERCY MACKAYE 



861 



Ravensbane. Of life, yes? 

Rachel. But it begins so abruptly, and 
see! it breaks off and ends nowhere. 
And just so here with this line — the line 
of — of love. 

Ravensbane. Of love. So; it breaks? 

Rachel. Yes. 

Ravensbane. Ah, then, that must be the 
heart line. 

Rachel. Why, Lord Ravensbane, your 
pulse. Really, if I am cruel, you -are 
quite heartless. I declare I can't feel 
your heart beat at all. 

Ravensbane. Ah, mistress, that is be- 
cause I have just lost it. 

Rachel. {Archly.) Where? 

Ravensbane. {Faintly.) Dickon, my 
pipe! 

Rachel. Alas ! my lord, are you ill ? 

Dickon. {Restoring the lighted pipe to 
Ravensbane, speaks aside.) Pardon 
me, sweet young lady, I must confide to 
you that his lordship's heart is peculiarly 
responsive to his emotions. When he 
feels very ardently, it quite stops. 
Hence the use of his pipe. 

Rachel. Oh! Is smoking, then, neces- 
sary for his heart? 

Dickon. Absolutely — to equilibrate the 
valvular palpitations. Without his pipe 
— should his lordship experience, for in- 
stance, the emotion of love — he might 
die. 

Rachel. You alarm me ! 

Dickon. But this is for you only, 
Mistress Rachel. We may confide in 
you? 

Rachel. Oh, utterly, sir. 

Dickon. His lordship, you know, is so 
sensitive. 

Ravensbane. {To Rachel.) You have 
given it back to me. Why did not you 
keep it? 

Rachel. What, my lord? 

Ravensbane. My heart. 

Richard. Intolerable! Do you approve 
of this, sir? Are Lord Ravensbane's 
credentials satisfactory ? 

Justice Merton. Eminently, eminently. 

Richard. Ah! So her ladyship's letter 
is — 

Justice Merton. Charming; charming. 
{To Ravensbane.) Your lordship will, 
I trust, make my house your home. 

Ravensbane. My home, sir. 

Rachel. {To Dickon, who has spoken to 
her.) Really? {To Justice Merton:) 
Why, uncle, what is this Master Dickon- 
son tells us? 



Justice Merton. What! What! he has 
revealed — 

Rachel. Yes, indeed. 

Justice Merton. Rachel! Rachel! 

Rachel. -Laughingly to Ravensbane.) 
My uncle is doubtless astonished to find 
you so grown. 

Ravensbane. {Laughingly to Justice 
Merton.) I am doubtless astonished, 
sir, to be so grown. 

Justice Merton. {To Dickon.) You 
have — 

Dickon. Merely remarked, sir, that your 
w^orship had often dandled his lordship — 
as an infant. 

Justice Merton. {Smiling lugubriously.) 
Quite so — as an infant merely. 

Rachel. How interesting! Then you 
must have seen his lordship's home in 
England. 

Justice Merton. As you say. 

Rachel. {To Ravensbane.) Do describe 
it to us. We are so isolated here from 
the grand world. Do you know, I al- 
ways imagine England to be an en- 
chanted isle, like one of the old Hes- 
perides, teeming with fruits of solid 
gold. 

Ravensbane. Ah, yes! my mother raises 
them. 

Rachel. Fruits of gold? 

Ravensbane. Round like the rising sun. 
She calls them — ah! punkins. 

Mistress Merton. "Punkins"! 

Justice Merton. {Aside, grinding his 
teeth.) Scoundrel! Scoundrel! 

Rachel. {Laughing.) Your lordship 
pokes fun at us. 

Dickon. His lordship is an artist in 
words, mistress. I have noticed that in 
whatever country he is traveling, he 
tinges his vocabulary with the local idiom. 
His lordship means, of course, not pump- 
kins, but pomegranates. 

Rachel. We forgive him. But, your 
lordship, please be serious and describe 
to us your hall. 

Ravensbane. Quite serious: the hall. 
Yes, yes; in the middle burns a great 
fire — on a black — ah! black altar. 

Dickon. A Druidical heirloom. His lord- 
ship's mother collects antiques. 

Rachel. How fascinating! 

Ravensbane. Fascinating! On the walls 
hang pieces of iron. 

Dickon. Trophies of Saxon warfare. 

Ravensbane. And rusty horseshoes. 

General Murmurs. Horseshoes! 

Dickon. Presents from the German Em- 



862 



THE SCARECROW 



peror. They were worn by the steeds of 
Charlemagne. 

Ravensbane. Quite so; and broken cart- 
wheels. 

Dickon. Relics of British chariots. 

Rachel. How mediaeval it . must be! 
{To Justice Merton.) And to think 
you never described it to us! 

Mistress Merton. True, brother; you 
have been singularly reticent. 

Justice Merton. Permit me; it is im- 
possible to report all one sees on one's 
travels. 

Mistress Merton. Evidently. 

Rachel. But surely your lordship's 
mother has other diversions besides col- 
lecting antiques. I have heard that in 
England ladies followed the hounds; and 
sometimes — {looking at her aunt and 
lowering her voice) — they even dance. 

Ravensbane. Dance — ah, yes; my lady 
mother dances about the — the altar; she 
swings high a hammer. 

Dickon. Your lordship, your lordship ! 
Pray, sir, check this vein of poetry. 
Lord Ravensbane symbolizes as a ham- 
mer and altar a golf-stick and tee — a 
Scottish game, which her ladyship plays 
on her Highland estates. 

Richard. {To Mistress Merton.) What 
do you think of this? 

Mistress Merton. {With a scandalized 
look toward her brother.) He said to 
me "tush." 

Richard. {To Justice Merton, indicat- 
ing Dickon.) Who is this magpie? 

Justice Merton. {Hisses in fury.) Sa- 
tan! 

Richard. I beg pardon! 

Justice Merton. Satan, sir, — makes you 
jealous. 

Richard. {Bows stiffly.) Good-morning. 
{Walking up to Ravensbane.) Lord 
Ravensbane, I have a rustic colonial ques- 
tion to ask. Is it the latest fashion to 
smoke incessantly in ladies' parlors, or is 
it — mediaeval ? 

Dickon. His lordship's health, sir, neces- 
sitates — 

Richard. I addressed his lordship. 

Ravensbane. In the matter of fashions, 
sir — {Hands his pipe to he refilled.) 
My pipe, Dickon! 

{While Dickon holds his pipe — some- 
what longer than usual — Ravens- 
bane^ with his mouth open as if 
about to speak, relapses into a va- 
cant stare.) 

Richard. Well? 



Dickon. {As he lights the pipe for Ra- 
vensbane, speaks suavely and low as if 
not to be overheard by him.) Pardon 
me. The fact is, my young pupil is 
sensitive; the wound from his latest duel 
is not quite healed; you observe a slight 
lameness, an occasional — absence of 
mind. 

Rachel. A wound — in a real duel? 

Dickon. {Aside.) You, mistress, know 
the true reason — his lordship's heart. 

Richard. {To Ravensbane, who is still 
staring vacantly into space.) Well, well, 
your lordship. (Ravensbane pays no 
attention.) You were saying — ? (Dic- 
kon returns the pipe) — in the matter of 
fashions, sir — ? 

Ravensbane. {Regaining slowly a look of 
intelligence, draws himself up with af- 
fronted hauteur.) Permit me! {Puffs 
several wreaths of smoke into the air.) 
I am the fashions. 

Richard. {Going.) Insufferable! 

{He pauses at the door.) 

Mistress Merton. {To Justice Mer- 
ton.) Well— what do you think of 
that? 

Justice Merton. Spoken like . King 
Charles himself. 

Mistress Merton. Brother! brother! is 
there nothing wrong here? 

{Going out, she passes Dickon, starts 
at a look which he gives her, and 
goes out, right, flustered. Follow- 
ing her, Justice Merton is stopped 
by Dickon, and led off left by him.) 

Rachel. {To Ravensbane.) I — object to 
the smoke? Why, I think it is charm- 
ing. 

Richard. {Who has returned from the 
door, speaks in a low, constrained voices) 
Rachel ! 

Rachel. Oh ! — you ? 

Richard. You take quickly to European 
fashions. 

Rachel. Yes? To what one in partic- 
ular? 

Richard. Two; smoking and flirtation. 

Rachel. Jealous? 

Richard. Of an idiot? I hope not. 
Manners differ, however. Your confi- 
dences to his lordship have evidently not 
included — your relation to me. 

Rachel. Oh, our relations! 

Richard. Of course, since you wish him 
to continue in ignorance — 

Rachel. Not at all. He shall know at 
once. Lord Ravensbane! 

Ravensbane. Fair mistress! 



PERCY MACKAYE 



863 



Richard. Rachel, stop! I did not mean — 

Rachel. {To Ravensbane.) My uncle 
did not introduce to you with sufficient 
elaboration this gentleman. Will you al- 
low me to do so now? 

Ravensbane. I adore Mistress Rachel's 
elaborations. 

Rachel. Lord Ravensbane, I beg to pre- 
sent Squire Talbot, my betrothed. 

Ravensbane. Betrothed! Is it — {notic- 
ing Richard's frown) — is it pleasant-? 

Rachel. {To Richard.) Are you satis- 
fied? 

Richard. {Trembling with feeling.) 
More than satisfied. {Exit.) 

Ravensbane. {Looking after him.) Ah! 
Betrothed is not pleasant. 

Rachel. Not always. 

Ravensbane. {Anxiously.) Mistress Ra- 
chel is not pleased? 

Rachel. {Biting her lip, looks after 
Richard.) With him. 

Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel will smile 
again ? 

Rachel. Soon. 

Ravensbane. {Ardent.) Ah! What can 
Lord Ravensbane do to make her smile? 
See! will you puff my pipe? It is very 
pleasant. {Offering the pipe.) 

Rachel. {Smiling.) Shall I try? 

{Takes hold of it mischievously.) 

{Enter Justice Merton and Dickon^ left.) 

Justice Merton. {In a great voice.) Ra- 
chel! 

Rachel. Why, uncle! 

Justice Merton. {Speaks suavely to Ra- 
vensbane.) Permit me, your lordship — 
Rachel, you will kindly withdraw for a 
few moments; I desire to confer with 
Lord Ravensbane concerning his mother's 
— her ladyship's letter — {obsequiously to 
Dickon) — that is, if you think, sir, that 
your noble pupil is not too fatigued. 

Dickon. Not at all; I think his lordship 
will listen to you with much pleasure. 

Ravensbane. {Bowing to Justice Mer- 
ton, but looking at Rachel.) With 
much pleasure. 

Dickon. And in the mean time, if Mis- 
tress Rachel will allow me, I will assist 
her in writing those invitations which 
your worship desires to send in her 
name. 

Justice Merton. Invitations — from my 
niece ? 

Dickon. To his Excellency, the Lieu- 
tenant-Governor; to your friends, the 
Reverend Masters at Harvard College, 



etc., etc.; in brief, to all your worship's 
select social acquaintance in the vicinity 
— to meet his lordship. It was so 
thoughtful in you to suggest it, sir, and 
believe me, his lordship appreciates your 
courtesy in arranging the reception in 
his honor for this afternoon. 

Rachel. {To Justice Merton.) This 
afternoon! Are we really to give his 
lordship a reception? And will it be 
here, uncle? 

Dickon. {Looking at him narrowly.) 
Your worship said here, I believe? 

Justice Merton. Quite so, sir; quite so, 
quite so. 

Dickon. Permit me to act as your scribe, 
Mistress Rachel. 

Rachel. With pleasure. {With a curtsy 
to Ravensbane.) Till we meet again! 

(Exit, right.) 

Dickon. {Aside to Justice Merton.) I 
advise nothing rash, Gilly; the brat has 
a weak heart. {Aside, as he passes Ra- 
vensbane.) Remember, Jack! Puff! 
Puff! 

Ravensbane. {Staring at the door.) She 
is gone. 

Justice Merton. Impostor! You, at 
least, shall not play the lord and master 
to my face. 

Ravensbane. Quite — gone ! 

Justice Merton. I know with whom I 
have to deal. If I be any judge of my 
own flesh and blood — permit me — you 
shall quail before me. 

Ravensbane. {Dejectedly.) She did not 
smile — {Joyously.) She smiled! 

Justice Merton. Affected rogue! I 
know thee. I know thy feigned pauses, 
thy assumed vagaries. Speak; how 
much do you want? 

Ravensbane. {Ecstatically.) Ah! Mis- 
tress Rachel! 

Justice Merton. Her! Scoundrel, if 
thou dost name her again, my innocent — 
my sweet maid! If thou dost — thou 
godless spawn of temptation — ^mark you, 
I will put an end — 

{Reaching for a pistol that rests in a 
rack on the wall, — the intervening 
form of Dickon suddenly appears, 
pockets the pistol, and exit.) 

Dickon. I beg pardon; I forgot some- 
thing. 

Justice Merton. {Sinking into a chair.) 
God, Thou art just! 

{He holds his head in his hands and 
weeps.) 

Ravensbane. {For the first time, since 



864 



THE SCARECROW 



Rachel's departure, observing Merton.) 
Permit me, sir, are you ill? 

Justice Merton. (Recoiling.) What art 
thou ! 

Ravensbane. (Monotonously.) I am 

Lord Ravensbane: Marquis of Oxford, 
Baron of Wittenberg, Elector of Worms, 
and — (As Justice Merton covers his 
face again.) Shall I call Dickon? 
(Walking quickly toward the door, 
calls. ) Dickon ! 

Justice Merton (Starting up.) No, do 
not call him. Tell me: I hate thee not; 
thou wast innocent. Tell me ! — I thought 
thou hadst died as a babe. — Where has 
Dickon, our tyrant, kept thee these 
twenty years? 

Ravensbane. (With gentle courtesy.) 
Master Dickonson is my tutor. 

Justice Merton. And why has thy 
mother — Ah, I know well; I deserve all. 
But yet, it must not be published now! 
I am a justice now, an honored citizen — 
and my young niece — Thy mother will 
not demand so much. 

Ravensbane. My mother is the Mar- 
chioness of Rickby. 

Justice Merton. Yes, yes; 'twas well 
planned, a clever trick. 'T was skillful 
of her. But surely thy mother gave thee 
commands to — 

Ravensbane. My mother gave me her 
blessing. 

Justice Merton. Ah, 'tis well, then. 
Young man, my son, I too will give thee 
my blessing, if thou wilt but go — go 
instantly — go with half my fortune — 
but leave me my honor — and my 
Rachel? 

Ravensbane. Rachel? Rachel is yours? 
No, no. Mistress Rachel is mine. We are 
ours. 

Justice Merton. (Pleadingly.) Consider 
the disgrace — you, an illegitimate — and 
she — oh, think what thou art ! 

Ravensbane. (Monotonously, puffing smoke 
at the end.) I am Lord Ravensbane: 
Marquis of Oxford, Baron of Witten- 
berg, Elector of Worms, and Count — 

Justice Merton. (Wrenching the pipe 
from Ravensbane's hand and lips.) 
Devil's child! Boor! Buffoon! (Fling- 
ing the pipe away.) I will stand thy 
insults no longer. If thou hast no 
heart — 

Ravensbane. (Putting his hand to his 
side, staggers.) Ah! my heart! 

Justice Merton. Hypocrite! Thou canst 
not fvjol me. I am thv father. 



Ravensbane. (Faintly, stretches out hi;' 
hand to him for support.) Father! 

Justice Merton. Stand away. Thou 
mayst break thy heart and mine and 
the devil's, but thou shalt not break 
Rachel's. 

Ravensbane. (Faintly.) Mistress Rachel 
is mine — (He staggers again, and 
falls, half reclining, upon a chair. More 
faintly he speaks, beginning to change 
expression.) Her eyes are mine; her 
smiles are mine. 

(His eyes close.) 

Justice Merton. Good God! Can it be 
— his heart? (With agitated swiftness, 
he feels and listens at Ravensbane's 
side.) Not a motion; not a sound! 
Yea, God, Thou art good! 'T is his 
heart. He is — ah! he is my son. Judge 
Almighty, if he should die now; may 
I not be still a moment more and make 
sure ? No, no, my son — he is changing. 
(Calls.) Help! Help! Rachel! Master 
Dickonson! Help! Richard! Cynthia! 
Come hither! 

(Enter Dickon and Rachel.) 

Rachel. Uncle ! 

Justice Merton. Bring wine. Lord 

Ravensbane has fainted. 
Rachel. Oh! (Turning swiftly to go.) 

Micah, wine. 
Dickon. (Detaining her.) Stay! His 

pipe! Where is his lordship's pipe? 
Rachel. Oh, terrible! 

(Enter, at different doors, Mistress Mer- 
ton and Richard.) 

Mistress Merton. What's the matter?- 

Justice Merton. (To Rachel.) He 
threw it away. He is worse. Bring the 
wine. 

Mistress Merton. Look! How strange 
he appears! 

Rachel. (Searching distractedly.) The 
pipe! His lordship's pipe! It is lost, 
Master Dickonson. 

Dickon. (Stooping, as if searching, with 
his back turned, having picked up the 
pipe, is filling and lighting it.) It must 
be found. This is a heart attack, my 
friends; his lordship's life depends on 
the nicotine. 

(Deftly he places the pipe in Rachel's 
way.) 

Rachel. Thank God! Here it is. (Car- 
rying it to the prostrate form of Ravens- 



PERCY MACKAYE 



865 



BANE, she lifts his head and is about to 
put the pipe in his mouth.) Shall I — 
shall I put it in? 

RiCHAED. No! not you. 

Rachel. Sir! 

Richard. Let his tutor perform that of- 
fice. 

Rachel. (Lifting Lord Ravensbane's 
head again.) My lord! 

Richard and Justice Merton. {To- 
gether. ) Rachel ! 

Dickon. Pardon me, Mistress Rachel; 
give the pipe at once. Only a token of 
true affection can revive his lordship 
now. 

Richard. [As Rachel puts the pipe to 
Ravensbane's lips.) I forbid it, Ra- 
chel. 

Rachel. (Watching only Ravensbane.) 
My lord — my lord! 

Mistress Merton. Give him air; unbut- 
ton his coat. (Rachel unbuttons Ra- 
vensbane's coat^ revealing the embroid- 
ered waistcoat.) Ah, Heavens! What 
do I see? 

Justice Merton. (Looks, blanches, and 
signs silence to Mistress Merton.) 
Cynthia ! 

Mistress Merton. (Aside to Justice 
Merton", with deep tensity.) That waist- 
coat ! that waistcoat ! Brother, hast thou 
never seen it before? 

Justice Merton. Never, my sister. 

Dickon. See! He puffs — he revives. He 
is coming to himself. 

Rachel. (As Ravensbane rises to his 
feet.) At last! 

Dickon. Look! he is restored. 

Rachel. God be thanked! 

Dickon. My lord, Mistress Rachel has 
saved your life. 

Ravensbane. (Taking Rachel's hand.) 
Mistress Rachel is mine; we are ours. 

Richard. Dare to repeat that. 

Ravensbane. (Looking at Rachel.) Her 
eyes are mine. 

Richard. (Flinging Ms glove in his face.) 
And that, sir, is yours. 

Rachel. Richard ! 

Richard. I believe such is the proper 
fashion in England. If your lordship's 
last dueling wound is sufficiently healed, 
perhaps you will deign a reply. 

Rachel. Richard! Your lordship! 

Ravensbane. (Stoops, picks up the glove, 
pockets it, bows to Rachel, and steps 
close to Richard.) Permit me! 

(He blows a puff of smoke full in 
Richard's face.) 



ACT THIRD. 

The same day. Late afternoon. The same 
scene as in Act Second. 

Ravensbane and Dickon are seated at the 
table, on which are lying two flails. 
Ravensbane is dressed in a costume 
which, composed of silk and jewels, 
subtly approximates in design to that of 
his original grosser composition. So art- 
fully, however, is this contrived that, to 
one ignorant of his origin, his dress 
would appear to be merely an odd per- 
sonal whimsy ; whereas, to one initiated, 
it would stamp him grotesquely as the 
apotheosis of scarecrows. 

Dickon is sitting in a pedagogical atti- 
tude; Ravensbane stands near him, 
making a profound bow in the opposite 
direction. 

Ravensbane. Believe me, ladies, with the 
true sincerity of the heart. 

Dickon. Inflection a little more lachry- 
mose, please : "The true sincerity of the 
heart." 

Ravensbane. Believe me, ladies, with the 
true sincerity of the heart. 

Dickon. Prettily, prettily! Next! 

Ravensbane. (Changing his mien, as if 
addressing another person.) Verily, sir, 
as that prince of poets, the immortal 
Virgil, has remarked: — 

"Adeo in teneris consuescere multum est." 

Dickon. Basta! The next. 

Ravensbane. (With another change to 
courtly manner.) Trust me, your Ex- 
cellency, I will inform his Majesty of 
your courtesy. 

Dickon. "His Majesty" more emphatic. 
Remember! You must impress all of 
the guests this afternoon. But continue, 
Cobby, dear; the retort now to the chal- 
lenge ! 

Ravensbane. (With a superb air.) The 
second, I believe. 

Dickon. Quite so, my lord. 

Ravensbane. Sir! the local person whom 
you represent has done himself the honor 
of submitting to me a challenge to mortal 
combat. Sir! Since the remotest times 
of my feudal ancestors, in such affairs 
of honor, choice of weapons has ever 
been the — 

Dickon. Prerogative ! 

Ravensbane. Prerogative of the chal- 
lenged. Sir! This right of etiquette 



866 



THE SCARECROW 



must be observed. Nevertheless, believe 
me, I have no selfish desire that my su- 
perior — 

Dickon. Attainments ! 

Ravensbane. Attainments in this art 
should assume advantage over my chal- 
lenger's ignorance. I have, therefore, 
chosen those combative utensils most ap- 
propriate both to his own humble origin 
and to local tradition. Permit me, sir, 
to reveal my choice. {Pointing grandly 
to the table.) Therje are my weapons! 

Dickon. Delicious! thou exquisite 
flower of love! How thy natal compo- 
sites have burst in bloom! — The pump- 
kin in thee to a golden collarette; thy 
mop of crow's wings to these raven 
locks; thy broomstick to a lordly limp; 
thy corn-silk to these pale-tinted tassels. 
Verily in the gallery of scarecrows, thou 
art the Apollo Belvedere ! 

Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel — I may see 
her now? 

Dickon. Romeo ! Romeo ! Was ever such 
an amorous puppet show! 

Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel! 

Dickon. Wait; let me think! Thou art 
wound up now, my pretty apparatus, for 
at least six-and-thirty hours. The 
wooden angel Gabriel that trumpets the 
hours on the big clock in Venice is not 
a more punctual manikin than thou with 
my speeches. Thou shouldst run, there- 
fore, — 

Ravensbane. {Frowning darMy at Dic- 
kon.) Stop talking; permit me! A 
tutor should know his place. 

Dickon. {Buhbing his hands.) Nay, 
your lordship is beyond comparison. 

Ravensbane. {In a terrible voice.) She 
will come? I shall see her? 

{Enter Micah.) 

MiCAH. Pardon, my lord. 

Ravensbane. {Turning joyfully to Mi- 
cah.) Is it she? 

Micah. Captain Bugby, my lord, the 
Governor's secretary. 

Dickon. Good. Squire Talbot's second. 
Show him in. 

Ravensbane. {Flinging despairingly into 
a chair.) Ah! ah! 

Micah. {Lifting the flails from the ta- 
ble.) Beg pardon, sir; shall I remove — 

Dickon. Drop them; go. 

Micah. But, sir — 

Dickon. Go, thou slave! {Exit Micah. 
(Dickon hands Ravensbane a book.) 



Here, my lord; read. You must be 

found reading. 
Ravensbane. {In childlike despair.) She 

will not come! I shall not see her! 

{Throwing the book into the fireplace.) 

She does not come! 
Dickon. Fie, fie, Jack; thou must not be 

breaking thy Dickon's apron-strings with 

a will of thine own. Come! 
Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel — 
Dickon. Be good, boy, and thou shalt see 

her soon. 

{Enter Captain Bugby.) 

Your lordship was saying — Oh! Captain 
Bugby? 

Captain Bugby. {Nervous and awed.) 
Captain Bugby, sir, ah! at Lord Ravens- 
bane's service — ah! 

Dickon. I am Master Dickonson, his lord- 
ship's tutor. 

Captain Bugby. Happy, sir. 

Dickon. {To Ravensbane.) My lord, 
this gentleman waits upon you from 
Squire Talbot. {To Captain Bugby.) 
In regard to the challenge this morning, 
I presume? 

Captain Bugby. The affair, ah! the affair 
of this morning, sir. 

Ravensbane. {With his former superb 
air — to Captain Bugby.) The second, I 
believe ? 

Captain Bugby. Quite so, my lord. 

Ravensbane. Sir! the local person whom 
you represent has done himself the honor 
of submitting to me a challenge to mortal 
combat. Sir! Since the remotest times 
of my feudal ancestors, in such affairs 
of honor, choice of weapons has ever 
been the pre-pre- (Dickon looks at him 
intensely.) prerogative of the challenged. 
Sir! this right of etiquette must be ob- 
served. 

Captain Bugby. Indeed, yes, my lord. 

Dickon. Pray do not interrupt. ( To Ra- 
vensbane.) Your lordship: "observed.'^ 

Ravensbane. — observed. Nevertheless, 
believe me, I have no selfish desire that 
my superior a-a-at-attainments in this 
art should assume advantage over my 
challenger's ignorance. I have, there- 
fore, chosen those combative utensils 
most appropriate both to his own humble 
origin and to local tradition. Permit 
me, sir, to reveal my choice. {Pointing 
to the table.) There are my weapons! 

Captain Bugby. {Looking bewildered.) 
These, my lord ? 

Ravensbane. Those. 



PERCY MACKAYE 



867 



Captain Bugby. But these are — are flails. 

Ravensbane. Flails. 

Captain Bugby. Flails, my lord? — Do I 
understand that your lordship and 
Squire Talbot— 

Ravensbane. Exactly. 

Captain Bugby. But your lordship — 
flails! 

(Dickon's intense glance focusses on 
Ravensbane's face with the faintest 
of smiles.) 

Ravensbane. My adversary should be 
deft in their use. He has doubtless 
wielded them frequently on his barn 
floor. 

Captain Bugby. Ahaha! I understand 
now. Your lordship — ah! is a wit. 
Haha! Flails! 

Dickon. His lordship's satire is poign- 
ant. 

Captain Bugby. Indeed, sir, so keen that 
I must apologize for laughing at my 
principal's expense. But — {soberly to 
Ra\tensbane) — my lord, if you will 
deign to speak one moment seriously — 

Ravensbane. Seriously? 

Captain Bugby. I will take pleasure in 
informing Squire Talbot — ah ! as to your 
real preference for — 

Ravensbane. For flails, sir. I have, per- 
mit me, nothing further to say. Flails 
are final. {Turns away haughtily.) 

Captain Bugby. Eh! What! Must I 
really report — ? 

Dickon. Lord Ravensbane's will is in- 
flexible. 

Captain Bugby. And his wit, sir, incom- 
parable. I am sorry for the Squire, but 
't will be the greatest joke in years. Ah ! 
will you tell me — is it — {indicating Ra- 
vensbane's smoking) — is it the latest 
fashion ? 

Dickon. Lord Ravensbane is always the 
latest. 

Captain Bugby. Obliged servant, sir. 
Aha ! Such a joke as — Lord ! flails. 

{Exit.) 

Dickon. {Gayly to Ravensbane.) Bravo, 
my pumpky dear! That squelches the 
jealous betrothed. Now nothing remains 
but for you to continue to dazzle the 
enamored Rachel, and so present your- 
self to the Justice as a pseudo-son- 
nephew-in-law. 

Ravensbane. I may go to Mistress 
Rachel? 

Dickon. She will come to you. She is 
reading now a poem from you, which I 
left on her dressing-table. 



Ravensbane. She is reading a poem from 
me? 

Dickon. With your pardon, my lord, I 
penned it for you. I am something of a 
poetaster. Indeed, I flatter myself that 
I have dictated some of the finest lines in 
literature. 

Ravensbane. Dickon! She will come? 

Dickon. She comes! 

{Enter Rachel, reading from a piece of 
paper.) 

(Dickon draws Ravensbane back.) 

Rachel. {Reads.) "To Mistress R , 

enchantress : — 

""If faith in witchcraft be a sin, 
Alas ! what peril he is in 
Who plights his faith and love in thee. 
Sweetest maid of sorcery. 

"If witchcraft be a whirling brain, 
A roving eye, a heart of pain, 
Whose wound no thread of fate can stitch, 
How hast thou conjured, cruel witch,— 

With the brain, eye, heart, and total 
mortal residue of thine enamored. 
"Jack Lanthorxe, 

"[Lord R .]" 

(Dickon goes out.) 

Rachel. "To Mistress R , enchant- 
ress:" R! It must be. R .must 

mean — 

Ravensbane. {With passionate defer- 
ence.) Rachel! 

Rachel. Ah! How you surprised me, 
my lord ! 

Ravensbane. You are come again; you 
are come again. 

Rachel. Has anything happened? Oh, 
my lord, I have been in such terror. 
Promise me that there shall be — no — 
duel! 

Ravensbane. No duel. 

Rachel. Oh, I am so gratefully happy! 

Ravensbane. I know I am only a thing 
to make Mistress Rachel hajjpy. Ah! 
look at me once more. When you look 
at me, I live. 

Rachel. It is strange, i-ideed, my lord, 
how the famihar world, the daylight, the 
heavens themselves have changed since 
your arrival. 

Ravensbane. This is the world; this is 
the light; this is the heavens themselves. 
Mistress Rachel is looking at me. 

Rachel. For me, it is less strange, per- 
haps. I never saw a real lord before. 
But you, my lord, must have seen so 



868 



THE SCARECROW 



many, many girls in the great world. 
Ravensbane. No, no; never. 
Rachel. No other girls before to-day, my 

lord! 
Ravensbane. Before to-day? I do not 

know; I do not care. I was not — here. 

To-day I was born — in your eyes. Ah! 

my brain whirls ! 
Rachel. (Smiling.) 

'If witchcraft be a whirling brain, 
A roving ej^e, a heart of pain, — " 

(In a whisper.) My lord, do you really 
believe in witchcraft? 

Ravensbane. With all my heart. 

Rachel. And approve of it? 

Ravensbane. With all my soul. 

Rachel. So do I — that is, innocent witch- 
craft; not to harm anybody, you know, 
but just to feel all the dark mystery and 
the trembling excitement — the way you 
feel when you blow out your candle all 
alone in your bedroom and watch the 
little smoke fade away in the moonshine. 

Ravensbane. Fade away in the moon- 
shine ! 

Rachel. Oh, but we must n't speak of it. 
In a town like this, all such mysticism is 
considered damnable. But your lord- 
ship understands and approves? I am 
so glad! Have you read the Philosophi- 
cal Considerations of Glanville, the Sa- 
ducismus Triumphatus, and the Presig- 
nifications of Dreams? What kind of 
witchcraft, my lord, do you believe in? 

Ravensbane. In all yours. 

Rachel. Nay, your lordship must not 
take me for a real witch. I can only tell 
fortunes, you know — like this morning. 

Ravensbane. I know; you told how my 
heart would break. 

Rachel. Oh, that 's palmistry, and that 
is n't always certain. But the surest 
w^ay to prophesy — do you know what it 
is? 

Ravensbane. Tell me. 

Rachel. To count the crows. Do you 
know how? 

One for sorrow — 

Ravensbane. Ha, yes! — 

Two for mirth! 
Rachel. 

Three for a wedding — 

Ravensbane. 

Four for a birth — ■ 



Rachel. 

And five for the happiest thing on earth! 

Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel, come ! Let 
us go and count five crows. 

Rachel. (Delightedly.) Why, my lord, 
how did you ever learn it ? I got it from 
an old goody here in town — a real witch- 
wife. If you will promise not to tell a 
secret, I will show you — But you must 
promise ! 

Ravensbane. I promise. 

Rachel. Come, then. I will show you a 
real piece of witchcraft that I bought 
from her this morning — the glass of 
truth. There ! Behind that curtain. If 
you look in, you will see — But come; 
I will show you. (They put their hands 
on the cords of the curtain.) Just pull 
that string, and — ah! 

Dickon. (Stepping out through the cur- 
tain.) My lord, your pipe. 

Rachel. Master Dickonson, how you 
frightened me! 

Dickon. So excessively sorry! 

Rachel. But how did you—? 

Dickon. I believe you were showing his 
lordship — 

Rachel. (Turning hurriedly away.) Oh, 
nothing; nothing at all. 

Ravensbane. (Sternly to Dickon.) Why 
do you come? 

Dickon. (Handing back Ravensbane's 
pipe, filled.) Allow me. (Aside.) 'T is 
high time you came to the point, Jack; 
't is near your lordship's reception. 
Woo and win, boy; woo and win. 

Ravensbane. (Haughtily.) Leave me. 

Dickon. Your lordship 's humble, very 
humble. (Exit.) 

Rachel. (Shivering.) My dear lord, why 
do you keep this man? 

Ravensbane. I — keep this man? 

Rachel. Pardon my rudeness — I cannot 
endure him. 

Ravensbane. You do not like him? Ah, 
then, I do not like him also. We will 
send him away — you and I. 

Rachel. You, my lord, of course; but 
I— 

Ravensbane. You will be Dickon! You 
Avill be with me always and light my 
pipe. And I will live for you, and fight 
for you, and kill your betrothed! 

Rachel. (Drawing away.) No, no! 

Ravensbane. Ah! but your eyes say 
"yes." Mistress Rachel leaves me; but 
Rachel in her eyes remains. Is it not so?, 

Rachel. What can I say, my lord! I 






PERCY MACKAYE 



869 



is true that since my eyes met yours, a 
new passion lias entered into my soul. 
I have felt — but 't is so impertinent, my 
lord, so absurd in me, a mere girl, and 
you a nobleman of power — yet I have 
felt it irresistibly, my dear lord, — a long- 
ing to help you. I am so sorry for you 
— so sorry for you! I pity you deeply. 
— Forgive me; forgive me, my lord! 

Ravensbane. It is enough. 

Rachel. Indeed, indeed, 'tis so rude of 
me, — 'tis so unreasonable. 

Ravensbane. It is enough. I grow — I 
grow — I grow! I am a plant; you give 
it rain and sun. I am a flower; you 
give it light and dew. I am a soul, you 
give it love and speech. I grow. To- 
ward you — toward you I grow! 

Rachel. My lord, I do not understand it, 
how so poor and mere a girl as I can 
have helped you. Yet I do believe it is 
so ; for I feel it so. What can I do for 
you? 

Ravensbane. Be mine. Let me be yours. 

Rachel. But, my lord — do I love you? 

Ravensbane. What is "I love you"? Is 
it a kiss, a sigh, an embrace ? Ah ! then, 
you do not love me. — "I love you": is it 
to nourish, to nestle, to lift up, to smile 
upon, to make greater — a worm? Ah! 
then, you love me. 

{Enter Richard at left hack, wiohserved.) 

Rachel. Do not speak so of yourself, my 
lord; nor exalt me so falsely. 

Ravensbane. Be mine. 

Rachel. A great glory has descended 
upon this day. 

Ravensbane. Be mine. 

Rachel. Could I but be sure that this 
glory is love — Oh, then! 

{Turns toward Ravensbane.) 

RiCHABD. {Stepping between them.) It 
is not love; it is witchcraft. 

Rachel. Who are you? — Richard? 

RiCHAED. You have, indeed, forgotten 
me? Would to God, Rachel, I could 
forget you. 

Ravensbane. Ah, permit me, sir — 

Richard. Silence ! ( To Rachel. ) Against 
my will, I am a convert to your own 
mysticism; for nothing less than damna- 
ble illusion could so instantly wean your 
heart from me to — this. I do not pre- 
tend to understand it; but that it is 
witchcraft I am convinced; and I will 
save you from it. 

Rachel. Go; please go. 



Ravensbaxe. Permit me, sir; you have 
not replied y^et to flails! 

Richard. Permit me, sir. {Taking some- 
thing from his coat.) My answer is — 
bare cob! {Holding out a shelled corn- 
cob.) Thresh this, sir, for your antago- 
nist. 'T is the only one worthy your 
lordship. 

{Tosses it contemptuously toward 
him.) 

Ravensbane. Upon my honor, as a man — 

Richard. As a man, forsooth! Were 
you, indeed, a man, Lord Ravensbane, I 
would have accepted your weapons, and 
flailed you out of New England. But it 
is not my custom, to chastise runagates 
from asylums, or to banter further words 
with a natural and a ninny. 

Rachel. Squire Talbot! Will you leave 
my uncle's house? 

Ravensbane. One moment, mistress: — I 
did not wholly catch the import of this 
gentleman's speech, but I fancy I have 
insulted him by my reply to his chal- 
lenge. One insult may perhaps be reme- 
died by another. Sir, permit me to call 
you a ninny, and to offer you — {draw- 
ing his sword and offering it) — swords. 

Richard. Thanks; I reject the offer. 

Ravensbane. {Turning away despond- 
ently.) He rejects it. Well! 

Rachel. {To Richard.) And now will 
you leave? 

Richard. At once. But one word more. 
Rachel — Rachel, have you forgotten this 
morning and the Glass of Truth? 

Rachel. {Coldly.) No. 

Richard. Call it a fancy now if you will. 
I scoffed at it; yes. Yet you believed it. 
I loved you truly, you said. Well, have 
I changed? 

Rachel. Yes. 

Richard. Will you test me again — in the 
glass ? 

Rachel. No. Go; leave us. 

Richard. I will go. I have still a word 
with your aunt. 

Ravensbane. {To Richard.) I beg 
your pardon, sir. You said just now 
that had I been a man — 

Richard. I say, Lord Ravensbane, that 
the straight fiber of a true man never 
warps the love of a woman. As for 
yourself, you have my contempt and pity. 
Pray to God, sir, pray to God to make 
you a man. {Exit.) 

Rachel. Oh! it is intolerable! {To Ra- 
vensbane.) My dear lord, I do believe 
in my heart that I love you, and if so, I 



870 



THE SCARECROW 



will with gratitude be your wife. But, 
my lord, strange glamors, strange dark- 
nesses reel, and bewilder my mind. I 
must be alone; I must think and decide. 
Will you give me this tassel? 

Ravensbane. {Unfastening a silk tassel 
from his coat and giving it to her.) Oh, 
take it. 

Rachel. If I decide that I love you, that 
I will be your wife — I will wear it this 
afternoon at the reception. Good-bye. 

(Exit, right.) 

Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel! — {He is 
left alone. As he looks about gropingly, 
and raises Ms arms in vague prayer, 
Dickon appears from the right and 
watches him, with a smile.) God, are 
you here? Dear God, I pray to you — 
make me to be a man! {Exit, left.) 

Dickon. Poor Jacky! Thou shouldst 'a' 
prayed to t' other one. 

{Enter, right, Justice Merton.) 

Justice Merton. {To Dickon.) Will 
you not listen? Will you not listen! 

Dickon. Such a delightful room! 

Justice Merton. Are you merciless? 

Dickon. And such a living portrait of 
your worship ! The waistcoat is so beau- 
tifully executed. 

Justice Merton. If I pay him ten thou- 
sand pounds — 

{Enter, right. Mistress Merton, who goes 
toward the table. Enter, left, Micah.) 

Mistress Merton. Flails! Flails in the 
parlor ! 

Micah. The minister and his wife have 
turned into the gate, madam. 

Mistress Merton. The guests! Is it so 
late? 

Micah. Four o'clock, madam. 

Mistress Merton. Remove these things 
at once. 

Micah. Yes, madam. {He lifts them, and 
starts for the door where he pauses to 
look back and speak.) Madam, in all 
my past years of service at Merton 
House, I never waited upon a lord till 
to-day. Madam, in all my future years 
of service at Merton House, I trust I 
may never wait upon a lord again. 

Mistress Merton. Micah, mind the 
knocker. 

Micah. Yes, madam. 

{Exit at left back. Sounds of a brass 
knocker outside.) 

Mistress Merton. Rachel! Rachel! 

{Exit, left.) 



Justice Merton. {To Dickon.) So you 
are contented with nothing less than the 
sacrifice of my niece ! 

{Enter Micah.) 

Micah. Minister Dodge, your Worship; 
and Mistress Dodge. {Exit.) 

{Enter the Minister and his Wife.) 

Justice Merton. {Stepping forward to 
receive them.) Believe me, this is a 
great privilege. — Madam! {Bowing.) 

Minister Dodge. {Taking his hand.) 
The privilege is ours. Justice; to enter a 
righteous man's house is to stand, as it 
were, on God's threshold. 

Justice Merton. {Nervously.) Amen, 
amen. Permit me — ah! Lord Ravens- 
bane, my young guest of honor, will be 
here directly — permit me to present his 
lordship's tutor, Master Dickonson; the 
Reverend Master Dodge, Mistress Dodge. 

Minister Dodge. {Offering his hand.) 
Master Dickonson, sir — 

Dickon. {Barely touching the minister's 
fingers, bows charmingly to his wife.) 
Madam, of all professions in the world, 
your husband's most allures me. 

Mistress Dodge. 'T is a worthy one, sir. 

Dickon. Ah! Mistress Dodge, and so 

arduous — especially for a minister's wife. 

{He leads her to a chair.) 

Mistress Dodge. {Accepting the chair.) 
Thank you. 

Minister Dodge. Lord Ravensbane comes 
from abroad? 

Justice Merton. From London. 

Minister Dodge. An old friend of yours, 
I understand. 

Justice Merton. From London, yes. 
Did I say from London ? Quite so ; from 
London. 

{Enter Micah.) 

Micah. Captain Bugby, the Governor's 
secretary. {Exit.) 

{Enter Captain Bugby. He walks ivith a 
slight lameness, and holds daintily in his 
hand a pipe, from which he puffs wit, 
dandy deliberation.) 

Captain Bugby. Justice Merton, yo 
very humble servant. 

Justice Merton. Believe me. Captain 
Bugby. 

Captain Bugby. {Profusely.) Ah, Mas-. 
ter Dickonson! my dear friend Master 
Dickonson — this is, indeed — ah ! How 
is his lordship since — aha! but discre- 



ns I 

I 



PERCY MACKAYE 



871 



tion! Mistress Dodge — her servant! 
Ah! yes — {indicating his pipe with a 
smile of satisfaction) — the latest, I as- 
sure you; the very latest from London. 
Ask Master Diekonson. 

Minister Dodge. {Looking at Captain 
BuGBY.) These will hatch out in the 
springtime. 

Captain Bugby. {Confidentially to 
Dickon.) But really, my good friend, 
may not I venture to inquire how his 
lordship — ah! has been in health since 
the — ah! since — 

Dickon. {Impressively.) Oh ! quite, quite ! 

{Enter Mistress Merton; she joins Jus- 
tice Merton and Minister Dodge.^ 

Captain Bugby. You know, I informed 
Squire Talbot of his lordship's epigram- 
matic retort — his retort of — shh! ha 
haha! Oh, that reply was a stiletto; 
't was sharper than a sword-thrust, I as- 
sure you. To have conceived it — 't was 
inspiration; but to have expressed it — 
oh ! 't was genius. Hush ! "Flails" ! 
Oh! It sticks me now in the ribs. I 
shall die with concealing it. 

Minister Dodge. {To Mistress Mer- 
ton.) 'T is true, mistress; but if there 
were more like your brother in the par- 
ish, the conscience of the community 
would be clearer. 

{Enter Micah.) 

MiCAH. The Reverend Master Rand of 
Harvard College; the Reverend Master 
Todd of Harvard College. {Exit.) 

{Enter two elderly, straight-hacked di- 
vines.) 

Justice Merton. {Greeting them.) Per- 
mit me, gentlemen; this is fortunate — 
before your return to Cambridge. 

{He conducts them to Mistress Mer- 
ton and Minister Dodge. Dickon 
is ingratiating himself with Mis- 
tress Dodge; Captain Bugby, 
laughed at hy both parties, is re- 
ceived hy neither.) 
Captain Bugby. {Puffing smoke toward 
the ceiling.) Really, I cannot under- 
stand what keeps his Excellency, the 
Lieutenant-Governor, so long. He has 
two such charming daughters, Master 
Diekonson — 
Dickon. {To Mistress Dodge.) Yes, 
yes; such suspicious women with their 
I chains are an insult to the virtuous 
I ladies of the parish. 



Captain BuGBy. How, sir! 

Mistress Dodge. And to think that she 

should actually shoe horses herself! 
Captain Bugby. {Piqued, walks another 

way.) Well! 
Rev. Master Rand. {To Justice Mer- 
ton.) It would not be countenanced in 

the college yard, sir. 
Rev. Master Todd. A pipe! Nay, mores 

inhihitce! 
Justice Merton. 'T is most unfortunate, 

gentlemen ; but I understand 't is the new 

vogue in London. 

{Enter Micah.) 

Micah. His Excellency, Sir Charles Red- 
dington, Lieutenant-Governor; the Mis- 
tress Reddingtons. 

Captain Bugby. At last ! 

Mistress Merton. {Aside.) Micah. 

(Micah goes to her.) 

{Enter Sir Charles, Mistress Redding- 
TON, and Amelia Reddington.) 

Justice Merton. Your Excellency, this is, 
indeed, a distinguished honor. 

Sir Charles. {Shaking hands.) Fine 
weather, Merton. Where 's your young 
lord? 

The Two Girls. {Curtsying.) Justice 
Merton, Mistress Merton. 

(Micah goes out.) 

Captain Bugby. Oh, my dear Mistress 
Reddington ! Charming Mistress Amelia ! 
You are so very late, but you shall hear 
— hush ! 

Mistress Reddington. {Noticing his 
pipe.) Why, what is this. Captain? 

Captain Bugby. Oh, the latest, I assure 
you, the very latest. Wait till you see 
his lordship. 

Amelia. What! isn't he here? {Laugh- 
ing.) La, Captain! Do look at the 
man ! 

Captain Bugby. Oh, he 's coming directly. 
Quite the mode — what? 

{He talks to them aside, where they 
titter. ) 

Sir Charles. {To Dickon.) What say? 
Traveling for his health? 

Dickon. Partially, your Excellency; but 
my young pupil and master is a singu- 
larly affectionate nature. 

The Two Girls. {To Captain Bugby.) 
What ! flails — really ! 

{They hurst into laughter among them- 
selves.) 

Dickon. He has journeyed here to Mas- 
sachusetts peculiarly to pay this visit to 



872 



THE SCARECROW 



Justice Merton — his father's dearest 

friend. 
Sir Charles. Ah! knew him abroad, eh? 
Dickon. In Rome, your Excellency. 
Mistress Dodge. {To Justice Merton.) 

Why, I thought it was in London. 
Justice Merton. London, true, quite so; 

we made a trip together to Lisbon — ah ! 

Rome. 
Dickon. Paris, was it not, sir? 
Justice Merton. {In great distress.) 

Paris, Paris, very true; I am — I am — 

sometimes I am — 

{Enter Micah, right.) 

MiCAH. {Announces.) Lord Ravensbane. 

{Enter right, Ravensbane with Rachel.) 

Justice Merton. {With a gasp of relief.) 
Ah! his lordship is arrived. 

{Murmurs of "his lordship'' and a 
flutter among the girls and Captain 

BUGBY.) 

Captain Bugby. Look! — Now! 

Justice Merton. Welcome, my lord! 

{To Sir Charles.) Your Excellency, 

let me introduce — permit me — 
Ravensbane. Permit me; {addressing 

her) Mistress Rachel! — Mistress Rachel 

will introduce — 
Rachel. {Curtsying.) Sir Charles, allow 

me to present my friend. Lord Ravens- 
bane. 
Mistress Reddington. {Aside to Amelia. ) 

Her friend — did you hear? 
Sir Charles. Mistress Rachel, I see you 

are as pretty as ever. Lord Ravensbane, 

your hand, sir. 
Ravensbane. Trust me, your Excellency, 

I will inform his Majesty of your 

courtesy. 
Captain Bugby. {Watching Ravensbane 

with chagrin. ) On my life ! he 's lost his 

limp. 
Ravensbane. {Apart to Rachel.) You 

said: "A great glory has descended upon 

this day." 
Rachel. {Shyly.) My lord! 
Ravensbane. Be sure — mistress, be 

sure — that this glory is love. 
Sir Charles. My daughters, Fanny and 

Amelia — Lord Ravensbane. 
Thk Two Girls. {Curtsying.) Your 

lordship ! 
Sir Charles. Good girls, but silly. 
The Two Girls. Papa ! 
Ravensbane. Believe me, ladies, with the 

true sincerity of the heart. 



Mistress Reddington. Isn't he perfec- 
tion! 

Captain Bugby. What said I? 

Amelia. {Giggling.) 1 can't help think- 
ing of flails. 

Sir Charles. {In a loud whisper aside to 
Justice Merton.) Is it congratulations 
for your niece? 

Justice Merton. Not — not precisely. 

Dickon. {To Justice Merton.) Youi 
worship — a word. {Leads him aside.) 

Ravensbane. {Whom Rachel continues 
to introduce to the guests, speaks to Mas- 
ter Rand.) Verily, sir, as that prince 
of poets, the immortal Virgil, has re- 
marked : 

"Adeo in teneris consuescere multum est." 

Rev. Master Todd. His lordship is evi- 
dently a university man. 

Rev. Master Rand. Evidently most ac- 
complished. 

Justice Merton. {Aside to Dickon.) A 
song! Why, it is beyond all bounds of 
custom and decorum. 

Dickon. Believe me, there is no such flat- 
terer to win the maiden heart as music. 

Justice Merton. And here; in this pres- 
ence ! Never ! 

Dickon. Nevertheless, it will amuse me 
vastly, and you will announce it. 

Justice Merton. {With hesitant embar- 
rassment, which he seeks to conceal.) 
Your Excellency and friends, I have 
great pleasure in announcing his lord- 
ship's condescension in consenting to re- 
gale our present company — with a song. 

Several Voices. {In various degrees of 
amazement and curiosity.) A song! 

Mistress Merton. Gilead ! What is this ? 

Justice Merton. The selection is a Ger- 
man ballad — a particular favorite at the 
court of Prussia, where his lordship last 
rendered it. His tutor has made a trans- 
lation which is entitled — 

Dickon. "The Prognostication of the 
Crows." 

All. Crows ! 

Justice Merton. And I am requested to 
remind you that in the ancient heathen 
mythology of Germany, the crow or 
raven was the fateful bird of the god 
Woden. 

Captain Bugby, How prodigiously novel! 

Minister Dodge. {Frowning.) Unparal- 
leled! 

Sir Charles. A ballad ! Come now, that 
sounds like old England again. Let's 



PERCY MACKAYE 



873 



have it. Will his lordship sing without 
music ? 
Justice Merton. Master Diekonson, hem ! 
has been — persuaded — to accompany his 
lordship on the spinet. 
Amelia. How delightful! 
Rev. Master Rand. {Aside to Todd.) 

Shall we remain? 
Rev. Master Todd. We must. 
Ravensbane. {To Rachel.) My tassel, 

dear mistress; you do not wear it? . 
Rachel. My heart still wavers, my lord. 

But whilst you sing, I will decide. 
Ravensbane. Whilst I sing? My fate, 

then, is waiting at the end of a song? 
Rachel. At the end of a song. 
Dickon. {Calling to Ravensbane. ) Your 

lordship ! 
Ravensbane. {Starting, turns to the com- 
pany.) Permit me. 

(Dickon sits at the spinet. At first, 
his fingers in playing give sound 
only to the soft tinkling notes of 
thaJt ancient instrument; but gradu- 
ally, strange notes and harmonies of 
an aerial orchestra mingle with, and 
at length drown, the' spinet. The 
final chorus is produced solely hy 
fantastic symphonic cawings, as of 
countless croics, in harsh hut musical 
accord. During the song Richard 
enters. Dickon's music, however, 
does not cease hut fills the intervals 
between the verses. To his accom- 
paniment, amid the whispered and 
gradually increasing wonder, resent- 
ment, and dismay of the assembled 
guests, Ravensbane, with his eyes 
fixed upon Rachel, sings.) 

"Baron von Rabentod arose; 
(The golden sun was rising) 
Before him flew a flock of crows: 

Sing heigh! Sing heigh! Sing heigh! 
Sing— 

"111 speed, ill speed thee, baron-wight; 
111 speed thy palfrey pawing! 
Blithe is the morn but black the night 
That hears a raven's cawing." 
{Chorus.) 
Caw! Caw! Caw! 

Mistress Dodge. {Whispers to her hus- 
band.) Did you hear them? 

Minister Dodge. Hush ! 

Amelia. {Sotto voce.) What can it be? 

Captain Bugby. Oh, the latest, be sure. 

Dickon. You note, my friends, the accom- 
panying harmonics; they are an intrinsic 



part of the ballad, and may not be 
omitted. 
Ravensbane. {Sings.) 

"The baron recked not a pin; 

(For the golden sun was rising) 
He rode to woo, he rode to win; 

Sing heigh! Sing heigh! Sing heigh! 
Sing— 

"He rode into his prince's hall 

Through knights and damsels flow'ry: 
'Thy daughter, prince, I bid thee call; 
I claim her hand and dowry.' " 

{Enter Richard. Mistress Merton seizes 
his arm nervously) 

Sir Charles. {To Captain Bugby.) 
This gentleman's playing is rather ven- 
triloquistical. 

Captain Bugby. Quite, as it were. 

Rev. Master Todd. This smells unholy. 

Rev. Master Rand. {To Todd.) Shall 
we leave? 

Ravensbane. {Sings.) 

"What cock is this, with crest so high, 
That crows with such a pother?" 

"Baron von Rabentod am I; 
Methinks we know each other." 

"Now welcome, welcome, dear guest of mine. 
So long why didst thou tarry? 
Now, for the sake of auld lang syne. 
My daughter thou shalt marry." 

Amelia. {To Bugby.) And he kept right 

on smoking ! 
Minister Dodge. {Who, with Rand and 

Todd, has risen uneasily.) This smacks 

of witchcraft. 
Ravensbane. {Sitigs.) 

The bride is brought, the priest as well; 

(The golden sun Avas passing) 
They stood beside the altar rail; 

Sing ah! Sing ah! Sing ah! Sing — 
"Woman, with this ring I thee wed." 

What makes his voice so awing? 
The baron by the bride is dead: 

Outside the crows were cawing. 

{Chorus, which grows tumultuous, 
seeming to fill the room with the in- 
visible birds.) 

Caw! Caw! Caw! 

{The guests rise in confusion. Dickon 
still plays delightedly, and the 
strange music continues.) 



874 



THE SCARECROW 



Minister Dodge. This is no longer godly. 

— Justice Merton ! Justice Merton, sir ! — 

Ravensbane. {To Rachel, who holds his 

tassel in her hand.) Ah! and you have 

my tassel ! 

Rachel. See! I will wear it now. You 

yourself shall fasten it. 
Ravensbane. Rachel ! Mistress ! 
Rachel. My dear lord ! 

{As Ravensbane is placing the silken 
tassel on Rachel's breast to fasten 
it there, Richard, hy the mirror, 
takes hold of the curtain strings.) 
Richard. I told you — witchcraft, like 
murder will out ! Lovers ! Behold your- 
selves! {He pulls the curtain hack.) 
Rachel. {Looking into the glass, screams 
and turns her gaze fearfully upon Ra- 
vensbane.) Ah! Do not look! 
Dickon. {Who, having turned round from 
the spinet, has leaped forward, now turns 
back again, biting his finger.) Too late! 
{In the glass are reflected the figures 
of Rachel and Ravensbane — 
Rachel just as she herself appears, 
but Ravensbane in his essential 
form of a scarecrow, in every move- 
ment reflecting Ravensbane's mo- 
tions. The thing in the glass is 
about to pin a wisp of corn-silk on 
the mirrored breast of the maiden.) 
Ravensbane. What is there? 
Rachel. {Looking again, starts away 
from Ravensbane.) Leave me! Leave 
me ! — Richard ! 

{She faints in Richard's arms.) 
Ravensbane. Fear not, mistress, I will 
kill the thing. {Drawing his sword, he 
rushes at the glass. Within, the scare- 
crow, with a drawn wheel-spoke, ap- 
proaches him at equal speed. They 
come face to face and recoil.) Ah! ah! 
Fear'st thou me? What art thou? 
Why, 'tis a glass. Thou mockest me? 
Look, look, mistress, it mocks me! 
God, no ! no ! Take it away. Dear God, 
do not look ! — It is I ! 
All. {Rushing to the doors.) Witch- 
craft ! Witchcraft ! 

{As Ravensbane stands frantically 
confronting his abject reflection, 
struck in a like posture of despair, 
the curtain falls.) 



ACT FOURTH. 

The scene is the same, hut it is night. The 
moonj shining in broadly at the window, 



discovers Ravensbane alone, prostrate 
before the mirror. Raised on one arm to 
a half-sitting posture, he gazes fixedly at 
the vaguely seen image of the scarecrow 
prostrate in the glass. 

Ravensbane. All have left me — but not 
thou. Rachel has left me; her eyes have 
turned away from me; she is gone. All 
that I loved, all that loved me, have left 
me. A thousand ages — a thousand ages 
ago, they went away; and thou and I 
have gazed upon each other's deserted- 
ness. Speak! and be pitiful! If thou 
art I, inscrutable image, if thou dost feel 
these pangs thine own, show then self- 
mercy; speak! What art thou? What 
am I? Why are we here? How comes 
it that we feel and guess and suffer? 
Nay, though thou answer not these 
doubts, yet mock them, mock them aloud, 
even as there, monstrous, thou counter- 
feitest mine actions. Speak, abject 
enigma! — Speak, poor shadow, thou — 
{Recoiling wildly.) Stand back, inan- 
ity! Thrust not thy mawkish face in 
pity toward me. Ape and idiot ! Scare- 
crow! — to console me! Haha! — A flail 
and broomstick! a cob, a gourd and 
pumpkin, to fuse and sublimate them- 
selves into a mage-philosopher, who dis- 
courseth metaphysics to itself — itself, 
God! Dost Thou hear? Itself! For 
even such am I — I whom Thou madest 
to love Rachel. Why, God — haha! dost 
Thou dwell in this thing? Is it Thou 
that peerest forth at me — from me? 
Why, hark then; Thou shalt listen, and 
answer — if Thou canst. Between the 
rise and setting of a sun, I have walked 
in this world of Thine. I have beeli 
thrilled with wonder; I have been calmed 
with knowledge; I have trembled with 
joy and passion. Power, beauty, love 
have ravished me. Infinity itself, like a 
dream, has blazed before me with the 
certitude of prophecy; and I have cried, 
"This world, the heavens, time itself, are 
mine to conquer," and I have thrust 
forth mine arm to wear Thy shield for- 
ever — and lo! for my shield Thou reach- 
est me — a mirror, and whisperest: 
"Know thyself ! Thou art — a scare- 
crow: a tinkling clod, a rigmarole of 
dust, a lump of ordure, contemptible, su- 
perfluous, inane !" Haha ! Hahaha ! And 
with such scarecrows Thou dost people 
a planet! ludicrous! Monstrous! 
Ludicrous! At least, I thank Thee, 



PERCY MACKAYE 



875 



God! at least this breathing bathos can 
laugh at itself. Thou hast vouchsafed 
to me, Spirit, — hahaha! — to know my- 
self. Mine, mine is the consummation 
of man — even self-contempt! (Point- 
ing in the glass with an agony of deri- 
sion.) Scarecrow! Scarcrow! Scare- 
crow! 

The Image in the Glass. (More and 
more faintly.) Scarecrow! Scarecrow! 
Scarecrow ! 

(Ravensbane throws himself prone 
upon the floor, beneath the window, 
sobbing. There is a pause of si- 
lence, and the moon shines brighter. 
— Slowly then Ravensbane, getting 
to his knees, looks out into the 
night. ) 

Ravensbane. What face are you, high up 
through the twinkling leaves? Do you 
not, like all the rest, turn, aghast, your 
eyes away from me — me, abject enor- 
mity, groveling at your feet? Gracious 
being, do you not fear — despise me? 
white peace of the world, beneath your 
gaze the clouds glow silver, and the 
herded cattle, slumbering far afield, 
crouch — beautiful. The slough shines 
lustrous as a bridal veil. Beautiful 
face, you are Rachel's, and you have 
changed the world. Nothing is mean, 
but you have made it miraculous; noth- 
ing is loathsome, nothing ludicrous, but 
you have converted it to loveliness, that 
even this shadow of a mockery myself, 
cast by your light, gives me the dear 
assurance I am a man. Rachel, mis- 
tress, mother, out of my suffering you 
have brought forth my soul. I am 
saved ! 

The Image in the Glass. A very pretty 
sophistry. 

(The moonlight grows dimmer, as at 
the passing of a cloud.) 

Ravensbaxe. Ah ! what voice has snatched 
you from me? 

The Image. A most poetified pumpkin! 

Ravensbane. Thing! dost thou speak at 
last? My soul abhors thee. 

The Image. I am thy soul. 

Ravensbane. Thou liest. 

The Image. Our daddy Dickon and our 
mother Rickby begot and conceived us at 
sunrise, in a Jack-o'-lantern. 

Ravensbane. Thou liest, torturing illu- 
sion. Thou art but a phantom in a glass. 

The Image. Why, very true. So art 
thou. We are a pretty phantom in a 
glass. • 



Ravensbane. It is a lie. I am no longer 

thou. I feel it; I am a man. 
The Image. 

And prithee, what 's a man ? Man 's but 

a mirror, 
Wherein the imps and angels play charades, 
Make faces, mope, and pull each other's 

hair — 
Till crack ! the sly urchin Death shivers the 

glass, 
And the bare coffin boards show underneath. 

Ravensbane. Yea! if it be so, thou cog- 
gery! if both of us be indeed but illu- 
sions, why, now let us end together. 
But if it be not so, then let me for ever- 
more be free of thee. Now is the test — 
the glass! (Springing to the fireplace, 
he seizes an iron crosspiece from the 
andirons.) I'll play your urchin Death 
and shatter it. Let see what shall sur- 
vive! 

(He rushes to strike the glass with the 
iron. Dickon steps out of the mir- 
ror, closing the curtain.) 

Dickon. I would n't, really ! 

Ravensbane. Dickon! dear Dickon! is it 
you? 

Dickon. Yes, Jacky ! it 's dear Dickon, 
and I really would n't. 

Ravensbane. Wouldn't what, Dickon? 

Dickon. Sweep the cobwebs off tlie sky 
with thine aspiring broomstick. When 
a man questions fate, 't is bad digestion. 
When a scarecrow does it, 't is bad taste. 

Ravensbane. At last, you will tell me the 
truth, Dickon! Am I, then — that thing? 

Dickon. You must n't be so skeptical. 
Of course you 're that thing. 

Ravensbane. Ah me despicable! Rachel, 
why didst thou ever look upon me? 

Dickon. I fear, cobby, thou hast never 
studied woman's heart and 'hero-worship. 
Take thyself now. I remarked to Goody 
Bess, thy mother, this morning, as I was 
chucking her thy pate from the hayloft, 
that thou wouldst make a Mark Antony 
or an Alexander before night. 

Ravensbane. Cease! cease! in pity^s 
name. You do not know the agony of 
being ridiculous. 

Dickon. Nay, Jacky, all mortals are 
ridiculous. Like you, they were rum- 
maged out of the muck; and like you, 
they shall return to the dunghill. I ad- 
vise 'em, like you, to enjoy the interim, 
and smoke. 

Ravensbane. This pipe, this ludicrous 
pipe that I forever set to my lips and 
puff! Why must I, Dickon? Why? 



876 



THE SCARECROW 



Dickon. To avoid extinction — merely. 
You see, 't is just as your fellow in there 
{pointing to the glass) explained. You 
yourself are the subtlest of mirrors, pol- 
ished out of pumpkin and pipe-smoke. 
Into this mirror the fair Mistress Rachel 
has projected her lovely image, and thus 
provided you with what men call a soul. 

Ravensbane. Ah! then, I have a soul — 
the truth of me? Mistress Rachel has 
indeed made me a man? 

Dickon. Don't flatter thyself, cobby. 
Break thy pipe, and whiff — soul, Mis- 
tress Rachel, man, truth, and this pretty 
world itself, go up in the last smoke. 

Ravensbane. No, no ! not Mistress Rachel. 

Dickon. Mistress Rachel exists for your 
lordship merely in your lordship's pipe- 
bowl. 

Ravensbane. Wretched, niggling carica- 
ture that I am! All is lost to me — 
lost! 

Dickon. "Paradise Lost" again! Always 
blaming it on me. There's that gaunt 
fellow in England has lately wrote a 
parody on me when I was in the apple 
business. 

Ravensbane. {Falling on his Jcnees and 
bowing his head.) God! I am so con- 
temptible ! 

{Enter, at door hack, Goody Rickey; her 
blacksmith garh is hidden under a dingy 
black mantle with a peaked hood.) 

Dickon. Good verse, too, for a parody! 
{Ruminating, raises one arm rhetori- 
cally above Ravensbane.) 

— "Farewell, happy fields 
Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors; 

hail, 
Infernal world ! and thou, profoundest hell, 
Receive thy new possessor." 

Goody Rickby. {Seizing his arm.) Dickon ! 

Dickon. Hullo! You, Bess! 

Goody Rickby. There 's not a minute to 
lose. Justice Merton and the neighbors 
have ended their conference at Minister 
Dodge's, and are returning here. 

Dickon. Well, let 'em come. We're 
ready. 

Goody Rickby. But thou toldst me they 
had discovered — 

Dickon. A scarecrow in a mirror. Well ? 
The glass is bewitched; that's all. 

Goody Rickby. All? Witchcraft is hang- 
ing — that 's all ! And the mirror was 



bought of me — of me, the witch. Wilt 
thou be my hangman, Dickon? 

Dickon. Wilt thou give me a kiss, 
Goody? When did ever thy Dickon de- 
sert thee? 

Goody Rickby. But how, boy, wilt thou — 

Dickon. Trust me, and thy son. When 
the Justice's niece is thy daughter-in-law, 
all will be safe. For the Justice will 
cherish his niece's family. 

Goody Rickby. But when he knows — 

Dickon. But he shall not know. How 
can he? When the glass is denounced 
as a fraud, how will he, or any person, 
ever know that we made this fellow out 
of rubbish? Who, forsooth, but a poet 
— or a devil — would believe it? You 
mustn't credit men with our imagina- 
tions, my dear. 

Goody Rickby. Then thou wilt pull me 
through this safe? 

Dickon. As I adore thee — and my own 
reputation. 

Goody Rickby. {At the window.) I see 
their lanterns down the road. 

Dickon. Stay, marchioness — his lordship! 
My lord — your lady mother. 

Goody Rickby. ( Curtsying, laughs shrilly. ) 
Your servant — my son ! 

{About to depart.) 

Ravensbane. Ye lie ! both of you ! — I was 
bom of Rachel. 

Dickon. Tut, tut, Jacky ; you must n't 
mix up mothers and prospective wives at 
your age. It 's fatal. 

Goody Rickby. {Excitedly.) They're 
coming! {Exit.) 

Dickon. {Calling after her.) Fear not; 
I '11 overtake thee. 

Ravensbane. She is coming; Rachel is 
coming, and I may not look upon her!" 

Dickon. Eh? Why not? 

Ravensbane. I am a monster. 

Dickon. Fie! fie! Thou shalt have her. 

Ravensbane. Have her, Dickon? 

Dickon. For lover and wife. 

Ravensbane. For wife? 

Dickon. For wife and all. Thou hast 
but to obey. 

Ravensbane. Ah! who will do this for 
me? 

Dickon. I ! 

Ravensbane. Dickon! Wilt make me a 
man — a man and worthy of her? 

Dickon. Fiddlededee! I make over no 
masterpieces. Thy mistress shall be 
Cinderella, and drive to her palace with 
her gilded pumpkin. 

Ravensbane. It is the end. 



PERCY MACKAYE 



877 



Dickon. What! You'll not? 

Ravensbane. Never. 

Dickon. Harkee, manikin. Hast thou 

learned to suffer? 
Ravensbane. {Wringing his hands.) 

God! 
Dickon. I taught thee. Shall I teach 

thee further? 
Ravensbane. Thou canst not. 
Dickon. Cannot— ha! What if I should 

teach Rachel, too? 
Ravensbane. Rachel! — Ah! now I know 

thee. 
Dickon. (Bowing.) Flattered. 
Ravensbane. Devil! Thou wouldst not 

torment Rachel? 
Dickon. Not if my lord — 
Ravensbane. Speak! What must I do? 
Dickon. Not speak. Be silent, my lord, 

and acquiesce in all I say. 
Ravensbane. I will be silent, 
Dickon. And acquiesce? 
Ravensbane. I will be silent. , 

(Enter Minister Dodge, accompanied hy 
Sir Charles Reddington, Captain 
BuGBY, the Reverend Masters Rand 
and Todd, and followed hy Justice Mer- 
TON, Richard, Mistress Merton, and 
Rachel. Richard and Rachel stand 
somewhat apart, Rachel drawing close 
to Richard and hiding her face. All 
wear their outer wraps, and two or three 
hold lanterns, which, save the moon, 
throw the only light upon the scene. All 
enter solemn and silent.) 

Minister Dodge. Lord, be Thou present 
with us, in this unholy spot! 

Several Men's Voices. Amen. 

Dickon. Friends! Have you seized her? 

Minister Dodge. Stand from us. 

Dickon. Sir, the witch! Surely you did 
not let her escape? 

All. The witch? 

Dickon. A dame in a peaked hood. She 
has but now fled the house. She called 
herself — Goody Rickby. 

All. Goody Rickby! 

Mistress Merton. She here! 

Dickon. Yea, mistress, and hath con- 
fessed all the damnable art, by which all 
of us have lately been so terrorized. 

Justice Merton. What confessed she? 

Minister Dodge. What said she? 

Dickon. This: It appeareth that, for 
some time past, she hath cherished re- 
vengeful thoughts against our honored 
host, Justice Merton. 



Minister Dodge. Yea, he hath often 

righteously condemned her! 
Dickon. Precisely! So, in revenge, she 
bewitched yonder mirror, and this very 
morning unlawfully inveigled this sweet 
young lady into purchasing it. 
Sir Charles. Mistress Rachel! 
Minister Dodge. (To Rachel.) Didst 

thou purchase that glass? 
Rachel. (In a low voice.) Yes. 
Minister Dodge. From Goody Rickby? 
Rachel. Yes. (Clinging to Richard.) 

0, Richard ! 
Minister Dodge. But the image; what 

was the damnable image in the glass? 
Dickon. A familiar devil of hers — a sly 
imp, who wears to mortal eyes the shape 
of a scarecrow. It seems she commanded 
this devil to reveal himself in the glass 
as my lord's own image, that thus she 
might wreck Justice Merton's family fe- 
licity. 
Minister Dodge. Infamous! 
Dickon. Indeed, sir, it was this very devil 
whom but now she stole here to consult 
withal, when she encountered me, at- 
tendant here upon my poor prostrate 
lord, and — held by the wrath in my eye 
— confessed it all. 
Sir Charles. Thunder and brimstone! 

Where is this accursed hag? 
Dickon. Alas — gone, gone! If you had 

but stopped her. 
Minister Dodge. I know her den — the 
blacksmith shop. Let us seize her there ! 
Sir Charles. (Starting.) Which way? 
Minister Dodge. To the left. 
Sir Charles. Go on, there. 
Minister Dodge. My honored friends, 
come with us. Heaven shield, with her 
guilt, the innocent! 

(Exeunt all hut Richard, Rachel, 
Dickon, and Ravensbane.) 
Dickon. So, then, dear friends, this 
strange incident is happily elucidated. 
Bygones, therefore, be bygones. The 
future brightens — with orange-blossoms. 
Hymen and Felicity stand with us here 
ready to unite two amorous and bashful 
lovers. His lordship is reticent; yet to 
you alone, of all beautiful ladies. Mistress 
Rachel — 
Ravensbane. (In a mighty voice.) Si- 
lence ! 
Dickon. My lord would — 
Ravensbane. Silence ! Dare not to speak 

to her! 
Dickon. (Biting his lip.) My babe is 
weaned. 



878 



THE SCARECROW 



{He steps hack, and disappears, left, 
in the dimness.) 

Rachel. {Still at Richard's side.) Oh, 
my lord, if I have made you suffer — 

Richard. {Appealingly.) Rachel! 

Ravensbane. {Approaching her, raises 
one arm to screen his face.) Gracious 
lady! let fall your eyes; look not upon 
me. If I dare now speak once more to 
you, 't is because I would have you know 
— Oh, forgive me! — that I love you. 

Richard. Sir! This lady has renewed 
her promise to be my wife. 

Ravensbane. Your wife, or not, I love 
her. 

Richard. Zounds ! 

Ravensbane. Forbear, and hear me! 
For one wonderful day I have gazed 
upon this, your world. A million forms 
— of trees, of stones, of stars, of men, 
of common things — have swum like motes 
before my eyes ; but one alone was wholly 
beautiful. That form was Rachel: to 
her alone I was not ludicrous; to her I 
also was beautiful. Therefore, I love 
her. 

Richard. Sir ! 

Ravensbane. You talk to me of moth- 
ers, mistresses, lovers, and wives and sis- 
ters, and you say men love these. What 
is love? The night and day of the 
world — the all of life, the all which must 
include both you and me and God, of 
whom you dream. Well, then, I love 
you, Rachel. What shall prevent me? 
Mistress, mother, wife — thou art all to 
me! 

Richard. My lord, I can only reply for 
Mistress Rachel, that you speak like one 
who does not understand this world. 

Ravensbane. 0, God! sir, and do you? 
If so, tell me — tell me before it be too 
late — why, in this world, such a thing as 
I can love and talk of love. Why, in 
this world, a true man and woman, like 
you and your betrothed, can look upon 
this counterfeit and be deceived. 

Rachel and Richard. Counterfeit? 

Ravensbane. Me — on me — the ignominy 



of the earth, the laughing-stock of the 
angels ! 

Rachel. Are you not Lord Ravensbane? 

Ravensbane. No, I am not Lord Ravens- 
bane. I am a nobleman of husks, be- 
witched from a pumpkin. I am Lord 
Scarecrow ! 

Rachel. Ah me, the image in the glass 
was true? 

Ravensbane. Yes, true. It is the glass 
of truth — Thank God for you, dear. 

Dickon. {His face only reappearing in 
the mirror, speaks low.) Remember! if 
you dare — Rachel shall suffer for it. 

Ravensbane. You lie. She is above your 
power. 

Dickon. Still, thou darest not — 

Ravensbane. Fool, I dare. (Ravens- 
bane turns to Rachel. While he speaks, 
Dickon's face slowly fades and disap- 
pears.) Mistress, this pipe is I. This 
intermittent smoke holds, in its nebula, 
Venus, Mars, the world. If I should 
break it — chaos and the dark ! And this 
of me that now stands up will sink jum- 
bled upon the floor — a scarecrow. See! 
I break it. {He breaks the pipe in his 
hands, and flings the pieces to the 
ground; then turns, agonized, to 
Rachel.) Oh, Rachel, could I have 
been a man — ! 

{He sways, staggering.) 

Rachel. Richard ! Richard ! support him. 
{She draws the curtain of the mirror, 
just opposite which Ravensbane has 
sunk upon the floor. At her cry, he 
starts up faintly and gazes at his reflec- 
tion, which is seen to he a normal image 
of himself.) Look, look: the glass! 

Ravensbane. Who is it? 

Rachel. Yourself, my lord — 't is the glass 
of truth. 

Ravensbane. {His face lighting with an 
exalted joy, starts to his feet, erect, he- 
fore the glass.) A man! {He falls 
back into the arms of the two lovers.) 
Rachel ! 

Richard. {Bending over him.) Dead! 

Rachel. {With an exalted look.) But a 
man! 



THE BOSS 

BY 

Edward Sheldon 



Copyright 1911, 1916, by Edward Brewster Sheldon 

All Eights Reserved 
Printed, for the first time, by permission of the author. 



THE BOSS 

The Boss represents the play dealing with political and business interests. 
Its author, Edward Brewster Sheldon, was born in Chicago, February 4, 1886, 
the son of Theodore and Mary Strong Sheldon. He graduated from Harvard 
College in 1907, and took the degree of A.M. from Harvard University in 1908. 
He had been interested in the writing of plays while an undergraduate, and had 
his first professional success in little more than a year after graduation. 

On November 12, 1908, at the Opera House, Providence, Rhode Island, Mrs. 
Fiske produced his play, Salvation Nell, which was a stage success. A com- 
plete list of his plays since then includes The Nigger, produced first at the 
New Theatre, New York City, December 4, 1909; The Boss (1911); Princess 
Zim-Zim, played first at the Harmanus Bleecker Hall, Albany, New York, 
December 4, 1911; Egypt, first played at The Playhouse, Hudson, New York, 
September 18, 1912; The High Road, produced first at His Majesty's Theatre, 
Montreal, Canada, October 14, 1912; Romance, played first at Harmanus 
Bleecker Hall, Albany, February 6, 1913, and The Garden of Paradise, first 
produced at the Park Theatre, November 28, 1914. ]\Ir. Sheldon also dramatized 
Das Hohe Lied of Hermann Sudermann in 1914, under the title of The Song of 
Songs, adapting the original to American conditions.. It was, however, not a 
success from a dramatic standpoint. 

The most important plays of Mr. Sheldon are Salvation Nell, The Nigger, 
The Boss, Romance, and The Garden of Paradise. In these plays he has 
treated five quite different themes, and shown a dramatic craftmanship, at times, 
of a high order. Salvation Nell reproduced with fidelity scenes in the street 
life of New York City, and placed against a background of drunkenness and 
vice, the work of the Salvation Army. The Nigger showed real power in treat- 
ing the theme of a young Southerner with political ambitions and great family 
pride who finds that he is of mixed blood. The ending is somewhat inconclusive, 
but there are portions of the play, such as the letter of the quadroon to her 
master, which are remarkable pieces of writing. 

The Boss was the third of these realistic studies of American life. Business 
and politics form the background, but the attention of the audience is centred 
upon the relations of ''Regan" and his wife. They are strongly contrasted types 
and at first glance their union seems impossible. Yet Mr. Sheldon has indi- 
cated unobtrusively enough but surely with sufficient definiteness, the inherent 
attraction which the strength of ' ' Regan ' ' had for ' ' Emily Griswold ' ' and the way 

881 



882 INTRODUCTION 



in which her pity and sympathy finally turned to something deeper. The play- 
wright has avoided the temptation to make ''The Boss" a hero; he is a very 
human person, and the acting of Mr. Holbrook Blinn in the part was masterly. 
For these reasons the play was selected to represent Mr. Sheldon's work, since 
Salvation Nell was hardly available as a play for reading and study, and copy- 
right considerations prevented the inclusion of Romance. Romance is so far 
his greatest play, and the remarkable acting of Miss Doris Keane as Madame 
Cavallini, the Italian opera singer whose love story is the theme of the drama, 
illustrated again the great strength of Mr. Sheldon, his ability as a practical 
playwright. Romance was produced at the Lyric Theatre, London, on Septem- 
ber 30, 1915. Miss Keane gave 1128 performances of Romance in London and 
it has been played in Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, British India, 
Egypt, Christiana, Stockholm, and the Swedish Provinces. 

The Garden of Paradise is a dramatization of the story of The Little Mer- 
maid, by Hans Andersen, with the love note dominant. While this is pure 
romance, it is, of all Mr. Sheldon's work, most distinctly a piece of literature, 
and he has shown his versatility in turning from the realistic study to the poetic 
interpretation of fairy life. 

The Boss was first produced at the Garrick Theatre, Detroit, Michigan, 
January 9, 1911. It was played first in New York City at the Astor Theatre, 
January 30, 1911. 

The Nigger (1910), Romance (1914), and The Garden of Paradise (1915) 
have been published by the Macmillan Company. The Boss is now printed for 
the first time from the manuscript especially prepared by Mr. Sheldon for this 
collection. The editor is indebted to the courtesy of the author for permission 
to print the play. For details concerning the play he has to thank Mr. Sheldon 
and his agent. Miss Alice Kauser. 

For criticism of The Boss, see J. E. Metcalfe, in Life, Vol. 57, pp. 308-9,. 
February 9, 1911, and The Theatre, Vol. 13, pp. vi-viii, March, 1911. 



THE ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS 

In the order of their first appearance 

GARRICK THEATRE, DETROIT, MICHIGAN, JANUARY 9, 1911 

James D, Griswold, of Griswold and Company, Contractors, Mr. Henry "Weaver 

Donald Griswold, his son Mr. Howard Estabrook 

Emily Griswold, his daughter Miss Emily Stevens 

Mitchell, Mr. Griswold 's butler Mr. Henry Sargent 

Lawrence Duncan Mr. Kenneth Hill 

Michael R. Regan, of Regan and Company, Contractors . . .Mr. Holbrook Blinn 

Davis, his private secretary •. Mr. J. Hammond Dailey 

Mrs. Cutler Miss Ruth Benson 

Gates, Mrs. Regan's butler Mr. John M. Troughton 

''Porky" McCoy, Regan's representative in the Fourth Ward 

Mr. H. A. LaMotte 

ScANLAN Mr. Wilmer Dame 

Archbishop Sullivan Mr. Frank Sheridan 

A Cook Miss Bella Paul 

A French Maid Miss Rose Wincott 

Lieutenant of Police Mr. Frank Julian 

A Police Officer Mr. James MacDonald 

Another Police Officer Mr. H. G. Weir 



ACT I 
*Mr. Griswold's drawing-room, the afternoon of Oct. 28th. 

ACT II 
Mr. Regan's library. The evening of April 29th. 

ACT III 

The same. The following morning. 

ACT IV 

Inspector's room at the Police Station, three days later. 

Place — One of the Eastern lake-ports. 
Time — Now. 



THE BOSS 



ACT FIRST. 

Griswold's drawing room, the afternoon of 
Oct. 28th. At the hack, double 'doors 
leading into the hall, which can he seen 
when the doors are opened. A newel 
post and halustrade leading upstairs are 
also seen in the hall. At right two large 
windows looking upon the lawn and 
street beyond. To right — front, near the 
windows, is a low tea table, at present 
occupied by cigarette box, ash tray, and 
flowers. To the right at hack is a baby 
grand piano, facing the windows. Near 
this is a big grandfather chair. Other 
chairs, smaller table. In several large 
vases on tables, piano, and the mantel- 
piece, are quantities of superb American 
Beauty roses. They strike the eye at 
once. At left the fireplace. 

As the curtain rises, Griswold is seen walk- 
ing nervously to and fro. He is a well- 
bred man of fifty or so, carefully and 
soberly dressed. He looks very worried, 
and keeps glancing at his watch. He 
stops to throw the stump of his cigar 
into the grate, then lights another and 
recommences his restless walk. Sud- 
denly he stops at the ivindow, glances 
out, then goes quickly to the door at back, 
opens it and listens. The closing of the 
front door is heard. 

Griswold. {Calling.) That you, Don- 
ald? 
Donald. {Outside.) Yes. 
Griswold. Come in here. 

(Donald appears still in his overcoat and 
gloves, a newspaper under his arm. He 
is a distinguished-looking, brilliant, eager 
young man of about thirty. The fol- 
lowing scene is to be played at high ten- 
sion by both men, — sharply, quickly, 
nervously.) 

Now what did he say? 
Donald. Wait till I shut the door. 

{He does so.) 
Griswold. Well? 
Donald. ( Turning. ) It 's all right — he 

says he '11 come here at five and talk it 



over. {Flits hat and paper on piano.) 

Griswold. {Infinitely relieved.) Thank 
God ! You 've been just an hour and 
five minutes. I didn't know what to 
think! 

Donald. {Taking off his gloves at piano.) 
He kept me waiting. His office is jam 
full. 

Griswold. {Quickly.) D 'you think the 
people know, then? 

Donald. Know what? 

Griswold. That he's pushed us out of 
business. 

Donald. {Takes off his coat, puts it on 
the piano.) Not yet. Remember — the 
Western Amalgamated only went over 
to him to-day. When did they wire us? 
About two o'clock? 

Griswold. {Turning away.) All the 
rest '11 follow suit within a month ! 

Donald. {Takes up newspaper.) Steady, 
father ! 

Griswold. Did you have any chance to 
talk to him? 

Donald. Not much. He chewed a big 
cigar and put his feet on the desk, and 
told me he 'd had his eyes on our grain- 
contracts ever since he began handling 
freight in '92. 

Griswold. Of course he wanted them — 
why, they 're the big reason this city has 
for existing! Half the wheat that goes 
into the world gets there through this 
port! 

Donald. {Half to himself.) I wish I'd 
smashed him in the face — right before 
his stenographers! 

Griswold. {Walking up and down.) 
I 've run the business as well as I could. 
I felt a public responsibility — you know 
that! 

Donald. And now this Irish tough of an 
ex-barkeep has come along and swindled 
and blackjacked and knifed his way up 
to the place you 've — 

Griswold. {Stopping him.) Don't, my 
boy, don't! He'll be here in half an 
hour. We 've got to keep cool and think ! 

Donald. {Continuing his own line of 
thought.) Why, we could have managed 
him if we 'd been willing to stoop a bit 
and dabble in his own dirt! 



885 



886 



THE BOSS 



Griswold. {Desperately.) We must 
think— that 's it !— think ! 

Donald. {Satirically.) You could have 
put him up at the clubs, introduced him 
to Emily, had him here to the house — 
I could have clapped him on the back, 
called him by the first name — {Angrily.) 
That 's what he wanted ! He 'd have 
paid for that! 

Griswold. Donald ! Drop it ! We 've got 
just an hour to get up something before 
he comes! 

Donald. But he's a disgrace to the city! 
He knows it, and he knows we know it, 
and that 's why he hates us so ! 
{Sharply.) Father, let me ring him up 
and tell him we 've changed our minds — 
we '11 get on without any arbitrating ! 

Griswold. Not let him come? 

Donald. Yes. What's the use? He's 
just doing it to gloat over us. He hopes 
we 're going to crawl and whine ! He 'd 
enjoy that! 

Griswold. I don't care. I 've got to see 
him and find out if there is n't some way 
out. 

Donald. There is n't. 

Griswold. There must be! My boy, 
d 'you realize what we 're in for f 

Donald. Do I? 

Griswold. It is n't as if the monej^ were 
the only thing! 

Donald. {Soothingly.) I know that. 

Griswold. It 's the integrity of the firm 
— it 's my own good name — 

Donald. Please, father! 

Griswold. Those notes — those savings- 
bank notes — what about them ? They 're 
due on December 1st. If we fail I can't 
meet them — those banks '11 go under like 
that — {Snaps fingers.) 

Donald. Stop, father, don't! 

Griswold. And, Donald, d 'you know 
what those stockholders are going to say ? 
They 're going to say, "He was a director 
— Griswold was a director, and — " 

{Door closes off stage.) 

Donald. {Interrupting.) That sounds 
like the front door. 

Griswold. AYhat — ? 

Donald. {Goes to the door, opens it, 
listens. Then, reassuringly.) It's all 
right! Just Emily. 

(Emily Griswold appears. She is a bril- 
liant, beautiful, assured young woman of 
about 28, dressed very simply for the 
street, wearing furs.) 

Emily. {Stopping on seeing them.) 



Hello! Whatever made you two come 
home so early — {Suddenly.) Dad, 
you 're ill ! You 're white as a sheet ! 
Don — {Frightened.) Why, what's the 
matter? What 's happened? 

Donald. Nothing. Nothing at all. 

Emily. Yes, there is. Oh, tell me, please, 
quick ! 

Griswold. It 's all right, dear, Donald 
and I have to talk business with a man 
we could n't very well ask to the office, 
so I suggested his coming here. You 
aren't expecting anyone to tea, are you? 

Emily. Just Laurie Duncan — he does n't 
count. {Still anxiously.) Oh, dad, you 
do look dreadfully! 

Griswold. Then we can use this room — 
yes, that would be better than taking him 
upstairs. 

Emily. Him? 

Griswold. You see, it 's "Shindy Mike." 

E:mily. {Surprised.) You don't mean 
Regan. {Slight pause. She looks at 
Donald^ then back to Griswold.) 
What have you two got to see Regan 
about? 

Donald. Oh, a lot of things a woman 
would n't understand. 

{Buries himself in a newspaper.) 

Emily. Don't be so snappy, Don! 

Donald. {Over paper.) You may be all 
right down in the slums but you 're no 
good when it comes to business. D 'you 
hear? No earthly good! 

Emily. You 're evidently in one of your 
fox-terrier moods to-day. 

Donald. Well, is she, father? 

Griswold. {Nervously,) Stop squab- 
bhng, please. 

Emily. {Protesting.) But, dad, I — 

Griswold. {Interrupting.) How's my" 
young scientific philanthropist? You've 
spent the whole afternoon in your be- 
loved slums, haven't you? Well, where 
did you go? 

Emily. {Taking off her furs.) Oh, down 
in the Fourth Ward, around the docks. 

Griswold. Regan's district. 

{He becomes lost in his own thoughts.) 

Emily. Yes. Oh, it 's too sorrowful ! 
The men spend all their wages on drink, 
so of course the women can't feed the 
children and they have n't any shoes or 
coal — think of it! — with the winter com- 
ing on! And the w^orst of it is they 
don't really care. They just seem tired 
and listless and they say they can't help 
it and that I don't understand. Well, 
perhaps I don't, but every time I see 



EDWARD SHELDON 



887 



their faces I feel all of a sudden how 
much the world is can-ying on its back, 
and it makes me want to cry, because 
there's so little, so awfully little that 
I can do to help. 

Donald. That 's perfectly true, so why 
don't you drop it, Emily, and act like 
other girls ? Those people can get on 
without you. You're not so important 
as all that. 

Emily. (Smiling.) As a matter of "fact, 
I 'm awfully important. 

Donald. What? 

Emily. You ought to hear what Mrs. 
Moriarity said to Mrs. Scanlan about 
me! 

Donald. Oh ! 

Emily. She said if the angels weren't 
built on my style, not even God could 
make her go to Heaven ! 

Donald. (Grinning.) Mrs. Moriarity 
must be somewhat of a humorist. 

Emily. So don't ask me to stop working 
— I won't! Not until I have a big club 
house for the men, and a cooking school 
for the women — 

Donald. (Interrupting.) And an incu- 
bator for the children. That it? 

Emily. (Smiling.) Yes, that's it. 

Griswold. (To Donald.) Are you sure 
he said five o'clock? 

Donald. Yes, why? It's only twenty- 
five minutes now. 

(Glances at watch and clock and looks 
out of window.) 

Emily. (Annoyed.) Dad, you haven't 
listened to one word I 've been saying. 

Griswold. (Rousing himself.) Haven't 
I, dear ? I 'm awfully sorry, but I 've 
got so much on my mind. 

Emily. ' I know it ! Something is the mat- 
ter ! Dad, I feel so guilty. I 've spent 
the whole day down in the ward and 
you 've been in trouble and I have n't 
been here to help you. I don't think 
your Emily 's much good after all. But 
please forgive her, dear, for my sake, 
and tell me all about it. 

Donald. (Wamingly.) Now, father! 

Griswold. Nothing, dear. I said so once. 

Emily. Wait a moment — (Looking up 
and speaking positively.) It's Regan. 

Donald. Now, Emily, we have to talk 
business, and there is n't much time, 
so run along, dear, please ! D 'you 
mind? 

(He takes her by her arms and pushes 
her toward the door.) 

Emily. (Shaking him off.) Yes, of 



course I mind. I 'm going to stay and 

hear what you have to say. 
Donald. No, you're not! 

(Goes to table.) 
Emily. Don, stop contradicting me! 

Even though I am a girl, I 'm one of the 

family and I intend to be consulted 

whenever anything important is going 

on! 
Donald. This is private, though. D 'you 

hear? Private! 
Emily. (Obstinately.) I don't care if it 

is or not. 
Donald. (Fuming.) Father, make her 

go away! 
Griswold. (Soothingly.) Now, dear, 

please — 
Emily. (Interrupting suddenly.) I know 

what it is ! Will you tell me if I 'm 

right? 
Donald. You don't know anything about 

it. 
Emily. Don't I, though? Regan's try- 
ing to steal dad's contracts with the 

grain companies! 
Donald. Emily, you make me tired! 
Emily. (Turning to Griswold.) Isn't 

that right, dear? 
Griswold. No. 
Donald. (To Emily, approvingly.) 

There! What did I tell you! 
Griswold. (In dry emotion.) He has 

stolen them. He 's done us, Emily. 
Emily. (Gasping.) What? 
Donald. (Sharply.) Father, d 'you think 

this is wise? 
Griswold. She 's got to hear it sooner or 

later ! 
Emily. (With parted lips.) You don't 

mean — ^the Western — 
Griswold. Yes, the Western went over to 

him to-day. 
Emily. But the others? 
Griswold. They'll follow like sheep. 

No, we 're finished this time — finished ! 

(He turns away quickly.) 
Emily. (Rushing to him.) But, Dad, 

you must n't give up ! You must ar- 
range it with him — discuss it, come to an 

understanding. 
Griswold. That 's why we 've asked him 

here this afternoon, but — 

(He makes a despairing gesture.) 
Emily. (Imploringly.) Don, can't you 

manage it somehow? 
Donald. I '11 do my best. ( With a 

smothered exclamation.) If we could 

get him to keep those thieving hands off 

the Western for one month — only one 



888 



THE BOSS 



month! — couldn't I make him lie down 
and take the count! 

Emily. {Eagerly.) How? 

Donald. The easiest thing in the world. 

Emily. Well, tell us. 

Griswold. Go on, -my boy. 

DoxALD. I 'd get his men to strike. 

Emily. Get his men to strike? Could 
you do it? 

Donald. Could I? Good Lord! Why, 
they 're just like a powder magazine 
waiting for the match ! All they need is 
a leader who 's studied law and has a 
little nerv^e. 

Griswold. How many of them are there? 

Donald. Over eight thousand. And sick 
to death of being rounded up like Texas 
steers with a gang of toughs for cow- 
boys! I could get after his liquor sys- 
tem, too — the public now doesn't even 
realize he has one! 

Emily. His liquor system? 

Griswold. {Pointing to Emily.) There 
— you see! 

Emily. What is his liquor system, Don? 

Donald. {Rather impatiently.) Why, it 's 
his money that is back of every saloon in 
the Fourth Ward and each employee who 
won't leave half his wages on a Regan 
bar before he goes home Saturday night 
gets his quit notice when the whistle 
blows on Monday morning. 

Emily. {Shocked.) Is that true? 

Donald. True? Of course it's true! 
And that 's just one of the little tricks 
that have made him what he is to-day! 

Emily. Then that 's why the men come 
home drunk, and the children have no 
food, and the women say I don't under- 
stand. 

Donald. People say that Shindy's out 
for the dollar ! It 's a lie — he 's out for 
the dime. And you can take it from me 
that every penny he owns he 's ripped 
out of a human heart ! 

Emily. Don ! Why did n't you tell me 
this before? 

Donald. What's the matter? 

Emily. I 've met him! 

Griswold. Regan? 

Donald. Where ? 

Emily. At a dinner the Streeters gave. 
He rides in the park. Why, we cantered 
around the bridle-path twice only this 
morning ! 

Donald. {In strong reproof.) Emily! 

Griswold. My child! 

Emily. {Apologetic.) He — he wasn't at 
all what I 'd expected. Of course he was 



tough. But there was something — nice 
about him. {A movement from Donald 
and Griswold.) Really there was — 
something — oh, I don't know, dad, but — 
why, he was just like a little boy! 

Donald. {Bitterly.) "Little boy"! Rot! 
You're a nice sort of a girl, you are — 
playing around with the crook who 's 
stolen your father's business. 

Emily. {Interrupting resentfully.) Well, 
I didn't know it, did I? You and dad 
never open your mouths to me and then 
when anything happens it 's all my fault ! 
I suppose I — 

(Mitchell enters.) 

What do you want, Mitchell? 
Mitchell. {Announcing.) Mr. Duncan. 

{He holds open the door and Lawrence 
Duncan comes in. He is a lazy, at- 
tractive young man of about twenty-six.) 

Duncan. {Gaily.) Well, Emily! I'm 
glad you don't spend all your time in the 
Fourth Ward. How-d' you-do, sir? 
Hello, Don. 

Donald. {Constrainedly.) Hello. 

Duncan. {Suspiciously.) Mr. Griswold, 
have these two been scrapping again? 
{To Emily.) What's the matter? 

Emily. You talk as if this were a Peace 
Conference. {Looking at Donald.) 
But it is n't ! 

{She sits dozen at the piano.) 

Donald. {Returning the look.) Not by a 
long shot! 

Duncan. {Gaily.) I believe you! (Em- 
ily plays piano. Duncan goes towards 
her, leaning over piano.) Please let's 
have tea. I 'm awfully hungry. 

(Donald looks at watch uneasily.) 

Emily. Tea? 

Duncan. Yes, you know you promised. 
{Suddenly.) Oh, if you've forgotten, 
don't bother. I '11 come another time. 
{He turns to the door.) 

Emily. {Smiling.) Of course! I re- 
member now! (Donald signals across 
to his father that they leave the room. 
Emily stops playing.) Sit down, Lau- 
rie, and don't be a goose! {To Gris- 
wold. ) When that man appears, I '11 
tell Mitchell to send him up to the li- 
brary. 

Griswold. Very well, dear. 

Emily. {Stopping him.) Daddy, listen! 
{Wistfully.) So long as you and Don 
and I are well and have each other, I 
don't think we ought to worry much, 



EDWARD SHELDON 



889 



no matter how badly business goes. Do 
you? 

Griswold. {Coldly.) My dear, I'm 
afraid you don't understand these things. 
{To Duncan.) Good-bye, my boy. 
Remember me to your mother. 

Duncan. Thanks, Mr. Griswold. Good 
night. (Griswold goes out.) 

Emily. Don, will you forgive me? 

Donald. {Trying to he stern.) You 
don't deserve it. 

Emily. {Coaxingly.) Not if I promise 
never, never, never to do it again? 

Donald. {Relaxing into a smile.) Don't 
bother! I'll take care of that! Oh, 
Laurie, shall we have some squash Sat- 
urday ? 

Duncan. All right. Bye-bye, old man! 
(Donald goes out, closing the door.) 

Emily. {Pressing a hell.) Oh, dear! I 
do have such trouble keeping my men- 
folks in order! (Duncan laughs.) 
Don't laugh, Laurie. I 'm depressed to- 
day. 

Duncan. {Sympathetically.) What's 
the matter? 

Emily. {Her voice tremhling.) Life. 
That 's all. Just life. 

(Mitchell comes in with tea tray.) 

(Emily goes to tea table.) Here comes 
your precious tea! Never say again I 
don't keep my word! {To Mitchell.) 
Have you put on some of those little 
biscuits Mr. Duncan 's so fond of ? Oh 
yes, I see. Thank you. 

(Mitchell has taken the flowers from 
the tahle and put them on the piano , 
replacing them with the tea tray. 
Then he goes out quietly.) 

Emily. {Filling the tea pot.) Now pull 
up the big chair, and we '11 have a nice 
comfy time ! You 'd better begin by 
'fessing up, don't you think? 

Duncan. {Oheying her.) What about? 

Emily. {Seated, nodding.) Those roses. 

Duncan. {Promptly.) Not guilty! 

Emily. Don't be absurd! They came 
just as usual — four huge boxes of them. 
You might admit it, Laurie, when you 
see me wearing one. 

Duncan. I may be a liar, but I have odd 
moments of telling the truth — honestly I 
have ! And I feel one coming on now. 

Emily. Well, let it come. 

Duncan. I 'm far too hard up to send 
you American Beauties — at twenty-five 
a dozen — oh, yes, I 've priced them, all 
right! {His tone deepening.) Al- 



though you know, Emily, if I could, I 'd 
have you tvalk on rose leaves for the 
rest of your life. 

Emily. {Quickly.) Rose leaves! Oh, 
people irritate me so when they talk like 
that ! If you 'd seen what I have this 
afternoon, you 'd — ( Checking herself. ) 
How do you like your tea? Five lumps 
and cream? 

{He stops, looking at her curiously.) 

Duncan. Oh, I don't want any tea, Em- 
ily. 

Emily. No tea? Then what did you 
come for? You said — 

Duncan. {Very nervously and ohviously 
bracing himself.) I came because I 
wanted to ask you something. I 've been 
trying to get up courage for weeks, but 
— but — why, there 's something about you 
that frightens me — it always has! For 
heaven's sake, stop thinking a moment, 
can't you? Emily, don't look at me like 
that — it's horrible! {In an outhurst.) 
Emily, will you marry me ? Yes, that 's 
it — I want you to marry me ! Now I 've 
done it! {He wipes his forehead.) 

Emily. {In mild reproof.) Oh, my dear 
boy! 

Duncan. Well? What about it? 

Emily. I 'm afraid you must n't talk to 
me that way any more. 

Duncan. Mustn't talk to you that way? 
Why not? 

Emily. I could n't, that 's all. Now let 's 
talk about something else. 

Duncan. No, we won't — not till we 've 
finished this ! I think I 've known you 
long enough, Emily, to say a few things 
you ought to hear, so I 'm going to light 
right in. You haven't treated me 
squarely. 

Emily. Why not? 

Duncan. Just because you 're clever and 
beautiful and know five times as much 
as most men that 's iio reason for leading 
them on. 

Emily. {Interrupting indignantly.) I 
don't lead them on! 

Duncan. {Positively.) Yes, you do! 
You do lead them on! And then when 
you 've got them all tangled up, poor 
devils, you take delight in turning them 
down! 

Emily. Oh, that 's not fair! 

Duncan. What if they weren't up on 
philanthropy, economics, civic responsi- 
biUty and all that sort of thing? They 
were mighty fine fellows, some of them! 
And that counts a whole lot. No, Emily^ 



890 



THE BOSS 



I 'in afraid now I believe what I used to 
think I never could — that you have n't 
any heart, after all! 

Emily. {Impatiently holding out plate.) 
Oh, take a biscuit and stop being 
silly. 

Duncan. {Be fusing the plate.) No, 
thanks. No biscuit. Everybody said 
5^ou had n't, but I 've been fool enough 
to think I knew better. Well, I don't — 
any more! So good-bye. 

{He rises and goes towards door.) 

Emily. {Simply and seriously.) No, 
wait. Laurie, you mustn't go like that. 
You may be right about me — I don't 
know. I feel that way myself lots of 
times ! And yet I do believe — way down 
— deep down — I believe there is a man 
waiting for me somewhere, and that I '11 
know him when he comes along! 

Duncan. {Wistfully.) Don't I look the 
least bit like him ? Could n't you man- 
age to mistake us in the dark? 

Emily. {Smiling.) I'm afraid not, Lau- 
rie. {He turns silently away.) Oh, 
please don't be hurt ! You 've been my 
best friend for so long I — I don't think 
I could get on without you now. 

Duncan. Emily ! 

Emily. You know the way I mean. But 
I wish — d' you mind if I say it ? It 's 
only because I 'm so fond of j^ou ! 

Duncan. {Grimly.) No, go ahead. I 
can stand anything now. 

Emily. {Wistfully.) I wish you 'd wake 
up, Laurie ! You 've been asleep all your 
life. Oh, I know you 've had a good 
time, and I like good times so much my- 
self that I feel I ought n't to say a word. 
But — but there is something more. I 
wish when you walk down the street, 
everj'body would turn and say: "There 
goes Lawrence Duncan. He 's done a lot 
to help this city. He 's a fine man and 
I'm proud of him!" {Breaking off.) I 
suppose I 'm talking nonsense, Laurie, 
but you know what I mean. 

Duncan. Yes, of course, I do. You 
mean why don't I go down there and start 
basket-ball teams and boxing classes for 
those kids in the Fourth Ward. Well, I 
don't know how. 

Emily. {Wistfully.) But you could 
learn. 

Duncan. I tell you, Emily, it 's not in my 
line. 

Emily. People said that to me, but I went 
right ahead. 

PyNCAN. But I 'd just make a fool of my- 



self^everybody I know would be laugh- 
ing at me. 

Emily. They used to laugh at me — per- 
haps they still do. The only difference 
is, I never hear them any more. They 
seem so far away. 

{She is lost in a sort of dreamy en- 
thusiasm.) 

Duncan. {Uncomfortably.) Emily, 

you 've been working too hard down 
there. You 're a little bit cracked on 
that subject — you 're morbid, really you 
are ! Now listen, dear. Leave all those 
dirty people for a little while and come 
up here where you belong. 

Emily. Do you mean that? 

Duncan. Of course I mean it. 

Emily. {After a slight pause.) Then 
there's no use talking any more. 

{Enter Mitchell.) 

Mitchell. Mr. Regan, madam. He says 

Mr. Griswold is expecting him. 
Emily. Mr. Regan? Oh, yes. Put him 
in the reception-room, Mitchell, until I 
go upstairs. Then bring him in here. 
I '11 tell Mr. Griswold. (Mitchell 
bows.) And Mr. Duncan is going. 
(Mitchell holds open the door, hesi- 
tates. Then, seeing that Duncan is 
not going, he disappears.) 
Duncan. "Shindy Mike"? 
Emily. {Nodding.) Yes, it's business. 

That 's why I 'm so worried. 
Duncan. {Smiling.) When he walks 
down the street every^body turns and 
looks at him — 
Emily. {Interrupting and smiling.) 
Ssh ! Be quiet ! He 's out there in the 
hall! Good-bye. Come to dinner 
Thursday. Will you? 
Duncan. If you want me? 
Emily. I do! 

Duncan. Then of course I shall. {He 

kisses her hands lightly before she can 

take them away.) God bless you, dear! 

{He goes out. Emily, with a sigh, 

goes to the piano, takes up her furs 

and gloves, and turns to the door. 

Just as she reaches it there is the 

sound of voices outside in the hall.) 

Regan's voice. {Outside.) That's 0. K.! 

Here 's a dollar fer ye — g'wan and take 

it ! Ye won't ? All right, I 'm goin' in 

anyway. 

(Regan walks in, putting a bill back in his 
pocket. On seeing Emily he stops in 
sudden embarrassment, and smiles.) 



EDWARD SHELDON 



891 



Regan. Pardon me, Miss Griswold. I 
thought I 'd just step in an' ask ye how 
ye was feelin' after yer ride. 
Emily. I believe my father's expecting 
you, Mr. Regan. If you '11 wait I '11 send 
him down. 
Regan. {Shyly stopping her.) Say, Miss 
Griswold, would you mind sittin' here 
while I talk to ye f er a minute ? I won't 
keep ye long. 
Emily. I 'm afraid I can't, Mr. R-egan. 

Good afternoon. 
Regan. Good afternoon, Miss. 

{She goes out at the hack of the stage 
without looking at Mm or smiling. 
Regan is left to himself. He is a 
man of about 38, the Irish-American 
hull-dog type, talks and looks like the 
tough who has risen to a great posi- 
tion and is not yet at home in it. 
He is apt to he too polite and cere- 
monious, hut when he is moved or 
excited this drops easily away. He 
is elaborately dressed in a morning 
coat, with a gardenia in his button- 
hole. He wears a diamond scarf pin, 
and is very conscious of his clothes. 
After Emily goes he begins looking 
about the room, notices the flowers 
with a good deal of satisfaction. He 
looks at himself in the mirror, 
straightens his tie, and then glances 
suddenly at the door to see if he has 
been detected. He consults his 
watch, just as the door opens and 
Griswold and Donald come in.) 
Griswold. Mr. Regan. 
Regan. {Shaking hands effusively.) 
Glad t' see ye, sir. An' the young man, 
too — {shakes hands with Donald) glad 
t' see ye! 
Griswold. {Coldly.) Sit down, Mr. Re- 
gan. I don't want to take too much of 
your valuable time. 
Regan. {Genially.) Aw, there 's no rush ! 
I got all day! {There is a silence, Gris- 
wold and Donald exchange glances. 
Regan realizes that he is being criticized. 
He turns ugly in a moment.) Well, if 
you two gents is so strong for business, 
let 's get at it. Ye asked me t' come. 
Here I am. What d' ye want •? 
Griswold. All right, Mr. Regan, I '11 go 
straight to the point. I 've been handling 
all the grain that 's landed in this city 
for nearly twenty-five years. Since '95 
you 've managed to get hold of the freight 
contracts. You were on the inside of 
(iock-life. You knew how to manage 



those men. You could make them work 
for an im|)ossible wage. Well, you 've 
succeeded and now you naturally want 
the grain contracts, too. I 've done my 
best, but I 'm afraid I 've been too con- 
servative to fight the conditions you've 
created. 

{During this speech Regan 7ms lighted 
a huge cigar, which he puffs arro- 
gantly.) 

Regan. You mean I 'm a grafter an' a 
thief, but ye '11 be damned if yer one, too. 
That it? 

Griswold. {Smiling.) You have a clear 
way of putting things, Mr. Regan. 
Well, I heard to-day from the Western 
Amalgamated that you've offered them 
terms I can't possibly meet. All the 
smaller companies will follow the West- 
ern, of course. Mr. Regan, you 've 
beaten me. You control the grain-hand- 
ling business of this country. 

Regan. {Leaning back.) Well, what are 
ye goin' t' do about it? 

Griswold. Wait just a moment! I want 
to make the situation perfectly clear. 
For a good many years I 've been rather 
prominent in the direction of three very 
important savings-banks — 

Regan. {Interrupting.) The People's 
Trust, the Union Deposit, and the Farm- 
ers' Loan. An' they put up the money 
you 've been fightin' me with. Ye got 
in securities that won't be worth the 
paper they're wrote on — (Griswold and 
Donald exchange a quick look) if ye 
lose that fight. An' ye have lost it, 
Griswold ! I 've smashed ye an' ye know 
it ! Ye '11 file yer petition within a week 
— they '11 be a run on those banks an' 
they '11 go t' hell so quick they '11 never 
know what 's struck 'em. That it ? 

Griswold. {Inarticulately.) That's it. 
How did you find out? 

Regan. How do I find out anythin'? I 
pound an' pay until they cough it up — 
see? 

Griswold. If you take over my credit 
now you '11 shake the credit of the whole 
state. 

Regan, I don't give a Bronx cocktail fer 
the credit o' the state. The wheat 's got 
t' be handled an' s' long 's I got that I 
can hang on through any run that ever 
happened. An' what 's more, I '11 make 
good money doin' it! 

Griswold. Mr. Regan — 

Regan. {Leaning forward.) But you 
can't. Say, d' ye know where a run 



892 



THE BOSS 



would land youf In state's prison, with 
a steady job as laundry-man a-washin' 
underwear. 

Griswold. But my securities — 

Regax. Aw hell ! D' ye think a jury o' 
reformed porch climbers is goin' t' be- 
lieve them securities was any better when 
ye gave 'em than they are now? Hear 
me laugh ! Ha ! Ha ! No, ye was a di- 
rector an' ye used the bank's funds to 
float yer own business an' ye got left. 
That 's how it '11 look on the front page 
o' the one-cent daily! Remember that 
Omaha man — what was his name? 
Kimball— Kendall ? He got twenty fer 
a deal enough like yours t' be its long- 
lost brother! An' that was before the 
days o' Collier's Weekly, too — Gawd 
bless its little soul! 

Griswold. {Sternly.) I was inside the 
law. If anything happens it was only a 
set of circumstances — why, I 'd have cut 
off my hand before I — 

Donald. {Warningly.) Father! 

(Griswold subsides.) 

Regan. (Contemptuously.) Aw, go tell 
that t' the birdies in the park ! 'T ain't 
what ye do that counts in this world. 
It 's what folks think ye done ! 

Griswold. Look here, Regan, give me six 
months before taking over the Western. 
I have some loans coming in. I can stick 
it through by then. Six months! 

Regan. Nixy — too long. 

Griswold. (Quickly.) Four! 

Regan. (Briskly.) Not on yer gay 
young life! 

Griswold. One — only one! It can't hurt 
you ! At the end you '11 get the business 
just the same! 

Regan. (Enjoying himself.) Yeah, but 
I think I ought t' be makin' a moral ex- 
ample of ye. Guy with swell position, 
bom with a silk hat, looks down on Irish 
up-starts, turns the whole block into an 
ice house when he meets 'em on the 
street — 

Griswold. (Protesting.) Mr. Regan — 

Donald. Let him go on, father. 

Regan. What d' ye think the depositors 
in them banks are going t' think about 
yer principles when they find that all 
their savin's have gone bla-a-h? Why, 
th' Fourth Ward alone 's got over two 
thousand accounts in the People's Trust! 
Sure, they 're only Irish hooligans that 
would n't know a cream-de-menth from a 
grand piano, but what are ye goin' t' 
tell 'em, Mr. Griswold, when they up and 



smash yer beak off on yer way to jaiH 

Griswold. That '11 do ! 

Donald. (To Regan.) Yes, Regan, I 
guess we 've had enough. 

Regan. Aw gee, the trouble vdth you pat- 
ent-leather slobs is ye can't tell a joke 
when ye get it in th' eye ! Now I 'm not 
tryin' t' do ye — I 'm not, s' 'elp me Gawd ! 
Wot d' ye say to a — a compromise ? 

Griswold. (Eagerly.) Compromise? 

Regan. Wot d' ye say t' a bunch-up o' the 
two firms! 

Griswold. Bunch-up ? 

Regan. Sure! Take hold good an' hard, 
spit on 'em, squeeze 'em t'gether, an' out 
she comes — "Regan, Griswold & Co."! 
Naw, damn it, yer gettin' t' be an old man 
an' the drinks is on me. "Griswold, Re- 
gan & Co. Contractors"! (Donald and 
Griswold exchange glances of amaze- 
ment.) There! How does that sound? 

Griswold. Amalgamation ? 

Regan That 's it, but my mouth 's too full 
o' teeth t' say it. Gee, could n't we give 
this town a hunch, you an' me? I won- 
der! You'd supply the polish an' the 
style, talk it up big with the church mem- 
bers an' first families, an' meanwhile I 'd 
be round in the back yard with my coat 
off, a-doin' the work! 

Griswold. You mean the new firm would 
be run by you according to your present 
successful standards, while I 'd be in 
front to keep the people from examining 
too closely into what we were doing? 
That it? 

Regan. Straight in the bull's eye. Well? 

Donald. You can't do it, father! 

Griswold. I know all about that, but 
I must think of those small deposit- 
ors. 

Donald. That's beyond us, father. We 
can't help them. But here 's a man ask- 
ing you to come down from the prin- 
ciples on which you based your life and 
brought us up — to come down to his own 
dirty tricks. There 's only one answer 
to a man like that, father, and that 's 
the door! 

Regan. (Angrily.) Oh, that's yer line 
o' talk, is it? (Controls himself with 
difficulty.) No, I won't let ye get a rise 
out o' me — we got too much t' settle. 
Griswold, if ye come in with me on this 
I '11 let ye manage the business any way 
ye like — I don't care liow honest ye make 
it ! Oh, we '11 lose money, o' course, but 
Gawd above us ! Money ain't everythin'. 
'Specially when ye got a nice bunch o' 



EDWARD SHELDON 



893 



real estate up-town, a-ripenin' away like 
bananas in a dago's bed. 

Griswold. (Suspiciously.) D' you mean 
you '11 be willing to take the lead from 
me? 

Regan. Sure! I'll jump in an' give mo- 
rality a good fair show. After all, times 
is changin', an' it may pay now better 'n 
it Tised to ! 

Griswold. In that case, I 'm inclined to 
say I — 

Regan. (Quickly.) Ye '11 take me up? 
Good! Shake on it! (Enthusiastically 
seizing his hand.) This is a great day 
for Mike Regan all right, all right ! 

Donald. Wait a second, father. What 's 
he letting us down so easy for? (Look- 
ing at Regan.) Why, he 's got us nailed 
and he knows it ! 

Griswold. Donald, I don't think you quite 
appreciate all Mr. Regan is offering — 

Donald. (Interrupting.) Yes, I do, and 
I don't like it — not one little bit ! ( Turn- 
ing to Regan.) There 's something else. 
Why don't you lay it on the table and 
be done with it? (A pause.) 

Regan. (Ill at ease, throwing away his 
cigar.) Yer a smart kid, ain't ye? 
Wish I had a couple like ye in the of- 
fice. Well, ye 've called my bluff an' I 
don't mind showin' my hand. 

(He hesitates.) 

Griswold. Go on. 

Donald. The whole thing — mind! 

(Pause.) 

Regan. (Struggling in his emharrass- 
ment.) It's hard to say somehow — I 
dunno why it should be. Ye see, Mr. 
Griswold, I didn't care nothin' about 
squarin' things this way when I started 
in t' grab yer business. 

Donald. I believe you. Go on. 

Regan. But I 've been thinkin' now I 'd 
like t' make up good an' close t' ye, 
'cause — (He stops.) 

Donald. (Sharply.) Well? Because 
what? 

Regan. 'Cause I want t' ask yer daughter 
if by any chance she 'd mind bein' — Mrs. 
R. 

Griswold. What ? 

Regan. Marry me — that 's wot ! 

(There is a moment of stupefaction.) 

Donald. (Enraged.) Well, this is the 
finishing touch! 

Regan. (Ugly.) 1 tell ye it's yer only 
chanst. 

Griswold. (Controlling himself.) That's 
all, Mr. Regan. Don't let us keep you. 



Regan. (Iii all the glory of his tough- 
ness.) Aw, ye t'ink youse hell, don't ye? 

Donald. Get out that door! 

Regan. I '11 learn ye, ye bunch o' stuck-up 
high-brows ! I '11 learn ye that I 'm it 
an' yer nit! 

Donald. Oh, we all know what you can 
do and we don't care, but if you 're not 
gone in one minute I '11 call the butler 
and have him kick you down the front 
steps ! 

Regan. (Doggedly.) 1 came here with a 
proposition, an' two hundred bloody but- 
lers couldn't bounce me before I get an 
answer. 

Griswold. You've got it, Mr. Regan. 

Regan. Not from her. 

Donald. Don't you dare say her name ! 

Regan. (Whining indignantly.) Why 
not ? Damn it, ain't I askin' her t' marry 
me? 

Donald. (About to attack him.) You — 

(Enter Emily.) 

Emily. Dad, has — (She stops on seeing 
Regan.) Oh, I beg your pardon. I 
thought you and Don were alone. 

Griswold. (Trying to he polite.) Mr. 
Regan is leaving, dear. In just a few 
moments ! 

Donald. Go away, Emily. Please! 

(Emily starts to obey and is .arrested 
hy Regan's voice.) 

Regan. Pardon me. Miss Griswold, do ye 
mind comin' in fer a minute an' shuttin' 
the door. 

Griswold. That'll do, dear, we'll excuse 
you. 

Donald. (Irritated.) Go away, Emily! 

Regan. (Gently.) Will you come in an' 
sit down? (She looks at him, pauses, 
hesitates. ) 1 'm askin' ye t' sit down. 
(She hesitates again, then still looking 
at him, obeys.) 

Donald. Well, of all the— Emily, dad and 
I won't want you here ! We 've said so 
twice and — 

Regan. (Breaking in.) 1 guess I'm the 
one t' do the talkin'. Listen to me. Miss 
Griswold. 

Emily. (Raising her eyebrows.) I'm lis- 
tening, Mr. Regan. 

(Pause. Donald and Griswold are 
amazed. ) 

Regan. (Hesitatingly.) I ain't seen ye 
more 'n four times, but I 'm no horse-car 
when it comes t' makin' up my mind. 
I 'm thirty-eight years old, an' never had 
a sick day in my life, 'cept when some 



804 



THE BOSS 



guy laid me out scrappin' an' mostly I 
can say it 's been the other way round. 
I drink now an' then, but liavin' been a 
bar-keep when young, I know t' a linger 
how much I can carry, so I never throw 
in no more. I never gamble nor play 
the races, fer the simple reason they 
seem kind o' slow 'long side o' my busi- 
ness. An' I never got mixed up with 
women o' any size or color 'cause I been 
on the jump, I s'pose, an' they tell me 
women takes a lot o' time. But now I 'm 
gettin' along, an' I 've made my pile, an' 
I feel like settlin' down an' havin' some- 
one pour my coffee in the morning an' 
put my slippers on the steam-heater at 
night. 
Emily. {Leaning forward.) You mean — 
Regan. I guess yer wise, I want t' marry 

Donald. To get a social position for his 
dirty politics! 

Regan. {Sternly.) Young feller, I can 
put this through without no buttin' in — 
understan'? {To Emily.) Ye could 
help me. Miss Griswold, an' I ain't 
ashamed t' say it. But that ain't the 
reason why I want ye. 

Emily. {Calmly.) Isn't it, Mr. Regan? 
Suppose you tell me, then, what is? 

Regan. I love ye — {Controlling himself.) 
Well, that 's why. 

{She shrinks a little and looks at him 
fixedly until Donald speaks.) 

Donald. Yes, and he 's offered to buy you. 
He 's got us right against the wall and 
he says he '11 let us off. He 's offered 
father a partnership, promised to back 
him up in everything. 

Emily. What? 

Donald. And it 's all on the condition 
that we pass you over like a Van Dyck 
portrait, for that man to hang in his 
drawing-room. 

Emily. {With a little smile.) Dear old 
dad ! Don ! If we 're going to the poor- 
house, then at least we '11 make it a fam- 
ily party! 

Donald. {Triumphantly.) Ah, I knew 
you 'd say that ! We can't help a smash- 
up ! It 's not our fault if the banks go 
under ! 

Emily. Banks go under? 

Donald. And anyway, Regan, there 's no 
use your staying here now, so move along 
there and be quick about it. 

Emily. Banks go under? {To Donald.) 
What do you mean? 

T^Onald. Oh, for heaven's sake, don't 



bother, dear ! It 's all right — I mean, 
you can't do anything! 

Emily. But I don't understand. And I 
want to, Don. I intend to. 

Donald. Drop it, dear — please. 

Emily. Dad—? 

Donald. {Warningly.) Now, father! 

Griswold. Wait until later, Emily. 

Emily. Mr. Regan, do you know any- 
thing about this? 

Regan. {Briefly.) I know the whole 
blamed thing. 

Emily. Then tell me, please. 

Donald. Don't listen to him, dear ! He 's 
got it all vtTong, and — 

Regan. {Grimly.) Oh, have I? I don't 
know 'bout that! {To Emily.) Your 
father's borrowed money from three big 
savin's-banks. He just happens V be a 
d'rector in 'em all ! When he goes bank- 
rupt, that '11 start a run. They '11 stop 
payment — 

Emily. Stop pajTnent? 

Regan. Yeah, an' all them scoopers o' 
mine that yer so stuck on — they '11 lose 
ev'ry bit o' dough they 've managed t' 
scrape t'gether. 

Emily. You don't mean — 

Regan. Sure. They got their cash in the 
People's Trust — the steady ones, I mean. 
It 's the only savin's bank the Fourth 
Ward patronizes. Well, it 's just that 
very cash yer pa here borrowed, an' if 
he can't pay it back — why, they get left. 
See? {Pause.) 

Emily. {Turning to Griswold.) Dad, is 
this true? 

Griswold. In a measure, yes. 

Emily. And all those men down there are 
going to lose their money? 

Griswold. {Hesitating.) There may be 
— some difficulty. I don't deny that, 
but— 

Emily. {Gently interrupting.) But, 
daddy, dear, they have so little. It 
means everything to them. And we — 
why, we 're responsible, don't you see ? 

Griswold. {Defending himself.) It's a 
tremendous misfortune as far as they go, 
but I acted with the strictest honesty and 
I don't see — 

Emily. {Interrupting him and turning to 
Regan.) Isn't there an j- thing else 
you '11 take ? Won't you offer that part- 
nership on any other basis? 

Regan. I guess not. What would I be 
gettin'? 

Donald. Partnership ? D' you think fa- 
ther would consider for a minute any — 



EDWARD SHELDON 



895 



Emily. {Interrupting, speaking to Re- 
gan.) He's right. Father won't do it 
now. But would you be satisfied with 
half the grain companies, putting the 
other half entirely in his hands ? Would 
you promise to go ahead under that ar- 
rangement and leave him absolutely 
alone? 

Regan. Yeah, but what about me? Will 
him and that young feller promise t' 
leave me alone? 

Emily. {Haughtily.) Mr. Regan, I think 
you can rely on my family's doing the 
honest thing. 

Regan. {After a moment of hesitation.) 
All right. I '11 give 'em half, that 's 
square. Is it a deal now ? Take me up ? 

Emily. {A little wildly.) I've got to! 
There 's nothing else for me to do ! 

Donald. {Appalled.) Emily, don't be a 
fool! 

Griswold. D' you know what you 're say- 
ing, my child? 

Regan. {Deeply moved, holding out his 
hand.) Put it there. Miss! Put it 
there, an' shake! 

Griswold. {Strongly.) My dear! 

Donald. For heaven's sake, Emily, think 
who you are! 

Emily. I can't! All I can think of are 
the men who have their hard earned 
little accounts in those banks! You 
have n't seen their wives and children. 
You don't know the misery they 're 
struggling under. But I 've seen it. I 
know! And anything I can do to keep 
_ those pitiful little families from giving 
up and going all to pieces, why I intend 
to do it! And nothing that you or fa- 
ther or anybody else can say is going to 
stop me! 

Donald. {To Regan.) You hear that? 
Tell her you don't want her! Tell her 
you won't take her! You tell her or 
I '11— 

Regan. Aw, g' wan ! You smoke too 
many cigarettes! 

Donald. {Beside himself.) You — 

Griswold. Donald! Keep quiet! The 
servants ! 

Donald. {Lowering his voice.) I can see 
no"^ ! You 've cooked this whole thing 
up ! You 've been meeting on the sly, 
trying to carry on an affair! You know 
we 'd never let you marry him, so you 
make him get a strangle-hold on father's 
business and then you think you've got 
us gagged and bound ! 

Regan. {Flaming.) You cut that now! 



Donald. You think I 'm afraid of you, 
Regan, but I 'm not. And I tell you 
now, right between the eyes, if you go 
on with this dirty scheme to get hold of 
my sister, I '11 — 

Regan. {As he pauses.) Well, wot '11 ye 
do? 

Donald. {Ominously.) Wait and see. 

Emily. {Warningly.) Remember, Don. 
If Mr. Regan does n't interfere with you, 
you have no right to interfere with him. 
That 's settled. 

Donald. {Desperately.) You're crazy! 
Give it up ! Emily ! Darling ! 

Emily. I can't. 

Donald. D' you realize what you 're do- 
ing ? You 're choosing between us, — yes, 
you are! It's dad and I against this 
man ! 

Emily. {Passionately.) I'm not choos- 
ing! Oh, Don, dear, can't you see? 

Donald. I can see you 're a base, disloyal, 
Httle— 

Regan. {Interrupting.) Quit pickin' on 
her now ! I 've stood here long enough 
a-listehin' t' yer gab, and if that 's the 
line o' talk ye hand out at home, I don't- 
blame her fer wantin' t' beat it! Gee, 
the only thing that jolts me is she ain't 
skipped before ! 

Donald. {Turning to Griswold.) Come 
along, father. I 've had enough of this. 

Regan. {Facetiously.) Don't let me keep 
ye! 

Donald. {To Emily.) As for you — 
{Checking himself.) We'll talk about 
it later. 

{He goes out with a final look at 
Regan. ) 

Griswold. {To Emily.) Coming, dear? 

Emily. No, I have several things to talk 
over with Mr. Regan. 

Griswold. {Quietly.) Then I '11 stay. 

Emily. {With difficulty.) Please don't. 

Griswold. You mean — {Looking at Re- 
gan. ) I 'd be in the way ? 

Emily. {Barely able to control herself.) 
Yes. {Pause.) 

Griswold. {Inarticulately.) I'm sorry — 
I 'm — 

{He waits a moment, straightens him- 
self, and goes without looking 
hack.) 

Emily. {As soon as the door shuts, with 
a despairing sob.) Daddy! Daddy! 

Regan. ( With rough tenderness. ) I 'm 
awful sorry fer ye. Miss, but they '11 
come round all right, if ye just sit tight. 
They always do, an' — 



896 



THE BOSS 



Emily. {Interrupting him.) Before we 
go further I must make you understand 
one thing. I don't care for you. I feel 
quite sure I never can. We 've got to 
face that fact together, you and I. 

Regan. Well? 

Emily. {Bravely.) I'll keep my word. 
I '11— I '11 marry you. But if I do, it 's 
with the understanding that everything 
stops at the church door. I won't really 
be your wife. I can't. That 's all there 
is to it, I — I can't — {He comes towards 
her.) No, wait till I've finished. You 
were perfectly right when you called it a 
deal. I '11 help you with my position. 
I '11 do the best I can for you that way — 

Regan. {Pained.) Aw quit it! 

Emily. {Closing her eyes and going on.) 
And in return you '11 let go my father. 
I 'm perfectly above-board, perfectly 
clear. Just an every day bargain. If 
you want me — on that basis, remember! 
— you can have me. {Looking at him.) 
Well? 

Regan. {After a pause.) That's a 
pretty sharp offer yer makin' me, but — 
I don't care, I '11 close with it now ! 

Emily. You don't mean — ^you '11 take 
those terms? 

Regan. I take what I can get — see? And 
then I get a little more. 

Emily. You won't this time — 

Regan. {Lightly.) I'll run the chanst! 

Emily. {Controlling herself.) Very well, 
then, there 's nothing more to be said. 
My family are going to make trouble, so 
I think we 'd better finish it up as soon 
as we conveniently can. 

Regan. I'll get the license, tonight. 
We '11 be married the first thing in the 
momin'. That suit ye? 

Emily. Could you make it in the after- 
noon, about three? I have a luncheon 



engagement. 
Regan. Sure. 



I '11 have everythin' ready 



an' 0. K. an' meet ye on the steps o' 

St. Patrick's at five minutes to. 
Emily. {Suddenly.) Mr. Regan, change 

your mind! Don't do it! Let me off! 

Please! Oh, please! 
Regan. {Passionately.) I won't! {In an 

outburst.) I won't let ye off! I won't! 

{He tries to take her in his arms.) 

Emily. {Shuddering and turning away.) 

Remember — 
Regan. {Controlling himself with a 

mighty effort. ) All right. It 's three 

sharp, then. {He goes to door.) 

Emily. Three sharp. 



Regan. {His hand on the knob.) Don't 
keep me waitin'. 

Emily. I 'm always prompt. 

Regan. {With an irrepressible smile.) 
Oh, before I go, there 's one thing I want 
t' thank ye fer. {Shyly.) That rose o' 
mine yer wearin' — t' was lookin' at that 
kept my nerve up all the time! 

Emily. So it 's been you — ! 

Regan. Sure. I thought you 'd caught 
on long ago. 

Emily. {Bitterly, as she unpins the rose.) 
No. I had n't "caught on" ! 

{As she speaks he goes out, softly 
closing the door behind him. She 
throws the rose on tea table.) 



ACT SECOND. 

Regan's library, the evening of April 29th. 
It is a new, elaborate, and obviously ex- 
pensive room, controlled, however, by 
good taste. On right three long win- 
dows with heavy brocaded curtains. At 
right, above the windows and facing 
down-stage, a door leading to Regan's 
office. At back a recessed fireplace and 
seats on both sides of it. At left, a 
dor leading to the hall and the rest of 
the house reached by a step and landing. 
The wall space above and below this 
door is occupied by bookcases, filled by 
expensive bindings. At right-centre, 
half facing the audience, a long library 
table, with lamps, papers, and writing 
materials, also a desk telephone and a 
tray containing whiskey glasses and a 
syphon. Behind it stands a large chair 
and in front of it a wide comfortable 
couch. Near the windows is another 
smaller table with a lamp. The lighting 
is soft and restful. 

As the curtain rises, Davis, Regan's sec- 
retary, — a small, worn,, little man, — is 
discovered hunting about among the 
papers on the desk. — From the left 
comes the sound of people laughing and 
talking. Then the door opens, showing 
brilliant lights and increased noise of 
talk and laughter, and Regan enter^ fur- 
tively, closing the door behind him. He 
is in evening dress. 

Regan. Say! That guy ain't come in 

with the ultimatum? 

Davis. No, sir, not yet. I — I 'm afraid 

I 'm in the way here. 

Regan. Aw, that's 0. K. I got through 



EDWARD SHELDON 



897 



another dinner, Davis. I 'm gettin' bet- 
ter every day. They '11 have me smokin' 
cigarettes first thing I know. Say, we 
got a swell bunch there t'night. Gee, it 
makes me sweat t' talk t' 'em, though! 
I just sneaked in here a minute t' cool 
down. Well, I suppose I might as well 
be gettin' back on me book job. 

Davis. Book job? 

Regax. Yeah, I 'm gettin' lit'rary, Davis. 
{Looking at hook shelves.) I've" read 
from there to there. Wot are ye after? 

Davis. I 'm hunting for that interview 
with 3^oung Griswold in the Record- 
Times. 

Regan. The one tellin' how he organized 
his Labor Union an' got our men t' 
strike ? 

Davis. Yes, sir. 

Regan. G'wan! I used that t' light a 
cigar. 

Davis. All right, sir. Then I 've finished 
for to-night? 

Regan. Go home and get some sleep. Ye 
need sleep when we got a big scrap on 
like this. 

Davis. That 's what my wife says, too. 

Regan. Say, how are the kids? 

Davis. Fine, sir. The new school 's ex- 
actly what they needed. {Nervously.) 
We — we never can thank you as you 
ought to be thanked for — 

Regan. {Interrupting.) Aw, rats! Now 
don't begin on that again. I didn't do 
notliin' but write a check, an' — 

{The door opens and Mrs. Cuyler comes 
in quickly. She is a fashionable young 
woman — outspoken, though kindly. She 
is in evening dress.) 

Mrs. Cuyler. I saw you escape, Mr. Re- 
gan, and I just made up my mind I 
would n't let you ! 

Regan. Well, ye see, Mrs. Cuyler, I 'm 
expectin' a visit from one o' them 
strikers. They 're sendin' me wot they 
call their Union Ultimatum! {To 
Davis.) Good-night, son. 

Davis. {Going out.) Good-night, sir. 

Mrs. Cuyler. The strike? Oh, how ex- 
citing ! I 'm just back from Europe, but 
I hear it 's been the talk of the town for 
two months! 

Regan. {Proudly.) Yeah. We've kept 
things going at quite a clip. 

Mrs. Cuyler. Tell me — how 's it all going 
to end? Will you up and crush your 
brother-in-law or will your brother-in- 



law up and crush you? Oh, I do hope 
somebody % crushed ! 

Regan. {Opening humidor.) Then ye 'd 
better get out yer handkerchief fer him! 
They didn't call me "Shindy Mike" lor 
nothin'. I never got licked by a bunch 
o' scoopers before an' I guess I 'm too 
old to begin. 

{He takes out a long black cigar and 
sticks it in his mouth.) 

Mrs. Cuyler. {Clapping her hands im- 
pulsively.) That's splendid! Keep it 
up! {She comes to the sofa.) 

Regan. Aw, g'wan! Yer kiddin' me! 

Mrs. Cuyler. No, I 'm not. I don't 
think I dare. I 've always been so 
afraid of you, Mr. Regan. I believe 
you were the original Bogey that my 
nurse used to frighten me with when I 
would n't go to sleep — long ago ! But 
now I 've seen you I 'm disappointed, 
because you 're not a Bogey at all. 
You're just a — a — 

Regan. Well, cut it loose! 

Mrs. Cuyler. A man! A rather bad 
man, I suppose, but oh dear! that only 
makes me envy Emily the more! 

Regan. Envy her? 

Mrs. Cuyler. There 's so much she can 
do to help you, Mr. Regan. And the 
men we help the most are the men we 
love the best, after all ! 

Regan. Help me? I wish she would! I 
want t' be helped — an' I wouldn't mind 
a little lovin', too. 

Mrs. Cuyler. {Cheerfully.) Give her 
time, Mr. Regan. Emily's a wonderful 
girl, even if she is a snob. 

Regan. A snob? 

Mrs. Cuyler. Yes. Morally, I mean. 
And on the whole you 're such a shady 
character, I don't blame the poor dear 
if she 's mixed up at the start. 

Regan. No, I don't blame her neither — 
when I stop t' think. 

Mrs. Cuyler. {Reflectively.) It is rather 
hard on her, you know, having you swear 
at that wretched butler before all her 
guests. 

Regan. {Proudly.) Why, I only did it 
twice ! 

Mrs. Cuyler. Twice! 

Regan. Well, I guess that 's somethin' ! 
I used t' cuss him every time he passed 
me the pertaters! 

Mrs. Cuyler. Oh, dear! {She laughs, 
then more seriously.) Mr. Regan, will 
you do something for me? 

Regan. {Suspiciously.) Wot d'ye want? 



898 



THE BOSS 



Mrs. Cuyler. Be humane! Light that 
cigar and kill it quickly! Don't torture 
it any more! 

Regan. {Laughing.) Guess ye think I 
can't even be decent to a piece o' to- 
bacco ! 

{He throws his cigar in the grate.) 

Mrs. Cuyler. {Comfortably.) Well, 
Mr. Regan, you really are a very black 
sheep! Do you know I could hardly 
make my husband come to dine with 
you to-night? He said he wanted to go 
to that big mass-meeting. It 's quite 
true! I had to be unusually firm with 
him! 

Regan. {Grimly.) Poor feller! Tell 
him he can go t' the meetin' later on 
and yell "T' hell with Regan!" all the 
louder fer havin' lapped up my cham- 
pagne. {At sofa.) 

Mrs. Cuyler. And your old friend, the 
Archbishop. Emily said he was taken 
ill at the last moment, so he couldn't 
come. But I don't believe it, Mr. Re- 
gan, do you? I think he was annoyed 
because your men broke into that Union 
saloon this afternoon and sort of acci- 
dentally killed the proprietor. 

Regan. Well, it don't seem to bother you 
much. 

Mrs. Cuyler. Oh, nothing ever bothers 
me. You see, I 'm just a fan. I never 
get right down and play. But from tiie 
grandstand I see most of the fine points 
of the game. And that 's why, Mr. Re- 
gan, you and Emily are very near my 
heart this evening. 

{Enter Gates.) 

Gates. Beg pardon, madam, but Mr. Cuy- 
ler is leaving. Mrs. Regan asked me to 
tell you. 

Mrs. Cuyler. What nonsense ! Why, it 's 
barely nine ! Very well, I '11 be there di- 
rectly. {Piano is heard in the next 
^room.) Aren't husbands bores? 

Regan. I s'pose — I s'pose we are. 

Mrs. Cuyler. No, not you ! You 're lots 
of things, but — I think there 's no danger 
of your boring any one ! You know, Mr. 
Regan, I must be fearfully immoral! I 
enjoy so much what I entirely disap- 
prove of. You, for instance. {He 
looks at her.) Now, Emily can't do that 
— never could! It seems too bad, and 
yet — and yet I somehow think it 's go- 
ing to be the making of you both ! 

Regan. Mrs. Cuyler, would you mind 
helpin' me do somethin'? 



Mrs. Cuyler. What is it? 

Regan. {Taking two jewelers' boxes from 
his pocket.) Tell me which one of these 
she 'd like the best. 

{He gives the larger one to her.) 

Mrs. Cuyler. {Opening the box.) 
What 's this ? A frog — a diamond frog, 
with ruby eyesj 

Regan. {Proudly.) I picked out that! 
Sort o' cute, ain't he? Kind o' natural! 
Pipe his leg there! 0' course live frogs 
are green with spots all over 'em but 
that don't make no diff'rence when it 
comes t' joolry, does it? 

Mrs. Cuyler. {Trying not to laugh.) 
Not a bit. I think he's sweet, Mr. Re- 
gan. What's the other? 

Regan. {Contemptuously.) Aw — just a 
pearl ring. {Showing box to her.) The 
guy at the store was nutty over it, but 
gee ! It seems kind o' cheap t' me, 'long- 
side the other! 

Mrs. Cuyler. It 's beautiful. 

Regan. That so? Well, I'm strong fer 
diamonds, speakin' fer myself. They 
give the wealthy look, an' ain't that wot 
everybody's after? 

Mrs. Cuyler. Mr. Regan. 

Regan. Yeah? 

Mrs. Cuyler. I 'd give her the one you 

chose yourself. I 'd give her the frog. 

{Hands back boxes.) 

Regan. {Pleased.) All right. I will. 

Mrs. Cuyler. What is it? Her birth- 
day? 

Regan. Naw. We was married six 
months ago t'day. I just want her t' 
know that I remembered, that 's all. 
Listen ! D' you hear her playin' in 
there? It makes me kind o' — kind o' 
homesick fer some place I 've never seen> 

{A pause.) 

Mrs. Cuyler. You Avill, Mr. Regan, be- 
fore so very long. Good-bye, God bless 
you, "Shindy Mike"! 

{She smiles at him swiftly, waves her 
hand and goes out. He stands for 
a moment looking after her.) 

(Gates enters by the other door.) 

Gates. I beg pardon, sir. 

Regan. That striker shown up yet? 

Gates. No, sir, it 's Mr. McCoy. 

Regan. McCoy? Where? 

Gates. There in the office, sir. He rang 

the side bell, and I thought as you — 
Regan. What right have you got t' think? 

I '11 do all the thinkin' that goes on in 



EDWARD SHELDON 



899 



this house! {Turning to door.) Come 
in here, Porky ! 

(Gates has held the door open for McCoy, 
— a good-looking, reckless young tough, 
carrying a soft hat in his hand.) 

Gates. {Timidly.) May I ask, sir, if — 
Regan. {Interrupting impatiently.) Aw, 

go t' hell! 
Gates. Very good, sir. {He goes out.) 
McCoy. {Eagerly.) Say, Mike— . 
Regan. {Interrupting.) Wait a second! 

What about Hurley's bar? Did ye 

smash it good? 
McCoy. {Impatiently.) Yeah, we put it 

on the blink. But/ Mike — 
Regan. {Interrupting.) An' Hurley? 

Wot about him? 
McCoy. {Again impatiently.) It's all 

right. We laid him out just like ye 

wanted. 
Regan. {Relieved.) So that's 0. K. 

Now tell me why yer not at St. Mary's 

Hall this minute, a-listenin' t' them guys 

like I told ye to? 
McCoy. {Embarrassed.) Say, Mike, some- 
thin' 's doin'. 
Regan. {Sternly.) Well? 
McCoy. An' I just thought I 'd drop in 

an' tell ye 'bout it on my way to the 

meetin'. 
Regan. G'wan! Spit it out! 
McCoy. My missus — 
Regan. Wot? 
McCoy. {With a sudden grin.) It's a 

boy! 
Regan. {Joyfully.) Naw! 
McCoy. {Delighted.) Sure! He weighs 

nine pounds! The cutest little duck ye 

ever seen in all yer life ! 
Regan. An' yer good woman? 
McCoy. Doin' fine. Everythin' goin on 

slick ! 
Regan. Say, when did it — ? 
McCoy. 'Bout five o'clock, when I w^-s 

out a-smashin' Hurley's bar — you know. 
Regan. Porky, shake! {They do so vio- 
lently and solemnly.) We'll have a 

drop o' this t' celebrate. 

{Turns to the table and pours out some 
whiskey.) 
McCoy. The christenin* ^s on Sunday 

week, an' she said I was t' tell ye ye 'd 

got t' stand up with the kid an' leave us 

name him Michael R. 
Regan I '11 be a proud man that day, 

Porky. {Giving him a glass.) Now let 

her go t' Michael Regan McCoy! 
McCoy. Michael Regan Ignatius McCoy. 



Regan. Gawd help him, may he grow up 

to be as swell a scrapper an' as fine a 

friend as his old man was before him! 
{They both drink their liquor at a 
gulp.) 
McCoy. I thank ye kindly, Mike! 

{Pause. They both look at each 
other.) 
Regan. Say, Porky, is it true what they 

say? 
McCoy. What? 
Regan. {With solemn curiosity.) That 

kids ain't got no hair on 'em when 

thej' 're born ? 
McCoy. {In some heat.) Whoever says 

that 's a liar, an' I '11 bust him in the 

mug ! Mine 's got a bunch o' hair ! An' 

what 's more — it curls ! 
Regan. An' their ej^es, now. Ain't they 

closed like kittens fer a week or two? 
McCoy. A week or two nothin'! Why, 

he lay there a-blinkin' an' a-winkin' at 

me like we 'd known each other all our 

lives ! 
Regan. Ain't it queer now — ain't it queer 

how people come into the world! 
McCoy. That 's right. 
Regan. {Wistfully.) I don't s'pose — a 

man really knows wot life means 'nless 

he 's got a kid. 

{The music in the next room stops.) 
McCoy. Sure thing. {Enthusiastically.) 

Say, Mike, we 're just a-waitin' fer yer 

first one t' come t' make a bonfire of the 

whole blame Ward ! We '11 — 
Regan. {Quickly.) Quit it! 

{He rises.) 
McCoy. Wot 's bitin' ye? 
Regan. {Looking around towards door.) 

Can't ye see? Me wife! 

{They rise, as the door opens and Emily 
comes in, humming the air she has just 
been playing. She sees the two men and 
stops short. Then, with distant care- 



Emily. Oh, I beg your pardon. I 
thought you were in your office. Is that 
you, Mr. McCoy? How d' you do? 

McCoy. {Bowing nervously.) Fine, 
ma'am, I thank ye! The same t' you, 
ma'am. It 's — it 's getting cold this 
evenin', ain't it? 

Emily. Is it? Well, I won't disturb 
you. {She turns to the door.) 

Regan. {Eagerly.) No, don't go. I got 
somethin' I want t' give ye. {Speaking 
aside out of the corner of his mouth.) 
Beat it, Porky! 



900 



THE BOSS 



McCoy. Wot 's bitin' you ? 

Regan. Fade away! Ain't ye got the 
manners to see when ye ain't wanted? 

McCoy. {Suddenly.) Pardon me. Good 
evenin', ma'am. I hope ye sleep well, 
ma'am. See ye later, Mike. 

{Goes out very embarrassed.) 

Emily. {As the door closes.) Good 
night, Mr. McCoy. 

Regan. {Confidentially.) He means well. 
Porky does. But ye see the poor feller 
ain't had no social advantages. But 
ye 'd like Porky if ye kind o' got ac- 
quainted with him. Aw, I know he 's a 
mut in a parlor but gee ! he 's an ace in a 
bar! {Slight pause.) Say, yer lookin' 
swell t'night ! I kept pipin' ye at dinner 
an' sayin' t' myself, "Gee!" says I, 
"She 's got all them other dames lashed 
t' the mast!" 

Emily. I think I '11 go upstairs, Michael. 
I 'm feeling rather tired. 

Regan. No, wait. D' j-ou know what day 
this is? 

Emily. Day? 

Regan. Yeah. It 's April 29th. 

Emily. Well? 

Regan. Well, think back six months. 

Emily. {Suddenly.) I'd forgotten! 

Regan. I hadn't. So I took the liberty 
o'— 

{He takes the jeweler's box from his 
pocket.) 

Emily. {Under her breath.) Six months! 
Why, it seems six years! 

Regan. It don't t' me. {Timidly.) Say, 
Emily ! 

Emily. {Turning to him.) What? 
{Seeing the box.) Oh, no — 

Regan. Aw, g'wan ! Take it ! It 's just 
a little keep-sake. {He presses it into 
her hand.) Just somethin' t' show I'm 
still on me job — "strivin' t' please" — 
like they say in the ads. 

Emily. {Trying to give it back to him.) 
Take it back, Michael. 

Regan. Wot? 

Emily. Credit it wherever you got it and 
send the money to Father Kelly for his 
strikers' Home Fund. 

Regan. Strikers ? 

Emily. The women and children — you 
understand — 

Began. {Eagerly.) But ye ain't even 
looked at it — say, it 's a di'mond frog 
with — 

Emily. {Interrupting.) Oh, take it! 

{Pause.) 

Regan. ( Taking it. ) I 'm sorry, I did 



n't know ye minded when I gave ye 
things. Gee, if I 'd only known I 'd — 
{He stops short with an effort, turning 
towards the door.) 

Emily. That's all right. Good night. 

Regan. Good night. I won't bother ye 
no more. 

{He slowly goes out. Emily stands 
for a moment, then turns quickly to 
other door just as it opens and 
Gates appears.) 

Gates. Madam. 

Emily. Well, Gates? 

Gates. There 's a gentleman to see you. 

Emily. Now? I'm not at home. 

Gates. It 's Mr. Griswold, madam. 

Emily. Who? 

Gates. Mr. Donald Griswold. 

Emily. {Faintly.) Why — why — 

Gates. And he said I was to tell you it 's 
most important. 

Emily. Then I think you 'd better show 
him in. 

Gates. Very good, madam. 

{He goes out. She crosses to the other 
door, opens it, listens. Then, satis- 
fied, closes it and returns to the mid- 
dle of the room as Gates shows in 
Donald. ) 

Donald. {Constrained.) Hello, Emily. 

Emily. {To Gates.) That'll do. Gates. 
Will you shut the door? (Gates bows 
and does so. When they are alone Em- 
ily throws her arms about Donald's 
heck with a smothered cry.) Don, my 
dear ! Oh ! Oh ! I 'm so glad you 've 
come ! 

Donald. {Rather stiffly.) Are you? I 
thought — it might be the other way 
round, after all that 's happened. 

Emily. Don't be foolish, dear! I haven't 
seen you for so long ! It 's five months 
now ! Oh, Don ! Come along — sit down 
here and tell me about everything! 
How's dad? 

Donald. Very well. His rheumatism 
came back in January, but nothing seri- 
ous. 

Emily. Did he have old Cortlandt? 

Donald. Yes. 

Emily. I wish he 'd change. They say 
this new man, Winters, is awfully 
good. 

Donald. Imagine father changing doctors 
after all these years ! 

Emily. Don ! 

Donald. Yes ? 

Emily. How's the business? 

DOXALD. All right. Though don't you 



EDWARD SHELDON 



901 



think it 's rather rough on dad and me 
to ask? 

Emily. Don, why would n't either of you 
answer my letters? 

Donald. {Gravely.) We both took your 
marriage pretty hard, you know. 

Emily. And I Ve been so proud ! I 
would n't give in and try to make up — 
even though I wanted to so often! But 
now — my dear, I never realized before 
how much I love you! 

Donald. (Uncomfortably.) I'm chair- 
man of that big strikers' mass-meeting 
to-night, and I 've got to be at St. 
Mary's Hall by nine-thirty, so you see I 
have n't got much time. I — Emily, 
where 's Regan ? 

Emily. Oh, I don't know. In there, I 
think. Don, you 're looking thin, and 
awfully tired! Can't you get oft for a 
week and — 

Donald. {Interrupting her.) Excuse 
me, but I 'm in an awful rush, and what 
I want to know is — 

Emily. {Fiddling with his tie.) Why, 
that 's the veiry last tie I knitted for you ! 
How well it 's worn ! 

Donald. {Impatiently pulling away from 
her.) Do listen, Emily! I want to 
know what side you take in this anti- 
Regan movement. 

Emily. What side? 

Donald. Yes. How do you feel about 
the strike, for instance? 

Emily. (Vaguely.) Strike? 

Donald. Yes, strike. The Union strike 
we 're running against him. Where do 
you stand? 

Emily. I don't know. 

Donald. You don't know? 

Emily. I 've never meddled in his busi- 
ness. I 've just done all I could to help 
the wives and children of the men he 
employs and let it go at that. I 've been 
cowardly about facing things, I know. 
But to-night — the Archibshop wrote me 
a note. He would n't dine here. He 
told me such dreadful things. They 
killed a saloon-keeper this afternoon. 

Donald. I know — Dave Hurley. 

Emily. (Breaking down.) Oh, Don, I've 
been having a terrible time! It just 
seems sometimes as if I couldn't keep it 
up a minute longer! Be good to me, 
dear — please — I need it — I need some one 
to be good to me! 

(She turns to him, sobbing like a 
child.) 

Donald. (Melting for the first time and 



petting her Jenderly.) Poor little girl! 
There now — don't cry ! I 'm right here ! 
Your big brother 's right here and he '11 
take care of you exactly the way he used 
to! 

Emily. (Trying to control herself.) I — ■ 
I can't help it ! It 's just too — splendid 
to have you back — again — 

Donald. Is it? Then you'll try to help 
me, won't you? 

Emily. (Drying her eyes.) Help you? 

Donald. Yes. It 's like this. We — 

Emily. (Interrupting.) Don, give me 
your hand. 

Donald. (Doing so.) They're getting 
Regan's men to strike and join the Un- 
ion at the rate of a hundred a day. Un- 
less something happens we '11 make him 
shut down business by Monday at the 
latest. Why, even now the Western 
companies are getting scared — 

Emily. (Interrupting.) Does he know 
that? 

Donald. No, but he will. They say he 
can't stand up much longer and he 
won't ! He can't ! No matter how many 
dirty tricks he 's carrying up his sleeve ! 

Emily. Dirty tricks? {Looking at him 
intently. ) What d' you mean ? 

Donald. (Confidentially.) Why, Glea- 
son — he 's our attorney — Gleason thinks 
that Regar 's just lying low until he can 
get a coup] i of thousand niggers up from 
Georgia or Alabama, and start 'em work- 
ing at the docks at a quarter a white 
man's wage. He could do it, too. 
Damn him, he 's the only man I know 
who could! 

Emily. Ssh! Don! Be careful! He'll 
hear you! 

Donald. (Lowering his voice.) But be- 
fore I get after the railroads and head 
him off, I 've got to be dead sure of the 
whole proposition, and that 's why I 've 
come to you. 

Emily. To me? 

Donald. (Eagerly.) Yes. What about 
it? Is that his little game? 

Emily. (After a slight pause, withdraw- 
ing her hand. ) I don't know. I 've told 
you I never interfere in his business. 

Donald. Well, I want you to do a little 
interfering now — for me. I want you to 
find out whether this is true, and I want 
you to find out what road he 's going to 
bring 'em over. Then we '11 wait and 
nab him in the act. I 'm glad he 's in. 
You can get it out of him to-night. 

Emily. Don, dear, it — 



902 



THE BOSS 



Donald. (Interrupting.) I'll ring you 
up to-morrow about eleven and — 

Emily. (Interrupting.) Doi, I couldn't 
do that. 

Donald. (Impatiently.) Why, of course 
you could. Just tell him you 're inter- 
ested! Get him talking, you know how 
— he '11 take care of the rest. 

Emily. I mean — I wouldn't do it. 

Donald. What? 

Emily. (Uncomfortably.) After all, he 's 
my husband. 

Donald. But you 're on our side ! You 're 
one of us ! I 'm your brother, when it 
comes to that. 

Emily. I — I couldn't, dear. That's all. 

Donald. You must ! It 's your only 
chance to show dad and me you 're sorry 
for what you did — that you 're fond of 
us still! 

Emily. (Rising.) I won't, I tell you! I 
can't! 

Donald. (Rising.) You'd better look 
out, Emily, or you '11 make me think you 
approve of everything that man is doing 
— killing saloon-keepers and all the rest ! 

Emily. (Indignantly turns on Mm.) I 
don't approve of it ! You know I don't ! 
You know I hate it from the bottom of 
my soul! 

Donald. (Instantly.) Then why don't 
you help us stop it? You can. You 
hold the chance right there in your two 
hands! Good Lord, don't you realize 
the importance? 

Emily. Yes, of course I realize — but I 
just know it 's impossible. 

Donald. It isn't! 

Emily. (Her temper rising.) It is! 
And what 's more you have no right to 
come and ask me! 

Donald. (Angrily.) Oh, very well, then. 
One thing 's sure — I '11 never come again. 

Emily. If that 's the only sort of reason 
that brings you, I hope you never do! 

Donald. Emily ! 

Emily. What do you mean by stirring up 
all this trouble anyway ? Did n't my 
husband help you just about as gener- 
ously as any man could? Didn't he 
pull you up and get you on your feet 
and giv9 you half his business exactly 
as he said he would ? He 's kept his 
word, Michael has. He promised he 'd 
leave you alone and he^s done it, too! 
And that, I believe, is more than you can 
say! 

Donaj d. (Turning angrily.) I never 
gave my word! 



Emily. You 're my brother, so I did n'i 
see the need of asking for it. But now 
— oh, Don, you 've made me feel ashamed 
of you ! I 'm ashamed of my family for 
the very first time! 

Donald. (Amazed.) Do you mean that? 

Emily. Yes, I do. 

Donald. You're sure? 

Emily. Quite sure. 

Donald. (Between his teeth.) Good 
night, then. 

Emily. Good — 

(She stops short as the door opens ana 
Regan appears. A pause.) 

Regan. (To Donald.) Get out o' my 
house, ye dam', sneakin' little son-of-a- 
gun, before I — 

Emily. (Flaming.) Stop that! 

Regan. (Turning to her.) Wot? 

Emily. He 's my brother, and he can 
come when he pleases and go when he 
pleases, so long as I choose to let him. 

Regan. (Sternly.) See here, Emily, 
I 've never got my back up before 
t' night, but now you 're gettin' just a 
little bit too gay ! D 'ye know wot ye 
are before yer anyone else — I don't care 
if it 's sister or daughter or life-long 
friend? Yer Mrs. Regan — got it? Mrs. 
R. ! An' if ye think yer goin' t' sit on 
my parlor sofa, in the middle o' my 
house, an' tell the guy I 'm scrappin' to 
a finish how t' land me on the jaw — 

Emily. (Interrupting.) I didn't say a 
word ! You can ask him if I did! (Ap- 
pealing to her brother.) Don! 

Regan. Then I did ring the bell! That 
was the reason why ye come in here 
t'night! Gee, fer a good boy, yer get- 
ting on great — you are! First ye let 
me help ye when yer down and out. 
Then, by way o' thankin' me, ye sneak 
around an' get me men t' strike. An' 
now I find ye tryin' t' make me own wife 
welch on me ! This may be honest, Gris- 
wold, but if it is — give me the other 
thing ! 

Donald. Don't worry, you 've got that 
already. 

Regan. Now beat it, ye rubber-soled 
porch-climber ye! Beat it, an' if I ever 
catch ye in my house again, ye won't get 
out alive! 

Donald. (Coolly.) All right. Keep an 
eye on St. Mary's Hall to-night, Regan, 
if you want to know how things are go- 
ing. There '11 be a few live wires you 
don't expect. (Telephone rings.) 



EDWARD SHELDON 



903 



Emily. (Impulsively.) Don! 
Donald. No, I 'm through with you. 

(He goes out. Emily stands by door 

with head bowed. Regan has gone 

to answer telephone, leaning over 

desk with one knee on sofa. ) 

Regan. (At the telephone.) Hello. That 

you, Porky? Yeah. Yer at the Hall? 

Well? Have they got a full house? 

Speak up, there 's such a damn lot o' 

noise! What about the street outside? 

Jammed for blocks? Men, women, an' — 

(He smothers a furious exclamation.) 

Naw, go on. I did n't say nothin'. Has 

the Mayor come? I can't hear, they got 

a band playin', ain't they? Waitin' fer 

young Griswold ? Yeah. He 's comin' 

in his auto. I wish 'twas in his hearse. 

Wot? 

(Gates enters.) 

Gates. Is Mr. Regan there? 

Emily. He 's telephoning, Gates. 

Regan. (Hanging up receiver and turn- 
ing about angrily.) Well, wot d'ye 
want? (Irritably.) Come on! I won't 
have no foolin' t'night! 

Gates. A man from the Labor Union. 
He said you — 

Regan. (Interrupting.) Bring him in. 
(Gates turns to go. Regan suddenly 
roars.) Say, get a move on there, ye 
knock-kneed Britisher, or I'll take the 
crease out the back o' yer neck with the 
toe o' my boot! 

Gates. (Outraged.) Sir — I — 

Regan. Ye fat-headed second-girl! Beat 
it now an' bring him in! 

(Gates goes out quickly.) 

Emily. (Trembling.) You must not talk 
to the servants that way while I 'm in the 
room! I can't stand it! I just can't! 

(A pause.) 

Regan. (Shamefacedly at last.) Aw, 
say, I did n't mean all that. I 'm sorry. 

(Gates opens the door ,and shows in the 
Union delegate, a rather poorly-dressed, 
defiant-looking, slouchy laborer, wearing 
his Sunday clothes.) 

You from the Union? 
ScANLAN. Yeah. 
Regan. Wot's yer name? 
ScANLAN. Scanlan. 
Regan. Sixth Division? 
Scanlan. Yeah. 
Regan. I 'm on. I fired ye one day when 

ye got too flip. Remember that? 
Emily. How d'you do, Mr. Scanlan? 



Scanlan. (Startled.) Why, ma'am, I — 
(He pauses, embarrassed.) 

Emily. I hope that Mrs. Scanlan is feel- 
ing better than when I saw her yester- 
day? 

Scanlan. Thanks, ma'am. The doc, he 
saj's she 's just about the same. 

Emily. (Brightly.) Well, we ought to 
be thankful she 's no worse ! ( To Re- 
gan.) Excuse us, Michael, Mrs. Scan- 
lan 's an old friend of mine, and she has 
bronchitis. 

Regan. Oh, is that so? (To Scanlan, 
uncomfortably.) Well, come on! Wot 
d' ye w-ant ? Choke it up ! I ain't got 
much time! 

Scanlan. (Begiyming his speech.) At 
the meetin' o' the board last night we 
passed a resolution — 

Regan. (Impatiently.) Aw, damn yer 
resolution ! Wot 's the least ye '11 take ? 

Scanlan. (Briefly.) Ten hour day, two 
shifts, an' a general superintendent 
elected by the Union. 

Regan. (Grimly.) Any thin' more? 

Scanlan. Yeah. Our own saloon an' no 
one fired fer usin' 'em 'stead of yours. 

Regan. (Between his teeth.) Go on! 

Scanlan. Twenty-five per cent raise on 
wages, an' I guess that 's all. 

Regan. All? Say, don't ye want me 
watch an' chain? 

Scanlan. (Doggedly.) We don't want 
nothin', Mr. Regan, that ain't ours by 
rights. 

Regan. (With sudden and ominous calm.) 
Who framed up that resolution? 

Scanlan. Wot 's the diff, s' long as it was 
carried ? 

Regan. Was it Griswold? 

Scanlan. (Defiantly.) I ain't a-sayin'. 

Regan. (Softly.) Griswold! I thought 
so! 

Scanlan. (More defiantly.) Well, wot's 
the answer? 

Regan. Oh! Ye want me answer, do ye? 

Scanlan. (Insolently.) Yeah. An' if 
it ain't the kind we like, we '11 soak ye 
all the harder later on. 

Regan. (Ominously still.) Oh, ye '11 
soak me all the harder later on ! 

Scanlan. (Openly bullying.) Aw, gee! 
Ye make me sick! Come off that bum 
perch, Regan! We done ye, and ye 
know we done ye, an' there ain't a word 
more to be said! 

Regan. (Suddenly springing on him like 
a icild animal.) Ain't there? 

(He strikes the man with tremendous 



904 



THE BOSS 



force, Emily shrieks, the man falls 
and lies quivering on the floor. Re- 
gan draws back to kick him in the 
side. ) 

Emily. {Coming between them, pale and 
very firm.) Michael! 

Regan. (Thickly.) Wot's that—? 

Emily. {Looking at him firmly.) Mich- 
ael, it 's I. {He looks at her as if seeing 
her for the first time. There is a pause. 
Her gaze subdues him. At last she 
speaks quietly.) Get some whiskey. 
{Site turns and kneels by the wounded 
man, examining him.) 

Regan. {Returning with the glass.) Is 
he out? 

Emily. {Pouring whiskey between his 
lips.) He's stunned, that's all. 
{Looking up a-t Regan.) It's a fine 
thing to send a man back this way to his 
dj'ing wife. 

Regan. Dyin'! But I thought ye said — 

Emily. {Interrupting.) It isn't bron- 
chitis. It 's pneumonia, and it was 
brought on from cold and hunger. The 
doctor says she won't last out the week. 
She made him promise not to tell her 
husband until the end. 

Regan. Why? 

Emily. Because she didn't wish to stand 
between him and his striker's work. 
(Regan gives a muttered exclamation 
and sits on couch, his face in hands.) 
That 's what you 're fighting, Michael, 
and you '11 never beat that spirit in a 
thousand years. 

Regan. Has she — got any kids? 

Emily. Four. The youngest boy was 
born last summer. (Regan has taken a 
roll of bills from his pocket hastily. He 
comes to where Scanlan lies.) What 
are you doing now? 

Regan. {Bending over and slipping the 
money in Scanlan's pocket.) Just a 
couple o' bills, that 's all. He '11 find 'em 
in the momin'. 

Emily. {Bitterly.) You nearly kill him, 
and when he 's lying here, stunned and 
helpless, you think you can make up by 
putting money in his pocket! Oh, 
what 's the use? 

Regan. {Instantly.) Use? Why, ain't 
ye got no feelin's? Don't ye realize this 
man 's got a sick wife an' four kids — 
one of 'em a baby born last summer? 
Don't ye know he ain't had no wages 
since this strike was on ? His wife needs 
medicine t' pull her through an' them 
growin' kids ought t' stoke up three times 



a day on meat an' pertaters? {Door 
bell is heard.) Say, wot's the matter 
with ye anyway? Why — {He interrupts 
himself suddenly and turns to listen. 
A pause. He goes over to the window 
and looks out. Scanlan moves and 
groans aloud. Regan turns quickly 
back.) It's His Grace! 

Emily. The Archbishop? 

Regan. Yeah ! He 's comin' here to see 
me. We got t' get this guy out o' the 
way. 

Emily. {Busy with Scanlan.) Wait! 
I think he 's coming to. {To Scanlan.) 
Mr. Scanlan — (Scanlan makes another 
movement and tries to sit up. She helps 
him.) There! You're feeling better, 
aren't you? (Scanlan sees Regan and 
guards himself.) It's all right — all 
right ! Nobody 's going to hurt you, Mr, 
Scanlan! {To Regan, quickly.) Help 
him up, Michael. 

Regan. {Doing so.) Where '11 I stick 
him? 

Emily. I don't know. In your office, I 
suppose. (Regan half drags, half car- 
ries him towards door.) I hear Gates. 
Can you manage him alone? 

Regan. Sure. 

Emily. {Whispering.) Put him in the 
big chair, 

Regan. {As he is dragging Scanlan 
through the door.) An' the Bish? 

Emily. I '11 talk to him. 

(Ragan and Scanlan disappear. 
She closes the door after them and 
turns just as the other door opens 
mid Gates appears.) 

Gates. {Announcing.) His Grace, the 
Archbishop. 

{There is an instant's pause, then the Arch- 
bishop enters. He is a big-jowled Irish- 
man, of much the same physical type as 
Regan. He is dressed in clerical frock 
coat.) 

Emily. {Coming forward cordially, her 
hand outstretched.) Your Grace! 

Archbishop. {In his deep, rich voice, to 
which the traces of a former accent still 
cling.) Mrs. Regan, this is indeed a 
great pleasure. 

EiiiLY. Michael will be here directly. 
Won't you sit down? He's just attend- 
ing to a little business for a — a friend. 

Archbishop. I hope ye did n't take of- 
fense at my refusin' t' come t' yer party 
t'night, but after what I 'd heard — 



EDWARD SHELDON 



905 



Emily. I understand. Ob, I understand 
perfectly. "" 

Archbishop. {Very winningly.) Mrs. 
Regan, can't ye do somethin' t' stop him? 

Emily. Please, your Grace — 

Archbishop. He '11 listen t' a good 
woman. I remember once bis old 
mother tellin' me how she kept him off 
the streets for a week just by askin' him 
t' help her with the dishes after supper. 
An' he did it! 

Emily. {Bitterly.) For a week. 

Archbishop. {Smiling wisely.) Well, 
she was only his mother. 

Emily. I 'm only his wife. 

Archbishop. I know. An' I thought 
when he came t' me that day an' said, 
"Father," says he, "I 'm goin' t' get mar- 
ried !" — I thought our Lady from Heaven 
had dropped a smile right down into bis 
heart. But now — 

Emily. {Interrupting.) Please! Please, 
not any more! {Trying to control her 
voice.) You don't know — 

Archbishop. I know there 's mighty lit- 
tle any man can do if bis good woman 's 
made up her mind the other way round. 
Ah, try it just once, me daughter, an' 
remember yer two souls will stand 
t' getber on the Judgment Day ! 

Emily. {Coldly.) I feel that I have no 
right to interfere. 

{The door opens, and Regan appears, a 
hook in Ms hand.) 

Regan. {Pretending not to see the Arch- 
bishop.) I've just been readin' the 
most interestin' book, me dear — {Start- 
ing.) Well, if there ain't his Grace! 
Gawd save yer Rev'rence, I didn't see 
ye at all ! 

{He kisses the Archbishop's ring de- 
voutly.) 

Emily. Good night, your Grace. 

Archbishop. Oh, don't go, Mrs. Regan, 
there 's nothing we have to say that you 
shouldn't bear. 

Emily. Very well. I '11 be back directly. 
{She goes into next room.) 

Archbishop. {Gravely.) I'm on my 
way t' the meetin' at St. Mary's Hall. 

Regan. {Interrupt i^ig quickly.) Ye ain't 
a-goin' t' speak against me, Father? 

Archbishop. That 's just what I 've got 
t' do. 

Regan. But why? 

Archbishop. Young Griswold was talkin' 
V me three hours this afternoon an' I 



find I 've 'kept my mouth shut long 
enough. 

Regan. Well, if ye open up now, I see 
my finish. 

Archbishop. {Earnestly.) My son, I 
hope t' God ye do! 

Regan. Aw, Father! 

Archbishop. So I just stopped in on me 
way down — just for the sake o' old times, 
Mickey — to ask if ye won't give in before 
it 's all too late. 

Regan. {Between his teeth.) Give in an' 
take a lickin' ! 

Archbishop. {With a troubled smile.) 
A lickin' ! Ah, it 's true you never were 
much good at that from the day yer fam- 
ily moved into Dugan's bar an' my old 
father — God rest his soul! — came over 
from the old country to run my uncle's 
grocery down the block ! D' you remem- 
ber? 

Regan. {Laughing.) Say, we used t' guy 
the life out o' ye back there. When ye 
first came over, every time ye opened 
that mouth o' yers, ye 'd let out a be- 
gorra green enough to turn the Fourth 
of July into St. Patrick's day! 

Archbishop. {Amused.) Sure, Mickey, 
an' it 's true ye never would let me be ! 
Only yesterday I was thinkin' o' the 
time ye got a comer in dead cats an' sold 
'em for a dime apiece — a nickel the kit- 
ten — t' tie on the end o' strings an' slam 
us decent boys with when we came out 
from our Sunday school ! 

Regan. Sure, I remember! Gee, I had a 
swell time that day, an' I made a dollar 
an' twenty cents, too! 

Archbishop. Yes, ye always were the J. 
P. Morgan o' the whole Fourth Ward! 
But remember when ye 'd go too far, I 'd 
rise up in the name of righteousness an' 
beat the pants clean off yer legs ! 

Regan. Well, ye was older 'n me an' a 
blame sight bigger, too ! 

Archbishop. An' then ye 'd lay fer me in 
Clancy's alley, with a brick in one hand 
an' a piece o' lead-pipe in the other — 

Regan. {Interrupting.) Waitin' fer hours 
at a stretch t' put ye t' sleep, like the 
good kind friend I was ! 

(Archbishop looks at him, somewhat 
taken aback.) 

Archbishop {Reflecting.) Well, thank 
God fer one thing, Mickey. Ye never 
could aim straight when it came t' the 
plumbin' ! 

Regan. 'Member our last scrap behind 
them paekin' boxes on the night before 



906 



THE BOSS 



ye sailed away t' Rome? Gee, I can feel 
that knock-out ye gave me after twenty- 
five years! 

Archbishop. {Smiling.) An' mighty lit- 
tle good it's done ye, I'm tliinkin'! Ye 
know, Mickey, ye have n't changed much 
since those days. 

Regan. Nor you neither, Terry — {Sud- 
denly embarrassed.) Savin' yer Rever- 
ence's pardon. 

Archbishop. {Laughing.) Ah, Mickey, 
what a priest you 'd have made ! 

Regan. An' you, yer Grace, — gee, what a 
politician ! 

Archbishop. {Affectionately.) Mickey! 

Regan. Yes, Father? 

Archbishop. Give it up, my son! Get 
away from Clancy's alley! 

(Emily enters.) 

Why, ye 've been livin' here all yer life 
an' ye need a change, so why don't you 
start in t'night an' square yerself with 
the whole town by handin' these men over 
what they want? {Slight pause. Then 
putting his hand on Regan's arm.) It 's 
f er you I 'm askin' it, Mickey. Just f er 
you. 

Regan. Well, an' if I don't? 

Archbishop. Then I '11 go to this meetin' 
t'night an' tell these men that the Church 
o' God is right behind 'em, an' I '11 never 
let up till I 've struck ye t' the ground, 
my son, an' I can do it! Ye know I 
can! {Pause.) 

Regan. All right. Ye 've got me. I give 
in. 

Archbishop. D 'ye mean it ? 

Regan. Sure. There 's nothin' else t' do. 

Archbishop. My son, I — 

Regan. {Interrupting.) If ye go straight 
home from here without sliowin' your- 
self or speakin' at the meetin', I '11 send 
'em word t'morrer mornin' that I 'm 
down an' by Sunday we '11 have settled 
on the terms. 

Archbishop. D'you promise? 

Regan. {Brazenly.) Sure I promise. 

Archbishop. {Doubtfully.) Are ye sin- 
cere? Can I trust ye to play me square? 

Regan. Ye can trust me like ye 'd trust 
yerself. In fact, I 've sort o' grown t' 
feel that the Union 's right an' I 'm all 
wrong. An' feelin' that way I 'd like t' 
make up fer wot I done t' them poor fel- 
lows in the past. 

Archbishop. {Still doubtfully.) How 
long have ye been feelin' this way, 
Mickey ? 



Aw, I 



dunno. Two weeks — off 



Regan. 
an' on. 

Archbishop. How about this afternoon? 

Regan. {Innocently.) This afternoon? 

Archbishop.. Yes. 

Regan. I dunno nothin' about this after- 
noon. 

Archbishop. Ye mean ye haven't heard? 

Regan. I swear I ain't heard nothin'! 
G'wan, wot is it? 

Archbishop. {Incredulous.) About yer 
own gang, McCoy and all the rest 
a-breakin' into Hurley's saloon an' club- 
bin' the poor man until — 

Regan. {Virtuously.) Now ain't that 
just too bad! I told the boys again an' 
again they 'd better look out fer their 
foolin' or it would get 'em into trou- 
ble! 

Archbishop. Foolin' ! 

Regan. They 're young, ye know, an' they 
got t' w^ork hard fer a livin'. So I never 
feel like blamin' 'em too much when they 
try t' get a little enjoyment out o' life. 

Archbishop. Enjoyment ! 

Regan. {Shaking his head.) But ev'ry 
now an' then they go too far. I 've no- 
ticed that. They sometimes go too far! 
Say, Father, they ain't killed Hurley, 
have they? 

Archbishop. We don't know yet. But, 
Mickey — {He hesitates.) 

Regan. Yeah, Father? 

Archbishop. {Significantly.) Yer quite 
sure no orders came from you this after- 
noon t' do this thing? 

Regan. I swear t' Gawd I never heard a 
word about it up t' now! (Pause. The 
telephone on desk rings.) That's Mc- 
Coy now. He 's at the meetin', tellin m,e 
how it's goin'. {Answering the call.) 
Hello, Porky. Yeah. {Very severely.) 
Say, wot d' ye mean by never tellin' me 
'bout this Hurley business? Ye ain't 
had time? Well, you come up here after 
the meetin' and I '11 have somethin' t' 
say t' ye — understand? The idea o' such 
goin's on ! Why, folks '11 think I put 
ye up to it meself ! Yeah! Don't apol- 
ogiee now! It don't do no good, an' it 
makes me all the sorer ! Now wlio 's 
been speakin' down there? Young Gris- 
wold? How's she goin'? Enthusiasm 
risin'? {With a savage laugh.) Is that 
so? Well, ain't that nice? Rumor o' 
what? The last speaker t' be the Arch- 
bishop? G'wan, His Grace is standin' 
right beside me now an' he says he ain't 
goin' near the hall t'night! 



EDWARD SHELDON 



907 



{He turns and looks up appealingly 
at the Archbishop.) 

Archbishop. God help me, I believe ye, 
Mickey, an' I '11 give ye this one last 
chance. 

Regan. [Turning triumphantly to the 
telephone.) Yeah, ye can bet on it! 
It 's 0. K. Just take my word. So give 
'em all my love. Porky, an' tell 'em I 
don't care what the hell they say! 

{He rings off with a grin.) 

Archbishop. In a week, then, everythin' 
will be settled f er good ? 

Regan. {His eyes gleaming.) Just one 
week, an' I '11 have settled 'em f er good 
an' all! 

Emily. {Suddenly.) D'you hear that? 

Archbishop. Mrs. Regan! I — 

Emily. D'you know what he means'? 

Regan. Stop that! 

Emily. {Facing him.) I won't! I won't 
stop until I 've told His Grace that not 
one single word you 've said is true ! 

Archbishop. What — ? 

Regan. Say, yer crazy! Gee, my wife's 
gone off her nut! 

Emily. {To the Archbishop.) He's lied 
to you. He 's taken you in from the 
very beginning. Why, he has n't the 
least intention of giving up one inch to 
those strikers! 

Regan. Don't listen to her, Father! 

Emily. He 's just fighting for time. 
Time! That's all he wants! A week? 
Why, in a week he 's going to have two 
thousand negroes sent up from Alabama 
to take the place of Union men! 

Regan. {Forgetting himself.) Who told 
ye that! 

Emily. Look at him ! He has the truth 
written all over his face! 

Regan. {Turning away with clenched 
hands.) Gawd — 

Archbishop. {Sternly.) Well? What 
have ye got t' say? 

Regan. {Pulling himself together.) My 
wife 's — all off. She don't know me, 
that 's all. I say I 've had a change o' 
heart! I swear I feel as if every 
one o' them blame strikers was me 
brother ! 

Emily. How dare you say that? Open 
that door, your Grace, and look into the 
next room. The man you '11 see there 
brought the Union Ultimatum to this 
house to-night. He '11 show you how my 
husband treats hie brothers! 

Regan. Father! Just a second! Now 
listen to me please — 



Archbishop. {Pushing Regan out of the 
way. ) Get out o' me way ! 

{He goes across the room, opens the 
door, and disappears into Regan's 
office. Regan drops his mask for a 
moment and has an animal spasm of 
rage, keeping perfectly silent the 
while. Emily stands with her 
breast heaving. After a moment 
their looks meet. A pause. Then 
the Archbishop reappears, a stern, 
commanding figure.) 

Regan. {Attempting to detain him.) 
Say, it was an accident! He fell down 
by himself ! I never meant to hurt him ! 
Why, he 's one o' me very best friends ! 
I would n't a-had this happen fer — aw, 
Father, wait now! Say, where are ye 
goin? 

Archbishop. {In righteous heat.) To 
St. Mary's Hall, t' talk to the citizens o' 
this town as a priest has never talked 
to 'em before ! And when I 'm through, 
Michael Regan, you '11 stand naked an' 
tremblin' before the whole world, an' not 
one man will let ye touch his garment as 
he passes by! 

Regan. {Seizing his arm and whining.) 
Aw, wot 's yer rush ? I did n't mean t' 
get ye sore! Honest t' Gawd, I didn't! 
Aw, come, Father, yer not a-goin t' leave 
me this way! That ain't no way t' treat 
an old friend! Say, Father, I — 

Archbishop. {Interrupting.) Let me by! 

Regan. {Not budging.) Sure I will, only 
I just want t' make ye understand how I 
feel about yer goin' down there an' — 

Archbishop. Let me by, Michael Regan! 

Regan. {Throwing aside his conciliatory 
manner.) All right! When that meet- 
in 's finished, an' not one second before ! 

Emily. Michael ! 

Archbishop. Do you think you can hold 
me here against my will? 

Regan. {Recklessly.) 1 don't think. 
I 'm sure ! An' if ye don't believe it, 
why off with yer coat, Terry Sullivan, 
and we '11 see if all the Saints can save 
ye from a lickin'! 

Archbishop. Down on your knees, Mich- 
ael Regan! Fall down on yer knees an' 
pray fergiveness fer those blasphemies! 
Rebellious child, have ye forgotten that 
the armies of the Lord protect His serv- 
ants? Have ye forgotten the great 
Church standin' like a mighty rock 
against the waves o' sin? D'ye think a 
wretched straw like you can break its 
power or change its end from what was 



908 



THE BOSS 



written in the Angel's Book, a million 
years agof 

Regan. {Muttering.) Aw g'wan — I did 
n't mean notliin' — 

Archbishop. D' you think a fool can 
stand alone and shake the deep founda- 
tions o' the world? Out o' my way, 
presumptuous man! 

(Regan, cowed, steps hack, and the 
Archbishop sweeps past him with 
real majesty and strength. As soon 
as the door shuts on him, Regan 
turns fiercely and bitterly to Em- 
ily.) 

Regan. {In an outburst.) That 's a swell 
turn ye just done me, ain't it? Goin' 
back on yer husband, trjdn' t' soak him 
ev'ry way ye could ! 

Emily. Please, Michael — 

Regan. Say, ain't I treated ye well? 
Ain't I done ev'rythin' I thought ye 
wanted? Ain't I given up half me busi- 
ness t' yer old man? Ain't I put ye in 
a swell house an' deposited a cool million 
to yer credit in the First National? 

Emily. Don't, Michael! 

Regan. Ain't I kept out o' yer way as 
much as I could — a-sneakin' in the back 
door, beatin' it to my room whenever I 
heard ye comin'? 

Emily. Michael — 

Regan. I 've tried t' make livin' here easy 
fer ye, and wot do I get in return? Ye 
wait till I 'm scrappin' with both hands 
an' breathin' hard, an' then ye up and 
stick a knife in me back, ye — 

Emily. {Interrupting wildly.) I didn't! 

Regan. Wot 's that? 

Emily. I just spoke out because I 
could n't help it ! I could n't see you do 
a thing like that ! 

Regan. Aw, it 's too bad about you ! 

Emily. But now's your chance to make 
it up ! Michael, listen ! It 's your 
chance! 

Regan. Chance! With him on his way 
down there t' talk against me? I ain't 
got no chance ! All I got is a finish ! 

Emily. Don't let him do it for you! 
Give in of your own accord, before any- 
one can make you! 

Regan. Give in? 

Emily. Yes, call up the mass meeting! 
Tell them you 've heard their ultimatum ! 
Tell tliem you accept it ! Then when the 
Arclibishop comes, he '11 find out what 
you 've done, and oh ! he '11 be so glad ! 

Regan. I won't quit while I got the hfe 
still in me 1 



Emily. You must! Oh, Michael, I don't 
want you to do this just to help those 
men or to please the Archbishop or to 
make me happy! I want you to do it 
for yourself! 

Regan. Naw! 

Emily. Don't you see what it means? 
Don't you understand ? You 're the only 
one I 'm thinking of ! It 's all for you ! 
Everything 's for you ! 

Regan. Naw! 

Emily. Michael! You must! 

Regan. I said I won't! 

Emily. {Desperately.) Please! 

{She puts her hand on his arm.) 

Regan. {Throwing her off.) Give in? 
Accept their ultimatum? Let them 
scoopers know they got me licked? 
Say, wot d' ye think I am ? 

{Telephone rings.) 

Emily. {Hopelessly.) Oh! I don't know! 
I don't know! 

Regan. {At telephone.) Hello? Who is 
it? Porky? Wot? He 's speakin' ? In 
the name o' the Holy Catholic Church? 
Wot? Never t' work fer me again? 
Wot 's all that noise? Cheerin'? {Sud- 
denly he dashes the instrument to the 
desk without ringing off and glares at 
Emily.) Well, ye 've done the trick, 
d' ye hear? Ye done the trick! Now go 
on! Tell me yer glad! Spit it out! 
Get it off your chest, an' laugh! Say, 
why don't ye laugh ? I 'm just waitin' 
fer that laugh ! Ye think I 'm smashed ! 
Ye think I 'm finished ! Ye think I 'm 
knocked f hell! Well, I ain't! D'ye 
hear? I ain't! I'll beat 'em yet! By 
Gawd, I'll beat 'em yet! 

{His fist crashes on the desk as the 
curtain falls.) 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene. The scene is the same as in Act 
Second, the next morning about nine 
o'clock. The room is in slight disorder, 
the desk is covered with newspapers, 
memoranda, and clippings. Newspapers 
with glaring headlines are tumbled all 
about the floor. Chairs have been moved 
from their regidar positions. Regan is 
sitting behind the desk, thus half facing 
the audience. He still wears his dress 
trousers, silk socks and pumps, with a 
jersey. He is chewing the end of an 
unlighted cigar — a pile of ashes and 
butts lies near the whiskey tray, near at 



EDWARD SHELDON 



909 



hand. He is pale and unshaven. As 
the curtain rises he is running through 
the morning papers, one after the other. 
Davis, his secretary, .is seated at the 
other end of the table, his stenographic 
books before him, awaiting Regan's next 
orders. 

Regan. (Muttering as he glances at the 
headlines.) "Boss Regan falls at last — 
Repudiated by grain companies — Long 
fight ends in complete defeat — " 
(Throws it aside.) Gimme the Tribune. 

Davis. Here it is, sir. 

Regan. (Reading.) "Mass-meeting at St. 
Mary's — Interference o' Archbishop — " 
(Looking up.) Gee, they got me in the 
oven, too! How's the Courier? 

Davis. Antagonistic, I 'm afraid. 

Regan. G' wan, let's have it! (Read- 
ing. ) "Regan's finish — City 's free at 
last — " (Gates enters, carrying a 
breakfast iray with coffee and toast. 
Regan shakes his head at him in dis- 
gusted disapproval.) Say, you get out 
o' here! I won't have no dumb-waiter 
in here this mornin'. 

Gates. Mrs. Regan told me to bring you 
some coffee, sir. She heard you 'd been 
down-town all night and had no break- 
fast when you came in. 

Regan. (Almost to himself.) Well, wot 
d'you think o' that? 

Gates. (Doubtfully.) I beg pardon, sir, 
I— 

Regan. (Irritably.) Say, wot 's bitin' 
ye? Can't ye stick it down? Yeah — 
here on the table ! D' ye think I 'm 
goin' t' feed standin' up — like a mule? 
(Gates comes around to the desk beside 
Regan and puts down the tray.) Got 
any eggs? 

Gates. No, sir, I — (Starting to go.) 

Regan. Well, move along and lay a cou- 
ple — quick! (Gates looks bewildered.) 
Two fried eggs! Grasp it? 

Gates. Very well, sir. (He goes out.) 

Regan. Read the Leader editorial. 

Davis. Yes, sir. 

Regan. There it is. 

(He kicks it toward Davis, then half 
sits down on end of desk.) 

Davis. (Picking it up and reading it rap- 
idly.) "We take off our hats to the men 
who have raised the present issue against 
Mr. Regan's methods." (He hesitates.) 

Regan. Well? Got a cramp? 

Davis. (Resuming hastily.) "We con- 
gratulate our citizens upon their enthu- 



siastic support of the strike which has 
just ended. Thanks to Mr. Donald Gris- 
wold and his union, 'Shindy Mike' no 
longer holds this city in his grip. The 
merciless crook who" — er — is there any 
use going on, Mr. Regan? 
Regan. (Calmly.) Say, that 's libel, ain't 
it? I'll sue Waterman for fifty thou- 
sand. File it. The little ink-slingin' 
mice — I'll show 'em! (The butler en- 
ters.) Say, can't I sit here two minutes 
without yer makin' me a present o' your 



mug 



Gates. More wires, sir, sent up from the 
office by special messenger. 

Regan. (Sitting down.) Read 'em, 
Davis, quick! 

Davis. (Reading them.) United Trans- 
port — Chicago Freight — Erie Naviga- 
tion — 

Regan. That all? 

Davis. Yes, sir. 

Regan. (Sinking back disappointed.) 
Well, wot have they got to say? All 
gone back on me? That it? Speak up, 
can't ye? 

Davis. (Reading the telegrams.) Yes, 
they 've all cancelled their contracts. 
They 're all negotiating a return to Gris- 
wold. 

Regan. I knew they would ! Take a wire. 

Davis. (Sitting at the end of the table 
and taking up his stenographic note- 
book.) Yes, sir? 

Regan. (Walking up and down.) Freight 
— Navigation — Transport — all the same 
messages — (Dictating.) Fail t' under- 
stand yer attitude. My position in this 
town never better. Will have situation 
controlled within a week. Urge no ac- 
tion until you see my representa- 
tive — 

Davis. (Timidly.) But, Mr. Regan—? 

Regan. Well, choke it up ! 

Davis. (Desperately.) They can read in 
any paper in the country that the 
strike 's broken — that we 're beaten — 

Regan. (Interrupting savagely.) Aw, 
dry up ! (Noticing the butler, who has 
all the time been standing at the door.) 
Say, come out that trance an' tell us 
wot yer waitin' fer? 

Gates. I beg pardon, sir, there 're nine 
more gentlemen from the papers waiting 
to see you and — 

Regan. (Interrupting.) Tell 'em t' go t' 
hell ! 

Gates. (With dignity.) I have, sir, sev- 
eral times. 



910 



THE BOSS 



Regan. (Amused.) Well, see they get 
there, understand? 

Gates. Yes, sir, but — 

Regan. {Suddenly.) Now you get a 
move on before I catch ye on the nut 
with — {He seizes the whiskey bottle 
with a threatening gesture, half real, 
half mocking. Gates goes out quickly. 
The telephone rings on the desk. Regan 
answers it.) Hello? Porky? Where 
are ye? Down in the Ward? Yeah. 
G'wan— who? Young Griswold ? Wot 's 
he doin' down there? Speakin' t' my 
own men? Tryin' t' make 'em join the 
Union? I— wot 's that? {Exploding.) 
Yeah, choke him off, sure, stop him! 
But say, Porky, none o' that Hurley 
business now! No, take care o' him. 
Don't hurt him, just hustle him out 
quick, see? {He rings off and turns to 
Davis.) Griswold down on Lake Street, 
right in the middle o' the Ward, trjdn' 
t' show my own gang how to bust me! 
The damn fool, he don't know wot he 's 
doin'. As sure as me name 's Regan, 
that guy don't know wot he 's doin' ! 

{He rises furiously.) 

Davis. {Alarmed.) Mr. Regan, don't go 
on so. Remember, you 've been up all 
night ! 

Regan. {Controlling himself with an ef- 
fort.) An' I got a long, hard day ahead. 
Yer right, me son. Now sit down an' 
we '11 get t' work. I '11 tell ye wot I 'm 
goin' to' do. I 'm — 

{The door opens, and Emily appears, 
very fresh and charming, carrying a 
covered plate.) 

EiiiLY. {Brightly.) Good morning. 

Davis and Regax. Good morning. 

(Davis goes out.) 

Emily. I^m sorry I didn't think of the 
eggs, Michael. Here they are. 

Regan. {Who has taken off his hat on 
seeing her.) Thank ye kindly. {Gulp- 
ing. ) I always think it 's a good idea 
t' begin the day with a couple o' fried 
eggs! 

Emily. Are they all right? 

Regan. {Looking at them.) Yeah, they 
look slick — {Glancing shyly at her.) I 
mean — I mean they look real nice! 

Emily. I 'm glad. 

Regan. (Still sliy.) Say, Em'Iy — 

Emily. Yes? 

Regan. (Looking away.) Thank ye for 
rememberin' all this. It was just wot I 
needed. An' — an' ye was awful kind t' 
think o' me. 



Emily. (Embarrased.) Why, that's all 
right, Michael. (Assuming authority.) 
Go on ! Sit down now ! Everything '11 
get cold if you wait! 

Regan. (Timidly.) Ye don't feel like a 
fried egg yerself, do ye? 

Emily. (Smiling.) Thank you, I had 
breakfast upstairs. But I '11 pour your 
coffee, if you like. 

Regan. (Eagerly.) I wish ye would. 

Emily. (Sitting at the desk.) How many 
lumps do you take? 

Regan. Four. (Emily laughs.) I like 
things awful sweet. 

Emily. (Smiling.) That's not very 
grown-up, is it? 

Regan. (Looking at her.) Perhaps I'm 
not as grown-up as ye think. (Slight 
pause.) Gee, but this seems natural! 

Emily. (Busy.) What seems natural? 

Regan. (Slowly.) Aw, I dunno. Just 
t' have you sittin' in the sunshine, pour- 
in' out me coffee. That 's 'all. 

Emily. (Looking up innocently.) Why, 
I never did it before to-day. 

Regan. I know, but it seems natural all 
the same. 

(Their eyes meet. There is a pause.) 

Emily. (Bising in an embarrassed way.) 
Well, there you are ! Now drink it right 
away while it 's hot. 

Regan. (Coming around below desk and 
sitting down.) Say, it smells fine! 
(He eats and drinks. She watches 
him anxiously.) 

Emily. (At last.) Gates said you were 
down at your office all night. Couldn't 
you manage to take a nap? 

Regan. Naw. I 'm afraid I ain't got no 
time fer sleepin'. 

Emily. That 's too bad. 

Regan. Is it? Well, I guess there's 
nothin' t' do about it. (He drinks.) 

Emily. (Suddenly.) Oh, before I forget 
it! Everybody who accepted for dinner 
to-morrow night has sent in a — a more 
or less polite lie. They won't come, 
Michael. 

Regan. (Eating his eggs.) Well, I guess 
I can stand that. Gee, I 'd rather beat 
up three heavyweights any day than talk 
polite t' one o' yer lady friends! 

Emily. (Almost to herself.) Even Lucy 
Darrow and the Gilmores ! I did n't 
think it of them somehow. (Bemember- 
ing where she is.) So if you want to, 
you can make another engagement. 
That 's all. I just tliought I 'd tell you. 
(She goes to door.) 



EDWARD SHELDON 



911 



Regan. {With a short savage laugh.) 
Another engagement? You talk like I 
was an English dook at Newport! 
Why, do you know there ain't ten people 
in this town 'd let me eat out their ash- 
cans — free o' charge? 

Emily. {With a sudden impulse of pity.) 
Michael, I want to — 

Regan. Well? 

Emily. I want you to know I'm sorry. 
That 's all. 

Regan. {With amused cunning.) Sorry 
fer wot? Me? Well, don't you lose no 
sleep about it! Just lie back an' watch 
me — see ? 

Emily. Watch you? 

Regan. Yeah. It's goin' t' be a slick 
show! 

Emily. What do you mean? 

Regan. D' ye think them slobs have got 
me down? Ha! I'm just puttin' up a 
little con game now, but the minute they 
let go me arms and say, "This trip he 's 
done fer !" why, then 's the time I '11 up 
and nail 'em t' the wall ! 

Emily. I don't understand! 

Regan. {Mysteriously.) Well, sit tight 
and ye will. {Drinks coffee.) 

Emily. {Faltering.) Isn't it all over? 
Are n't you — beaten ? 

Regan. {Amused.) Beat? Me? Say, 
d 'you know what I 'm going t' do ? 

Emily. No. 

Regan. Then I don't mind tellin' ye. 
Ever been to Montreal? 

Emily. No. 

Regan. Well, I have. It's a slick place 
— Montreal. Good climate, theatres, 
swell people, an' all that. How'd ye 
like t' live there, Em'ly? 

Emily. {Startled.) Live there? 

Regan. Yeah. 'Cause yer goin' to, young 
woman. If ye hang on t' me, that 's 
where yer headed fer! 

Emily. {Staring at him.) What d' you 
mean, Michael? 

Regan. {Emphatically.) I'm goin' t' 
turn the ocean grain traffic from this 
town t' Montreal. 

Emily. What? 

Regan. {Quickly.) I said I'd get back 
at 'em good an' hard, and that 's how 
I 'm goin' t' do it. 

Emily. {Stammering.) But— but, Mi- 
chael — 

Regan. {Interrupting.) I sent the West- 
ern a wire last night, offerin' 'em half 
rates if they 'd unload at Montreal. As 
soon as I got time t' build me own ele- 



vators, that is. An' here's their an- 
swer — {Picking it from the desk.) 
Come in half an hour ago. 

{Tosses it to Emily.) 

Emily. {Sitting on couch, reading.) 
"Accept offer. Have notified our East- 
ern agents. Please expect shipments at 
Montreal by 15th." 

Regan. {In triumph.) I got 'em goin', 
Em'ly, I got 'em goin' ! I knew they 'd 
take me up when they heard the rates 
I 'm offerin' ! There was n't nothin' else 
to do. An' I made them Montreal con- 
tractors a proposition they don't dare to 
throw down ! I 'm waitin' for their an- 
swer now. {Looking at clock on desk.) 

Emily. Those Canadian officials are aw- 
fully down on American business. I re- 
member once when Dad tried to start a 
branch at — 

Regan. {Interrupting.) Aw, they got 
their price! Damn 'em, ye can bet on 
that! An' I guess I'm big enough to 
stand it, too ! 

Emily. You mean? 

Regan. {Brazenly.) Sure. I'd tip 'em 
like I would a bunch o' bell-hops! 

Emily. I see. But isn't that — risky? 

Regan. {Carelessly.) Naw. If they get 
found out, they 're done. If I get found 
out, I done right — see? 

Emily. And you think it will pay? 

Regan. {Exploding.) Pay? Who wants 
to make it pay? I don't! All I want 
is to get back at this towTi an' that 's wot 
I 'm goin' t' do ! 

{The door left opens and Gates ap- 
pears.) 

Gates. Another telegram, sir. 

Regan. {Eagerly.) Give it here! {He 
seizes and opens and reads it. Then, 
with an outburst of triumph.) It's 
0. K.! D'ye hear? They take me up! 
The job 's done ! The whole job 's done ! 

Emily. Is it from Montreal? 

Regan. {Handing it to her.) Yeah. 
Oh, gee, but this is swell! 

Gates. Any answer, sir? I told the boy 
to wait. 

Regan. Naw. Yeah, give him this! 
{Tossing Gates a silver dollar. Gates 
stumbles and drops the coin.) Aw, go 
back t' cricket! Go back t' cricket! 
Tell him to keep the change. He 's 
brought me the best news I ever had! 
(Gates has picked up coin and goes 
out.) 

Emily. {Crumpling up telegram.) Now, 
Michael, listen! 



912 



THE BOSS 



Regan. Yeah? 

Emily. There 's one thing I want to make 

perfectly clear. 
Regan. {Lighting a cigar.) Wot 's that? 
Emily. If you go to Montreal, you go 

alone. 
Regan. 
Emily. 

but here. 
Regan. Ye '11 



Oh, I do, do I? 

Yes, I won't live anywhere else 



find it sort o' lonesome 



work, I guess. 

Emily. Lonesome? 

Regan. Yeah. When I quit, d'ye know 
wot this town '11 be ? 

Emily. What? 

Regan. A line o' shanties, two saloons, 
an' a dead dawg in the middle of the 
street. 

Emily. You 're very foolish, Michael. 

Regan. All right, you wait an' see. I 
tell you I 'm goin' to strip this place till 
it '11 have to crawl into a barrel ! I 
won't leave it so much as a toothbrush 
and a pair o' shoestrings to its name! 

Emily. I don't believe it. 

Regan. All right. But just the same, 
ye 'd better stick it on my tombstone. 
One o' them big marble crosses with a 
couple o' first class angels at the bottom, 
an' underneath — all in them fancy let- 
ters — "Gawd help Mike Regan. He 
turned the wheat t' Montreal." 

Emily. I don't believe a word you 're say- 
ing. 

Regan. (Looking up a number in the 
telephone hook. ) All right, tlien. Don't ! 

Emily. Michael. 

Regan. Wot? (Running his finger down 
the page.) People's Gas — Home — Insti- 
tute — Line — Magazine — Market — 

Emily. Michael, have you absolutely 
made up your mind about this? 

Regan. Yeah. (Beading.) Printing — 
Theatre— Trust— (Stopping.) 2800 
Main. 

(He takes up telephone receiver) 

Emily. Then I suppose you '11 be going 
up to Montreal immediately. 

Regan. (To operator.) 2800 Main. (To 
her.) As soon as I 've cleaned up things 
down here. (To the operator.) 2800 
Main. 2800 I said. 

Emily. Cleaned up things? 

Regan. Yeah. Got hold me cash. 

EiMiLf. What do you mean? 

Regan. Why, ye don't think I '11 go off 
an' leave any loose change fioatin' round, 
do ye? 

Emily. I don't understand, 



Regan. (To operator, suddenly.) Fer 
Gawd's sake, get a move on! 2800 
Main! (To Emily.) Why, I got over 
ten millions invested in this place. 
Nearly eleven, when ye come down to it. 
An' when I skip, me dough skips with 
me^see ? 

Emily. No, I don't see. I don't see at 
all! 

Regan. (At telephone.) Hello! People's 
Trust? Yeah. Connect me with Mr. 
Fairbanks. Well, I know he's the 
president, that 's why I want to talk 
to him. My name's Regan. Yeah, 
Michael R. Got it? (Pause. He puffs 
at his cigar. Emily ivatches him.) 
Hello, that you, Fairbanks ? Oh, I 'm 
feelin' fine! Them strikers? Well, I 
ain't finished with 'em yet, an' that 's 
why I called ye up. Yeah, that 's wot 
I mean. I want ye t' call in all the 
mortgages. Sure ! Foreclosure. I don't 
care where they are! Them guys ain't 
paid no interest on 'em fer the last — 
well, I didn't start the strike, did I? 
'T was n't my fault! (Angrily.) I 
don't give a damn wot happens to 'em! 
They ain't paid me my interest an' I just 
foreclose — see ? Yeah, I 'm callin' in all 
my loans. Sure! Every securit}^ I got 
—all over the town! Wot? Oh, I just 
feel like it, that 's all. Say, you go 
ahead an' do just like I say! Huh? 
Naw, cut that. I — say, Fairbanks, 
that'll do for you, understand? 

(He rings off suddeyily, then turns to 
find EiEiLY close beside him.) 

Emily. Michael ! 

Regan. Gee, I thought ye 'd gone ! 

Emily. Michael, I want to know what 
mortgages those are. 

Regan. Aw, just little ones, down round 
Lake Street. 

Emily. Lake Street! 

Regan. Yeah. That end o' town. 

Emily. Lake Street! Why, that's the 
Fourth Ward! 

Regan. (Carelessly.) Sure. 0' course. 
So it is ! 

Emily. You 've bought up mortgages in 
the Fourth Ward? 

Regan. Looks that way. 

Emily. And now you 're going to fore- 
close? 

Regan. Yeah. Why not? 

Emily. What 's going to happen to those 
men? 

Regan. Wot men? 

Emily, The men who live down there. 



EDWARD SHELDON 



918 



The men you 've employed for years. 

Regaj^. Ye mean the men that raised this 
strike an' beat me"? They're goin' t' 
lose their happy homes. That 's wot 's 
goin' happen to them! Ye go down 
there next week an' ye '11 find every side- 
walk in the Ward piled up with bed- 
quilts an' bureaus an' rockin' chairs an' 
gas stoves. 

Emily. {Involuntarily.) Oh, no! 

Regan. {Continuing.) Yeah, an' ye '11 
run across yer friend Mrs. Moriarity, 
sittin' on the corner o' Lake an' River 
sellin' matches in the rain. An' Scan- 
Ian, ye remember Scanlan? Well, he'll 
be sweepin' streets. If he 's lucky, that 
is — 

Emily. {Interrupting.) No! 

Regan. An' the only grub the Baxter 
kids '11 get will be them little minnies ye 
fish fer off the docks, an' old lady 
Hogan '11 have t' climb out o' bed an' 
sling a sack over her shoulder an' start in 
alley-lickin' ! 

Emily. {Slirilly.) Stop it! Michael! 

Regan. {Triumphantly.) An' all the 
time I'll be leanin' back up there in 
Montreal, smokin' me cigar an' takin' it 
all in! 

{He tilts hack chair, stretches, and 
puts his feet on desk.) 

Emily. But, Michael, those families have 
suffered enough already. The strike 
nearly finished them! They have noth- 
ing left! 

Regan. Ah, I thought I 'd wake ye up. 
{Intensely.) Well, it serves 'em right! 

Emily. And they 're the very people that 
made you ! They 've given you everv'- 
thing you have — every tiny little thing! 

Regan. Wot of it? 

Emily. Don't you see? You can't turn 
on them this way. 

Regan. Can't I? Say, watch me! 

Emily. Jump on them from behind like 
some wild animal they've had to pun- 
ish — 

Regan. Aw, dry up on that! 

Emily. Get even, get back at them, just 
to satisfy your own miserable little idea 
of revenge! 

Regan. {Bursting out.) Revenge! That's 
it! I got 'em all like that! {Holding 
out one hand with slowly closing fin- 
gers.) I'm goin' t' squeeze 'em till I 
hear their bones a-crackin' ! 

Emily. No, you can't! It's too cruel! 
Too hideously cruel ! 

Regan. Aw, forget it! 



Emily. I married you to keep these peo- 
ple from being ruined. I gave up a 
great deal when I did that, Michael, and 
now I 'm not going to see my sacrifice — 
(Regan turns quickly) that's what it 
was! — I won't see my sacrifice turned 
into an absolutely useless thing. 

Regan. Well, how are ye goin' to help 
it? 

Emily. {Hysterically.) I don't know. I 
don't know anything except that I 'm 
your wife. And so you can't do tliis. 
I 'm your wife — do you understand ? — 
your wife — 

Regan. {Turns in an outburst.) You lie! 
Yer not my wife an' ye know it! My 
wife ! ( He laughs. ) That 's a good one, 
that is! I guess if ye was my wife I 
might be feelin' different. I guess I 'd 
have no right t' start a big thing that 
me missus was so strong against. But 
you ! Ye 've built a wall round yerself 
t' keep me out, an' gee ! it done the job ! 
Why, I seen ye crack a smile at the but- 
ler there an' talk t' him almost like he 
was human! But me! Say, have ye 
ever done any more than that t' me? 
No, by Gawd, ye let me live here in the 
same house with ye day after day, ye let 
me lie alone there in my bed night after 
night, thinkin' o' the locked door between 
us an' sufferin' through the black hours 
like I didn't know a man could suffer, 
wisliin' the day would break an' find me 
dead — 

Emily. {Trembling.) Michael! 

Regan. {Close to her.) Ye say ye feel 
sorry fer them strikers. Well, lemme 
tell ye right here, there 's not one of 'em 
that ain't got more 'n me ! I don't care 
if he 's cold an' his stummick 's empty 
an' the window 's busted an' the roof 's 
leakin'! He's got someone f love him, 
so I guess he '11 see it through ! But 
me — ! Why, ye kept it all back from 
me, all wot I want most in the world, 
me feelin's, me rights — why, the best 
things Gawd ever gave us men! Wot 
have ye done with 'em, woman? An' 
say now, where do ye get the nerve to 
call yerself my wife? 

Emily. Michael, you have no right to talk 
to me like this. You may have forgotten 
the agreement we made before I mar- 
ried you, but I have n't. I 've lived up 
to every word of it. I 've done every 
single thing I said I would. {He starts 
to speak.) No, wait! There's some- 
thing else. I 've been perfectly right. 



914 



THE BOSS 



but I — I did n't realize you felt like this. 

I (lid n't dream you — but, Michael, so 

long as you do, I 'm willing now to go on. 

I 'm willing to go ahead. I 'm w^illing to 

make another bargain. 
Regan. {Quickly.) Wot 's that? 
Emily. {With difficulty.) I'll change. 

I '11 be different. 
Regan. Be different — ? {Suddenly and 

fiercely.) Say, quit that or some day 

I'll— 
Emily. {Interrupting.) Why — don't you 

want me to be different? 
Regan. {Looking at her with almost a 

sob.) You know — oh gee, you know! 
E:mily. All right, then. I will — 
R EGAX. ( Interrupting. ) Huh ? 
Emily. {Finishing quickly.) If you give 

up this dreadful idea of yours! If you 

stay here and take your beating like a 

man! 
Regan. {Panting.) D'ye mean — say, ye 

don't mean if — 
Emily. Yes, I do. 
Regan. Naw! Ye can't. {Gulping.) 

Beat it now ! I give ye warnin' ! Beat 

it while ye got the chanst! 

{He covers his face with his hands.) 
Emily. {Proudly.) I won't. 
Regan. Don't — 
Emily. Well? 

Regan. {Agonized.) Oh, my Gawd! 
Emily. {With her last vestige of 

strength.) Tell me — 
Regan, {hushing at her with a cry.) 

Em'ly! {Gathering her to him.) I'd 

go t' hell fer this an' lay there, Em'ly, 

an' lay a-smilin' there forever an' for- 
ever ! Stop shakin' ! Hold yer head up, 

sweetie! {Loudly and triumphantly.) 

I love ye! I love ye! 

{For the first time he kisses her.) 
Emily. {Trying to tear herself away.) 

Stop it! Keep away! 
Regan. {Triumphantly.) Ye love me! 

Gee, ye love me an' I never knew! 
Emily. I don't! I hate you! 
Regan. {Intoxicated.) Yer givin' in 

'cause ye want to — 
Emily. {With a cry of horror.) Stop it! 

Stop it, I tell you! 
Regan. {Through his teeth.) Yer doin' 

it of yer own free will ! 
Emily. {Furiously breaking away.) How 

dare you say that! 
Regan. Well, ain't it true? 
Emily. {Violently.) No! No! I tell 

you I 'm selling myself for a price ! A 

price! 



Regan. Em'ly ! 

Emily. I 'm paying you just as if it were 
money ! I 'm paying you cash down — 
because it 's the only thing you '11 take ! 

Regan. Em'ly, fer the love o' Gawd! 

Emily. {Beside herself.) I want you to 
know — I 've got to make you understand ! 
It 's just another bargain ! You 're get- 
ting me cheap — d' you hear that? — 
cheap ! I 'm going dirt cheap — 

Regan. {Strongly.) Stop it! {He cov- 
ers her mouth with his hand.) I done 
some rotten things in me time, an' I 
guess ye know it, too, but gee ! I never 
done nothin' half so rotten as wot yer 
doin' now! 

Emily. {Hysterically.) Oh—! Oh—! 

Regan. {Scornfully.) Sellin' yourself! 
Payin' me cash down! Goin' cheap! 
{In a sort of rage.) Gawd, d'ye think 
I w^ant ye, if that 's how ye come ? D' ye 
think I '11 take my wife that way ? I 
guess ye don't know much about real 
men ! If ye did, ye 'd never try t' pull 
off such a deal. Ye 'd never a' made me 
feel ashamed o' ye — yeah, ashamed! — 
like I 'm f eelin' now — 

Emily. {Laughing and crying.) 

Ashamed—? You—? 

Regan. {Fiercely.) I tell ye my kids are 
goin' t' be born 'cause I loved their 
mother with all me body an' mind an' 
soul, an' 'cause she loved me back with 
all o' hers! An' if such things as that 
can't be, why then, so help me Gawd, I '11 
have no kids at all! 

McCoy. {Bursting in from right.) Mike! 
{He stands leaning against the wall.) 
'Sense me — (Regan releases Emily, who 
goes out the other door quickly.) Say, 
Mike! 

Regan. {Turning.) Gee, Porky, ye look 
all in! Wot 's the game? 

McCoy. {Panting.) It's — young Gris- 
wold! 

Regan. Who? Come over here an' tell 
me. 

McCoy. {Half falling on the sofa.) 
Gimme a drink — I run — all the way from 
— Lake Street — 

Regan. Sit down. {At the desk, pouring 
whiskey.) Well — g' wan. 

McCoy. He came down t' the ward t' 
spiel — you know. He got up on a bar- 
rel a-wearin' one o' them nobby little 
dips, an' he just sailed into ye, Mike, 
savin' how he got ye licked, callin' ye 
all the dirty names he could think of. 
An' I sorter went off me nut an' seein' 



EDWARD SHELDON 



915 



as I happened to have a brick in me 
hand, I guess I just heaved it — an' it 
caught him in the head — an' — an' he went 
down. 

Regan. (Glancing round.) You — {He 
goes to the door hy which Emily left and 
closes it. Then, in a low voice, turning 
round.) Is he dead? {Pause.) Is he 
dead? {Taking McCoy hy lapels of 
coat and pulling him around fiercely.) 
G' wan an' tell me ! Tell me ! Ye -got to 
tell me! 

McCoy. {Not looking at him.) I dunno. 
They took him into Dugan's cafe an' then 
the ambulance came and got him. 

{Pause.) 

Regan". {In an outburst, throwing McCoy 
against the hack of sofa.) Damn ye, 
Porky! Damn ye — damn ye — 

McCoy. {Terrified.) Say, Mike, I didn't 
mean to do it — honest t' God, I didn't! 
All I wanted was t' knock his lid off! 
Aw, wot did he come down fer anyways? 
He might a-knowed he 'd get soaked in 
yer own ward — 

Regan. An' I 'd a-given me right arm t' 
have kept him safe! 

McCoy. I know ye would. But there's 
no use talkin' now — {Clinging to him.) 
Wot '11 I do? Mike, I got a sick wife 
an' a new kid ! Tell me wot '11 I do? 

Regan. Shut up. Porky, or the whole 
house '11 hear ye ! Now listen ! Did any 
one see ye fire that brick? 

Porky. Naw. They was all lookin' at 
him. I was on the outside. 

Regan. Yer sure nobody piped ye? 

Porky. Sure. Why, I 'm one o' the guys 
that carried him into the cafe! 

Regan. Then it 's all right. Go home t' 
the wife and kid, an' keep yer mouth 
shut, understand? 

McCoy. Not do nothin'? 

Regan. Not a damn thing. An' if there 's 
any trouble, I '11 look after ye. 

McCoy. Aw, thank ye, Mike — {Grasps 
Regan's hand.) I knew ye 'd fix it up 
fer me ! 

Regan. G'wan now! Beat it! Remem- 
ber me t' the missus. An' how 's the 
kid t'day? 

McCoy. {Eagerly.) Gettin' bigger. An' 
gee! his wrinkles is all comin' off! 

{Enter Davis.) 

Davis. Mr. Regan. 
Regan. {To Davis.) Wait a second. 
McCoy. You 're sure that 's all 0. K.? 
Regan. I said so once. 



McCoy. Thank ye, Mike. S' long. 

{He goes out.) 
Regan. {To Davis, who is at window.) 

Well, wot d' you want ? 

{The low murmur of an approaching 
crowd is heard in the distance.) 
Davis. {Turning.) Mr. Regan, d' you 

hear anything? 
Regan. {After listening a moment.) 

Yeah. Wot is it? 
Davis. Sounds like a crowd. I think 

they're coming up Concord Avenue. 
Regan. {Looking out window.) The hell 

they are! 
Davis. And there 's a gentleman says he 

must see you. 
Regan. I won't see no one. 
Davis. Here he is. 

{Enter Duncan, full of excitement.) 

Duncan. Regan ! 

Regan. {Over his shoulder.) Well, what 
d' you want ? 

Duncan. Donald Griswold went down to 
speak in the Fourth Ward and was set 
on by some of your toughs. He 's hurt 
— nobody knows how badly. He may be 
dead. {The sound outside increases.) 

Regan. An' that out there? 

Duncan. The whole town 's up in arms. 
They're sure you did it. 

Regan. {Turns sharply.) Me? 

Duncan. Or had it done. They're sure 
you gave the orders. 

Regan. 0' course they are. 

Duncan. Regan, I came to tell you the 
police are on their way. Mr. Griswold 's 
had a warrant sworn out. You're go- 
ing to be arrested. 

Regan. Damnation ! 

Duncan. Come on, the alley's clear, but 
it won't be in five minutes. I have 
a motor waiting on the corner of Mc- 
Donald Street. We '11 have you ten 
miles away by the time that patrol gets 
here. 

Regan. Say, who are you anyway? 

Duncan. My name 's Duncan. 

Regan. Yer one o' his friends, then? 

Duncan. Whose? 

Regan. Griswold's. 

Duncan. What of it ? I 'm here to help 
you now. Don't you believe it? 

Regan. Aw, wot yer givin' me? 

Duncan. It's true! 

Regan. Help Began? 

Duncan. No, damn you, not Regan! 
Emily Griswold's husband ! 

Regan. {Quickly.) Cut it now! 



916 



THE BOSS 



Duncan. She 's your wife, Regan ! 
You Ve got to think about her ! 

Regan. That's ail riglit! I can manage 
my wife without no buttin' in from any- 
body — understand ? 

Duncan. You can't ! That mob '11 be 
here in a minute and this house won't be 
safe. I 'm going to bring my motor to 
the side door. Tell her to come down 
this minute. I 'm going to take her 
home. 

{He goes out quickly. The sound out- 
side has become an angry roar. It 
is getting nearer.) 

Davis. {At window.) Why, they don't 
look like strikers! 

Regan. {Looking out window.) Strikers'? 
Ye blame fool, it 's the town ! 

Davis. The town? 

Regan. The whole damn town! {Half to 
himself.) Gee, here's where we're up 
against it! 

Davis. {More and more excited.) Why! 
They're a lot of well dressed men! 
They haven't any hats! They look — 
why, they must be drunk! 

Regan. Aw, g' wan ! They 're about as 
drunk as a bunch o' tigers! {The roar 
increases. ) Hear that ? They 're mad 
— mad clean through ! 

Dajis. Look at them ! The street 's full ! 
Why, there must be hundreds! 

Regan. Thousands is more like it. 

Davis. But — but what are they doing up 
here? Mr. Regan, what are they after? 

Regan. {Grimly.) Can't ye see? Why, 
they come t' make a little friendly call 
on me, that 's all. 

Davis. {Frightened.) Oh, no, sir, not 
that ! It — it must be a fire ! 

Regan. Fire be damned! If ye ever 

heard a mob a-coughin' that way before, 

ye 'd never ask again wot it means ! 

{The roar becomes louder, coyifused 

and angry, as the mob is supposed 

to climb the fence and trample up 

the lawn.) 

Davis. You don't—? 

Regan. Sure I do. Why, every man- 
jack down there 's out fer blood! Some- 
thin' happened in the ward, an' they 're 
comin' straight fer me. 

Davis. {Looking out again.) Mr. Re- 
gan ! Look ! That 's Scanlan on the 
sidewalk — the man with the brown coat! 
I 'd know him anywhere ! And there — 
d' you see? right beside him? — why, it's 
old Archibald Houghton, tlie vice-presi- 
dent of the First National — 



Regan. Houghton! (Laughing.) Hat 
Ha! 

Davis. And the fellow climbing the fence 
— isn't that Grayson? The senior mem- 
ber of Grayson, Grayson and Company? 

Regan. Yeah. An' that feller behind 
him, that 's young Harry Huntington ! 
See? The guy with the cigarette. 

Davis. {Looking in a new direction.) 
They 're a lot of strikers, too ! And look 
there! See those Italians by the gate? 
Why, they 're all mixed up ! gentlemen 
and toughs, scoopers and big business 
men! 

{There is a great outburst under the 
very windows.) 

Regan. {Jovially.) But they all take 
hold of hands when it comes t' hatin' me ! 

Davis. {Drawing back.) Look out, sir,, 
they 're right below there ! They '11 see 
you — {Crash of glass.) Good Lord! 

Regan. Go upstairs an' tell me wife to 
come down. Mr. Duncan 's here to get 
her. 

Davis. Yes, sir. 

{He goes out. Outside the door are 
heard the servants in terrified con- 
fusion.) 

Gates. {Running in.) Mr. Regan! Mr. 
Regan! There's a crowd of very dan- 
gerous-looking fellows outside! 

{He is followed by two terrified 
Maids. They all stand huddled 
near the door, very much frightened. 
Another crash from outside.) 

The Crowd. {Individual voices.) That's 
right! Fire another! Gimme that 
brick! Come out o' there! He don't 
dare! The damn coward! Smash his 
Avinders ! 

Regan. {At telephone.) Choke it off ! I 
can't hear! 

The Maids. Mr. Regan! Mr. Regan! 

Regan. Choke it off! {Telephofiing.) 
Hello. Gimme P'lice Headquarters. 
Yeah. {Pause, during which another 
storm of yells and calls is heard outside.) 
This headquarters ? I 'm Regan. Yeah, 
Michael R. Say, I got a mob outside 
here a-smashin' me winders. Can ye 
hear 'em? Naw? {He holds the trans- 
mitter toward the window. Another 
crash of glass outside and yell.) Not 
now? Well, take me word fer it an' 
send up Kelly with the reserves! send 
up all ye got — see? I'll need 'em, 
every one! S' long! 

The Crowd. Break into the side! Keep 
it up ! Pull the house down ! Aim 



EDWARD SHELDON 



917 



higher — ye missed it that trip! There! 
I got her! 

{Another crash folloived by a general 

yell) 
The French Maid. J'ai peur! J'ai ter- 
riblement pour! C'est des assassins — 
oui, des assassins! 

{A brick crashes through one of the 

windows, falling to the floor amid 

a shower of broken glass. There is 

a general commotion. Regan goes 

to the window.) 

The Crowd. (Outside.) He's in there! 

Try the next one ! Soak him ! That 's 

right! Let her go! 

{Another brick crashes in. Regan 
runs to the desk and opens one of 
the drawers.) 
French Maids. Oh, Mon Dieu! C'est 

des apaches! Quelle horreur! 
The Other Maid. Mr. Gates! Oh, sir! 

What '11 we do? 
Gates. Be calm, young women, be calm! 
{He gathers them together and pushes 
them towards the door.) 
The Crowd. Regan! Where is he? We 
want Regan! Regan! {Another stone 
crashes in. A table is overturned and 
lamp broken. All the servants shriek 
and rush out.) The sneak! The cow- 
ard! Come out where we can see you! 
Regan! Regan! We want Regan! 
Regan. {Taking his automatic revolver 
from desk-drawer.) Ye would, would 
ye? Ye dirty dawgs, a-tryin' t' frighten 
the women ! Ye wait there ! I 'II show 
ye! {He runs to the window, opens it, 
and stands there. At his appearance a 
chorus of yells goes up and more mis- 
siles are hurled.) Well, here I am! I 'm 
the man ye want ! Take a good look at 
me ! I 'm right here an' I ain't goin' t' 
move ! 
The Crowd. {Howling.) We '11 show ye ! 
We got ye! Look at him! Kill him! 
Kill him ! 
Regan. That's right! Yell away! Yel- 
lin' don't hurt nobody, so keep it up ! 
G' wan ! I like t' hear ye ! But if ye 
bust so much as one more pane o' glass, 
by Gawd, I '11 empty this repeater with- 
out stoppin' once to winkl 

{He covers them with his weapon. 

There is a dead pause, then a chorus 

of angry moans and jeers.) 

The Crowd. Ah! 'T ain't loaded! He 

don't dare ! It 's one o' his tricks ! I 'II 

show him ! Where 's that brick ! 

Regan. Say there, ye big slob with the 



red bandan^ — yes, you ! Drop that brick 
or ye — wot? All right, I — {He lifts his 
pistol and aims quickly. Then, laugh- 
ing triumphantly.) Aw, I knew I 'd get 
ye! What's the answer? Yer scared! 
The whole damn crowd o' ye are scared! 
Ye know I 'm here with nothin' but me 
wife an' a bunch o' second-girls, but 
I 've got ye goin', yer hangin' over the 
ropes — 

{The roar of the enraged crowd surges 
up again.) 

The Crowd. {Enraged.) We are, hey? 
We '11 show ye ! Stop his gaff ! Bust in 
the door! We ain't scared! He can't 
kid us ! G' wan, that 's right ! Don't 
quit! 

Regan. {Raising his pistol.) Say, stop 
right there — d'ye hear? The first guy 
that puts his mat on them steps '11 get 
a bullet through his nut — understand? 
Now come on! Say, why don't ye come 
on an' get me ? I 'm right here, all 
ready, just a-waitin' fer ye ! 

One Voice. {Then all.) Lynch him! 
Get a rope, boys, an' Ij^nch him! Lynch 
him. 

{The gong and hoofs of a police patrol 
are heard in the distance, gradually 
growing nearer.) 

Regan. What's that? I didn't catch on 
t' — oh, all right! Fine an' dandy! If 
ye want t' lynch me, mister, come right 
up an' start in ! That 's it ! Aw, don't 
be bashful! Come along! 

{During the end of this speech the mob 
raises a sullen roar.) 

The Crowd. Don't let him kid us! 
Get in the bunch! We'll stop his 
drip! He can't do nothin'! {The pa- 
trol is now close by.) Cheese it! The 
cops! 

{The door behind Regan opens and Emily 
appears. She stands calmly at the top 
of the stairs, putting on her gloves. She 
is dressed for the street.) 

Police Voices. Whoa! Whoa! {Clang- 
ing of gong and hoofs very loud, then 
cease.) Stand back there ! Stand back! 
Move on ! Get out o' here ! Get off that 
fence! Go on home now! Shove 'em 
back ! Kelly ! Move on or I '11 cave 
your head in! No back talk. Move on 
an' keep movin'. Yes, you! Move on! 
Move on! 

The Crowd. All right! All right! 
Wot 's yer hurry ! Say, wait a minute ! 



.018 



THE BOSS 



Let go me arm ! All right, I 'm goin', 
ain't I? 

liEGAN. {Howling derisively, laughing, 
taunting, as police shove back the mob.) 
That's it! Give it to 'em, boys! Beat 
'em up, Kelley! Club their nuts olf! 
Soak 'em! Kill 'em! {Bursting into a 
roar of triumphant laughter, he closes 
the window and draws the portieres to- 
gether, turns, and for the first time sees 
his wife.) Oh, that's you! 

Emily. {Calmly.) Where's Mr. Dun- 
can? Mr. Davis said he was here. 

Regan. Is that all Davis told ye? 

Emily. Yes. 

Regax. {To himself.) Oh, my Gawd! 

Emily. Is Mr. Duncan downstairs? Mr. 
Davis said the librarv'. 

Regax. He 's out gettin' the auto through 
the crowd. He 's come t' take ye home. 

Emily. {Joyfully.) Home? Is Don 
here, too? I mean — my brother? 

Regan. Naw, I 'm afraid — I 'm afraid he 
ain't here. 

Emily. Well, I '11 go downstairs and wait. 
{She starts to go.) 

Regan. No, stay here. {She stops.) 
There 's somethin' I got t' tell ye. 

Emily. What is it? Well, why don't you 
tell me? {Pause.) Michael, d' you 
know you 're making me — rather nerv- 
ous? 

Regan. Sit down. 

Emily. {Obeying.) Go on. {Pause.) 

Regan. {Beginning in a business-like 
way.) Yer brother — 

Emily. {Quickly.) Well? 

Regan. {Continuing.) Well, he went 
down t' the Fourth Ward about ten 
o'clock this momin' t' talk t' all the men 
who 'd stuck by me an' had n't joined 
the Union. 

Emily. Yes. Go on. 

Regan. Porky McCoy 'phoned me he was 
doin' it an' I got mad an' said t' head 
him off. Then you came in and we got t' 
talkin' an' I fergot all about him. An' 
you ducked out an' the mob collected 
down there an' I felt sure somethin' had 
gone wrong — 

Emily. {Suspecting.) Michael! 

Regan. But I did n't know a thing — s' elp 
me Gawd if I did! — until Porky came 
an' told me all about it. 

Emily. ( Breathing heavily. ) About what ? 

Regan. Yer brother. {Pause.) 

Emily. {Finally.) Tell me — tell me 
quick! What 's happened to him? 

Regan. Well, he was sayin' some rotten 



stuff about me an' that made the fellers 
sore an' they began firin' things. Porky 
says it was a brick that caught him on 
the head. They got him t' the hospital 
as quick as they could — 

Emily. {Screaming.) Oh — ! 

Regan. {Breaking out and rushing to 
her.) Em'ly, ye don't believe I done it? 
Ye don't believe I done a thing like that? 
No, ye don't, ye can't — 

Emily. {Covering her face with her 
hands.) Don! 

Regan. I never knew a thing about it till 
Porky told me ! Ye know that, don't ye, 
Emily? Ye know I wouldn't a-had 
it happen fer anythin' in the world! 

Emily. {Mocking to and fro.) Don! 
Don! 

Regan. {Breaking down.) Em'ly ye got- 
ter believe me ! I 'm on the level this 
trip ! I am ! I swear t' Gawd I am ! 

Emily. {Not seeing him.) Oh, Don! 

Regan. I got the whole town lined up 
against me. I 'm all alone, but if ye be- 
lieve me, Em'ly, I don't care ! An' I '11 
be good from now on. I '11 be as good as 
I know how. I '11 throw up Montreal. 
I won't foreclose no mortgages. I '11 do 
anythin' ye want if ye only believe me 
now! Oh, yer goin' to! Ye do! I 
knew ye would! I knew! 

{He throws himself on his knees be- 
fore her and bursts into tears, his 
face buried in her lap, like a little 
boy.) 

Emily. {For the first time realizing his 
presence.) Don't touch me. 

{She pushes him away with a gesture 
of horror and rises.) 

Regan. Em'ly ! ^ 

Emily. Don't come near me! 

Regan. {Seizing her hand.) Wot d'ye 
mean? 

Emily. Stop it! Keep away! 

Regan. {Fiercely.) So you think I done 
it, too ? Tell me ! G' wan ! I say ye 
gotter tell me! 

Emily. I don't think! I know! 

{Pause.) 

Regan. {With a wild Irish yell.) A-aali! 
{Throwing her hand away.) If you be- 
lieve I done a thing like that, all right ! 
We'll call it off! Go ahead! Wot are 
ye waitin' fer? Clear out o' my house! 
Beat it! Move along! {She rushes 
out.) Em'ly! Em'ly! I didn't mean 
that ! I swear t' Gawd I did n't know 
nothin' about it! Don't go! Don't 



EDWARD SHELDON 



919 



leave me, Em'ly! I ain't got no one 
else ! I 'm all alone — 

{Enter three plainclothes police officers by 
the other door. They are followed by 
two in uniform.) 

Inspector. I 'm sorry, sir, but you 've got 
t' come along with us. There 's a cab 
waitin' an' — 

(Regan turns, looks at the officers a 
moment, then slowly puts on his 
overcoat and hat, pours and drinks 
a glass of whiskey, lights a cigar, 
takes a handful from the humidor, 
puts them in his pocket, picks up a 
newspaper, puts it under his arm, 
and goes nonchalantly towards the 
door.) 
Regan. (Casually.) Come on, boys. 

{He goes up the steps and out, fol- 
lowed by the officers, as the curtain 
falls.) 



ACT FOURTH. 

Regan's rooms in the Police Station, three 
days later. It is a plain room, with a 
bed, a bureau at right. At back a large 
barred window through which the city 
can be seen. Near window, a big deal 
table covered with papers, an electric 
lamp, a big box of cigars, a whiskey 
bottle and glasses. Near the door is a 
waiter's stand, holding a tray covered 
with napkin. 

Regan is sitting on the window ledge, 
smoking, and dictating to Davis. He 
wears a sack-suit and looks very tired. 
He is evidently keeping up with diffi- 
culty. His fighting spirit is broken. 

Regan. {Dictating.) "I hope my change 
o' plans will not put you or your officers 
t' any inconvenience." Got that? 

Davis. "Any inconvenience." Yes, sir. 

Regan. {Continuing.) "Shiftin' the grain 
traffic from this town t' Montreal would 
have been just the sort of a job I most 
enjoy puttin' through, an' I intended t' 
go into it fer all I was worth. But cir- 
cumstances over which I have no control 
make it impossible fer me t' do so. 
Wishin' yer business all success an' so 
forth" — just finish her up, Davis. You 
know how. 

Davis. {Writing.) So that's the end of 
Montreal. {Pause.) 

Regan. Davis. 



Davis. {Finishing and looking up.) Yes, 
sir? 

Regan. There 's somethin' I want t' talk 
t' ye about. I won't be needin' a secre- 
tary much longer. 

Davis. Please, sir ! Don't let 's go into 
that now. 

Regan. Why not? We got to, sooner or 
later. I was sort o' goin' t' suggest that 
you take an int'rest in the business. 

Davis. The business? 

Regan. Yeah. My business. You 've been 
with me eight years an' ye know it back- 
wards an' I could hand it right over t' 
ye t'morrer. P'raps you could run it 
better 'n I did — I dunno. But, gee! I 
bet no one on God's green earth could 
make it pay so well! 

Davis. Mr. JRegan. 

Regan. Yeah? 

Davis. Don't feel so discouraged. It^s 
going to be all right. You're going to 
get out of here within a week and — 

Regan. A week? {He laughs.) I won- 
der! 

Davis. Mr. Regan, you mustn't give up 
like this. It 's not like you, sir, if you 
don't mind my saying so. 

Regan. That 's right. I dunno myself 
these days! 

Davis. Brace up, sir! Pull yourself to- 
gether ! Look on the bright side of it ! 

Regan. Aw, wot 's the good? {Sitting 
on bed.) Hodges was here this momin'. 

Davis. {Eagerly.) Hodges? What did 
he say? 

Regan. He says if Griswold dies, I '11 be 
indicted for murder in the first degree. 

Davis. Mr. Hodges missed his job. Law- 
yer — ? He ought to have been a wet 
nurse ! Why, Mr. Regan, there 's more 
nerve in one of your back teeth than in 
two hundred Hodges ! 

Regan. He says the District Attorney 's 
working night an' day fer a conviction. 
They 're goin' over me record with a fine 
tooth comb. They're gettin' evidence 
from everywhere. 

Davis. Evidence? Let 'em get it! They 
can't prove you slung that brick and they 
can't prove you had it slung. 

Regan. He says there's only one way t' 
clear meself . We got t' find the guy who 
done it an' make him swear he wasn't 
carryin' out my orders. 

Davis. You never gave any orders ! 

Regan. I know. But I got t' prove I 
didn't. 

Davis. Well, does Hodges think that man 



920 



THE BOSS 



is going to walk in here and say, "Please, 

mister, I slung that brick and now, if it 

is n't too much trouble, won't you kindly 

electrocute me f Is that what he 's 

waiting for? 
Regan. Aw, gee, I don't know wot t' do! 
Davis. Whoever he is, I bet by now he 's 

half way to Nevada. No, Mr. Regan, if 

you get out of here, it '11 be witliout his 

help — 
Regan. If I get out ! 
Davis. And you 're going to ! D' you 

liear that, Mr. Regan, you 're going to ! 
Regan. All right, me son, all right. 

{Looking at watch.) Half past four. 

Wot time are ye goin' t' call fer Mrs. 

Regan t' bring her down? 
Davis. Quarter to five, sir. 
Regax. Ye 'd better be hustlin', then. 
Davis. {Getting overcoat.) Don't worry, 

sir. I'll be there. {Pause.) 

Regan. Say, Davis. 
Davis. Yes, sir? 

Regan. {Not looking at him.) D' ye hap- 
pen to remember wot she said last night 

w^lien ye gave her me message? 
Davis. W^hy, she — seemed surprised. 
Regan. {Eagerly.) Yeah? And then? 
Davis. She asked why you had to see her. 

I said just what you told me to say, that 

it was important business connected 

with the Fourth Ward mortgages. She 

seemed doubtful for a moment and then 

said she 'd come. That 's all. 
Regan. An' ye asked after her brother? 

Ye didn't ferget that? 
Davis. Nq. She said his condition had n't 

changed — that it wouldn't till after the 

operation. 
Regan. An' Jameson was goin' t' operate 

t'morrer. {A knock at door.) Come in. 

{The door opens and an officer enters.) 

Well? 
Officer, Porky McCoy 's downstairs. He 

wants to see you. 
Regan. {Eagerly.) McCoy? Send him 

along. 
Officer. All right, sir. {He goes out.) 
Regan. {Turning joyfully to Davis.) 

It's Porky, d'ye hear? He's stuck by 

me! I knew he wouldn't welch like all 

the rest ! 
DxWis. I '11 start along, then. {Looking 

at a package of papers.) Oh, Mr. 

Regan, what d' you want done with 

these? 
Regan. Wot are they? 
Davis. All the Montreal contracts and 

estimates. 



Regan. Just leave 'em on the table. I 'L 
look after 'em. 

Davis. Very well, sir. I — 

{There is a knock at the door.) 

Regan. {Opening it.) Come on in. 
Porky! {As he enters, Regan pulls him 
in by the hand.) Gee, man, but I'm 
glad t' see ye! 

McCoy. Hello, Mike. 

Regan. How's the wife an' — {Looking at 
him.) Say, wot 's the matter? 

McCoy. Nothin'. 

{They stare at one another.) 

Davis. {At the door.) Good-night, sir. 
{He waits a momeyit for Regan to 
answer, then goes out quietly.) 

Regan. Have a cigar? 

McCoy. Naw. 

Regan. A drink? 

McCoy. Naw, thanks. 

Regan. Say, Porky. Ye ain't sore at me, 
are ye? 

McCoy. Sore at you? Oh, Mike— 

{Pause.) 

Regan. {Standing looking at him.) 
Porky, ye got somethin' on yer mind. 
Now go ahead an' lay it out to me, son. 

{Pause.) 

McCoy. {Blurting it out.) Mike, I never 
knew they 'd think ye did fer Griswold ! 
Gee, ye could a-knocked me over with a 
feather when I heard they 'd pulled ye 
in! 

Regan. I know that, me son, I know that. 

McCoy. I did n't mean t' play ye dirty, 
Mike — honest, I did n't ! I did n't mean 
t' go back on ye! I wouldn't do that 
fer anythin' in the world! 

Regan. 0' course ye wouldn't. Porky! 

McCoy. But I been readin' the papers^ 
an' hearin' folks talk, an' seein' wot a 
good case they 've made out against ye, 
Mike, an' when Larry Dugan come in an' 
showed me wot tliat damn District At- 
torney had in this evenin's Post, I — I 
went into the kitchen where my wife was 
nursin' the kid, an' I begun bawlin' — an', 
gee, in about three minutes I 'd told her 
the whole thing! 

Regan. Ye told her? 

McCoy. Yeah, an' when I 'd finished, she 
said ye 'd been a good friend to me, 
Mike, an' it was up t' me. An' — an' she 
brought mj^ overcoat — an' here I am, 
Mike, an' I guess that 's all. 

Regan. {Tenderly patting him on shoul- 
der.) Ye poor feller. 

McCoy. {In agony.) Aw, don't! Smash 
me! Kick me! Beat me t' pieces! I 



EDWARD SHELDON 



921 



won't say nothin'. But don't be good t' 
me, Mike! I can't stand it — I can't — I 
can't — 

{He breaks down and cries, his head 
on the table.) 

Regan. {Putting his hand on his shoul- 
der.) Say, Porky! {Standing over 
him.) D'ye remember one night in my 
old bar on Lake Street ? Gee, it 's fif- 
teen years ago now! An' ye took my 
side when Kelley's gang came in t' mur- 
der me fer holdin' back his nomination? 
All the rest had gone back on me, it was 
us two against eight. But we got behind 
the bar, an' ye grabbed the bung-starter, 
an' I broke four bottles o' Canadian rye 
over Kelley's head before I laid him out. 
Gee, that was a swell scrap ! An' then, 
when it was all over, ye remember my 
comin' up t' ye where ye was leanin' over 
the big round table and a-wipin' the 
blood off yer chin, an' sajin', "McCoy," 
I says — fer I didn't know ye as well 
then, Porky, as I do now — "McCoy," 
says I, "ye 've done me a good turn 
t'night, an' p'raps sometime I '11 have a 
chance t' pay ye back. But anyway," I 
says, "from this time on, so help me 
Gawd, there won't nothin' come between 
us two. They don't make nothin' thin 
enough fer that !" 

McCoy. {Looking up.) Mike! 

Regan. {Very tenderly.) Well, that 
chance I talked about — it 's been fifteen 
years a-comin'. Porky, but I got it now. 
An' I guess I '11 hang right on. 

McCoy. Wot d' ye mean ? 

Regan. {Clapping his shoulders.) Go 
home an' tell the missus an' the kid it 's 
all right ! Mike Regan says it 's all 
right ! 

McCoy. But, Mike, I done it ! 

Regan. Ye did not. Porky. The man 
that done it skipped an' we can't find 
him — see *? 

McCoy. {Not understanding.) Mike, I 
ain't skipped ! I 'm right here ! I 'm 
willin' t' pay up ! 

Regan. {Smiling.) Aw, come off! Ye 
don't know nothin' about it! Nothin' — 
nothin' at all! 

McCoy. Mike! I'm on! Yer tryin' t' 
let me off! 

Regan. Gee, Porky, but yer wise t'day. 

McCoy. But say, d' ye know wot '11 hap- 
pen t' youf 

Regan. Now don't ye bother yer nut 
about me. I '11 get out o' here. 

McCoy. Ye won't! If Griswold croaks, 



this town '11 finish ye fer good, under- 
stand ? It won't lie back until it 's 
buried ye in quick-lime — 

Regan. {Interrupting.) Gee, perhaps ye 
think I care! P'raps ye think I got a 
lot t' live fer! Well, if ye do, yer off! 
Way off! Miles off! 

McCoy. But yer wife — 

Regan. {Turning away abruptly.) Me 
wife? I ain't got one. 

McCoy. But yer kids? The family that 's 
comin' t' ye — 

Regan. Fam'ly? {He laughs aloud.) 

McCoy. But yer business? That's therel 
Ye got that all right ! 

Regan. {Bursting out.) Quit it! I'm 
sick o' the business! I hate it! I wish 
t' Gawd I 'd never seen it ! Damn the 
business, that 's wot I say ! Damn it I 
Damn it! 

McCoy. {Frightened.) 1 didn't mean 
nothin'. 

Regan. {Controlling himself.) That 's all 
right. Porky. I 'm sort o' done up t'day. 
But now ye see how I ain't got nothin' 
to live fer. An' remember, you got 
everythin' — everythin' a man can have! 
So go home now an' tell the wife. She '11 
be a-waitin' an' a-worryin' an' ye ought 
t' let her know. 

McCoy. But, Mike, I— 

Regan. {Interrupting.) Woteverye did. 
Porky, ye did it as my man. Ye did it 
fer me, understand! An' as head o' the 
firm, I guess I stand responsible fer me 
employee! {With a change of manner, 
taking out his pocket-book.) Say, 
Porky, wot day did you say the chris- 
tenin' was? 

McCoy. Christenin'? 

Regan. Yeah. {Smiling.) Michael Re- 
gan Ignatius McCoy. 

McCoy. It 's Sunday week, but— 

Regan. {Taking out a bill and putting it 
in McCoy's hand.) Well, you take this 
an' get the boy a present. One o' them 
silver mugs is the reg'lar thing. An' if 
there 's anythin' left over, just set up 
drinks fer the crowd, will ye? 

McCoy. No, Mike, I— 

Regan. {Pressing the bill into his hand.) 
Aw, rats ! G' wan an' take it ! An' tell 
the good woman I 'm — I 'm awful sorry 
I can't be at the church meself that day 
to hold the kid. Ye know I was — kind 
o' lookin' forward t' that somehow, but — 
{He hesitates, embarrassed.) 

McCoy. {Bursting out.) Mike, I won't 
let ye do this I I did fer Griswold! It 



922 



THE BOSS 



was my fault an' now it 's up t' me t' — 

Regax. Aw, slmt yer face ! 

McCoy. I won't ! I 'm goin' straight 

downstairs an' tell 'em how it happened — 

Regan. {Roaring.) You dry up or I'll 

bust yer jaw! {Slight pause.) Ye '11 

tell 'em downstairs ? Ye '11 tell 'em 

nothin' ! D' ye hear? Ye '11 walk out of 

this place without openin' yer mug wide 

enough t' spit, an' ye '11 do it 'cause I tell 

ye to, by Gawd! there ain't no bigger 

reason! {Knock at door.) Come in. 

{The door opens and the officer appears.) 

Wot d' ye want 1 

The Officer. There's a lady to see you, 

sir. {There is a slight pause.) 

Regan. {Suspiciously.) 'T ain't another 

one o' them female reporters? 
The Officer. No, sir, it 's yer wife. 

She 's down in the Inspector's office. 
Regan. All right. I 'm ready. Ask her 

to come up. 
Officer. All right, sir. 

{The officer goes out.) 
McCoy. S' long. 
Regan. S' long, Porky. 
McCoy. Would ye mind — shakin' hands? 
Regan. Why should I mind, me son? 

{He does so.) 
McCoy. Gee, yer the best I — I ever met! 
Regan. Aw g' wan ! 

(Porky goes out quickly. Regan, 
left alone, looks about, then quickly 
and awkwardly begins tidying up 
the room, -fixing the napkin to cover 
the tray. He makes the desk a lit- 
tle more orderly, throwing cigar ends 
and ashes in waste basket. He picks 
up the cuspidor and drops it behind 
the washstand. He pours water in 
the' basin, washes his hands, wipes 
them on the towel, throws the towel 
behind the washstand, sets the 
pitcher back in the bowl in the 
water. While brushing his coat, he 
sees his pajamas and throws them 
under the pillow, thumps the pillow, 
and is covering the red blanket with 
the counterpane when Emily softly 
opens the door and pauses, watching 
him. He does not see her.) 
Emily. {At last.) Michael. 
Regan. {Starting suddenly and turning.) 

Is that you? I didn't hear ye. 
Emily. {Entering.) They said to go 

right in. 
Regan. {Very embarrassed.) Sure. 0' 
course. {Pause.) Won't ye — sit down? 
{He offers her a chair.) 



Emily. Thank you. 

{She sits. There is another awkward 
pause.) 

Regan. I — hope yer feelin' well? 

Emily. Oh, I 'm well enough — but — rather 
tired, that 's all. 

Regan. {Sympathetically.) 1 know. 

{Pause.) 

Regan and Emily. {Simultaneously.) 
Yer lookin' — You look — 

{They both stop.) 

Regan. {Politely.) I beg yer pardon. 
After you! 

Emily. {Glancing about uneasily.) You 
look — fairly comfortable here. Some- 
how I didn't expect to find things as — 
as comfortable. 

Regan. {Embarrassed, looking about too.) 
Yeah, they been real good t' me — the 
boys have. Davis comes here ev'ry day, 
an' I got a telephone in the hall, an' they 
send in me grub from that hotel across 
the street. No, it ain't so bad — when — 
when ye get used to it. {Pause.) 

Emily. {Nervously.) Mr. Davis said j^ou 
wanted to see me about those Fourth 
Ward mortgages. 

Regan. Yeah. I want to make an assign- 
ment. I want to deed 'em over t' you, 
if ye don't mind. 

Emily. Deed them over to me? How do 
you mean? 

Regan. Put ^em in yer nam«. Let ye 
work 'em the way you want, give 'em t' 
ye — understand? 

Emily. But — I thought you were going 
to foreclose? 

Regan. I changed me mind. 

Emily. Why? 

Regan. {Not looking at her, speaking 
with difficulty.) I dunno. {At win- 
dow.) When yer up against it — the 
way I am now — ye sort o' feel like 
squarin' ev'rythin' up. An' I thought, 
seein' ye was so int'rested in them folks 
down there, ye 'd like t' have an eye on 
'em yerself an' keep 'em out o' trouble. 
They're just like kids, ye know. They 
need lookin' after. {A pause.) 

Emily. {Softly.) Oh, Michael! 

Regan. {Glancing up at her.) Will ye 
do it, then? 

Emily. Yes, I'll do it — if you want me 
to. 

Regan. {Very business-like.) All right. 
I had Hodges frame up an acceptance of 
xhe assignment. {Taking it from enve- 
lope.) Will ye look at it? It's very 
short, ye see, but it cove?;s the ground. 



EDWARD SHELDON 



923 



{She looks at him, hut when he holds 

out the paper she takes it and hends her 

head.) Is there anytliin' ye don't un- 
derstand? I know them legal words is 

apt t' mix a lady up. 
Emily. (Turning away to wipe her eyes 

without letting him see her.) No, it's 

quite clear — quite — 
Regax. Then would ye mind signin' it 

now? An' I'll give it to Hodges in. the 

mornin'. 
Emily. Where do I sign? 
Regan. There under my name — {Gives 

her a pen.) Look out, it's sort of inky. 
Emily. It 's all right. 

{She takes the pen and signs the 
paper.) 
Regan. There! You're the boss now. 

You 're the boss o' the Fourth Ward ! 

P'raps ye '11 be a better one than me ! 
Emily. {Simply.) Thank you, Michael. 

{A pause. He waves the paper to dry 

it, ) I — I suppose you '11 be going to 

Montreal very soon? 
Regan. Naw. 
Emily. Why not? 
Regan. {Thumb towards window.) Look 

at them bars. Ain't they a good reason? 
Emily. But, Michael — 
Regan. {Interrupting.) I might as well 

tell ye right now. I don't stand much 

show o' gettin' out o' here. 
Emily. You mean — on account of Don? 

{Slight pause.) 
Regan. {Looking away.) Yeah. 

{Another pause.) 
Emily. Then you don't know? 
Regan. Know what? 
Emily. That it's all right? That he's 

going to get well? 
Regan. {Joyfully.) Naw! 
Emily. That 's what Dr. Jameson says. 

He operated at two o'clock. 
Regax. To-day ! 
Emily. And Don knew me before I left 

the hospital. 
Regan. {Spontaneously.) Aw gee, I'm 

glad ! I 'm awful glad ! 
Emily. {Looking away.) Yes, it means 

a lot to you, too, does n't it ? 
Regan. {Suddenly shy.) Well, I — I 

was n't thinkin' of meself just then. 
Emily. {Still looking away.) So you 

can probably go North, after all. 
Regan. Yeah. I s'pose I can. {He has 

the package of papers Davis left.) 1 

s'pose I can. But — somehow I guess I 

won't. 

{He tears up the papers, carefully , 



methodically, and drops them in the 
basket.) 

Emily. Michael, what — what are those 
papers? 

Regan. {Looking at the pieces.) My con- 
tracts with Montreal. Or wot 's left of 
'em. 

Emily. You're giving that up, too? 

Regan. It looks that way. 

Emily. But why? You don't have to. 

Regan. {Bitterly.) Can't I do a decent 
thing sometimes just fer the fun of 
it? 

Emily. You don't mean — you 're doing it 
for yourself? 

Regan. {Sourly.) Well, I ain't doin' it 
fer anyone else, am I? {A pause.) 

Emily. {With growing emotion.) Mich- 
ael, I sided against you yesterday. 

Regan. {Under his breath.) I know that. 

Emily. Well, you 'd done so many dread- 
ful things, and I knew how you felt about 
Don. When you told me, it all seemed 
to go together. I — I couldn't think — 

Regan. Don't begin on that again! 
Please ! 

Emily. But now — Michael, look at me ! 
{He does so. A pause.) 

Emily. {Putting her hands on his shoul- 
ders. ) It 's all right. I 'm sure now. 
I know you did n't do it. 

Regan. {Imploring.) Ye don't mean ye 
believe me? 

Emily. Yes, and oh, Michael! You've 
got to forgive me for uot believing you 
before! {She takes his hand.) 

Regan. {Roughly.) Quit it! Don't! 

Emily. {Taking both hands.) But I'll 
make up for it — you see! And now 
we 're going to turn our backs on every-^ 
thing that 's happened. We 're going to 
look up ! We 're going to look ahead ! 
We 're going to start all over, you and 
I, together! 

Regan. Aw quit it, don't talk that way! 
Go home ! Go way, d' ye hear ? Leave 
me be, I tell ye ! Leave me be ! 

Emily. I won't! I can't! I married 
you, Michael, and when a woman marries 
a man I believe she promises all sorts of 
things I 've never lived up to. But now 
you need me and i.can help you — why, I 
think it 's a good mne to begin ! 

Regan. Ye don't mean yer willing t' do 
all that— fer me? 

Emily. Willing? Why, I want to. 
Don't you see? I want to! {Pause.) 

Regan. {Collecting himself.) Thank ye. 
Thank ye kindly. I know yer just say- 



924 



THE BOSS 



ing that t' make things easy fer me, but 
I 'm — I 'm awful obliged to ye. 

Emily. I 'm not, Michael ! You don't 
understand, you — 

Regan. (Interrupting.) Gee, I've been 
sort o' feelin' our finish comin' on fer 
the last six months, an' now — all of a 
sudden — it 's right here. An' somehow 
I can look it in the face an' keep on 
smilin' just the same. 

Emily. What do you mean? 

Regan. You was right when you said that 
you an' me have got t' start all over 
again. Only this time we got t' start 
alone. 

Emily. But, Michael — 

Regan. Now, wait a second, Em'ly. I 
guess we need n't bother much, now 
we 're at the end. If anyone could 
a-pulled this off, why, we 'd a-been the 
ones. But we did n't have no show. 
We was in all wrong, dead wrong, from 
the very beginnin'. 

Emily. Was it — so wrong? 

Regan. Yeah. I was wrong in thinkin' I 
could ever make ye happy an' you was 
wrong — well, in thinkin' ye could ever 
let me try. I guess 'twas my fault, 
mostly. You was doin' it fer a bunch o' 
scoopers, an' I was just out fer meself — 
like I always been. I might a-known 
there could n't be nothin' between us two 
— a guy born in a back room over a bar 
an' a lady like yerself — 

Emily. Don't ! Please don't ! 

Regan. D' ve know one thing I learned 
from bein' with ye this way? An' gee! 
I don't see just wot good it's ever goin' 
t' do me! {Slowly and with difficulty.) 
Folks have t' love each other awful hard 

* before they can get married. If you 
an' me had done that — why, we could 
a-stood up an' looked the world in the 
eye an' told it t' go t' hell! But as it 
is — 

(His voice breaks.) 

Emily. Michael ! 

Regan. It 's all right, the bill 's paid, the 
account 's closed. An' if there 's any f er- 
givin' t' be done, I '11 do my share. I 
hope Gawd gives ye everythin' ye never 
could get from me — an' that ye live 
happy — an' grow old slow — an' good 
luck t' ye now, me darlin'! Good luck 
t' ye an' good-bye! 

{He turns away.) 



{The door opens and the Inspector comes 
in.) 

The Inspector. Mr. Regan? 

Regan. Well? 

The Inspector. That man, McCoy — 

Regan. {Sharply.) Huh? 

Tpie Inspector. It's all right, sir. He 
let out the whole thing. (Regan 
smothers an exclamation.) He went 
downstairs to Judge Swain and made an 
affidavit. The Judge has ordered your 
release and you can leave us, Mr. Regan, 
any time you like. 

Regan. Porky — ! 

Emily. {In a low voice, to the In- 
spector. ) He did it, then ? 

The Inspector. That 's what he 's sworn 
to, ma'am. {A pause.) 

Emily. Would you call my chauffeur? 
I 'm — I 'm going to take my husband 
home. 

The Inspector. {Softly.) Sure, ma'am 
— sure. {He goes out.) 

Emily. {Turning to Regan.) Michael, 
there 's something I 've never told you. 

Regan. {Dully.) Is there? 

Emily. I 've never told you, because I 
never knew it until now. 

Regan. Didn't ye? 

Emily. Can't you guess what it is? 

Regan. I 'm no good at guessin' when it 
comes t' you. 

Emily. All right, then, I'll tell you. I 
think — I think — I think it 's going to be 
all right. 

Regan. Wot 's goin' to be all right ? 

{She runs over to the clothes rack.) 

Emily. Is this your overcoat? — {Taking 
it from the rack.) Here now — put it on! 
{She holds it for him.) And your hat— 
{He starts to take it.) Wait! I'll 
show you how you '11 have to wear it now\ 
{She puts it on his head. He pushes it 
on one side.) No — straight! {She 
straightens it.) Quite straight! It's 
always bothered me before. 

Regan. {Feeling it gingerly.) Like that? 

Emily. Like that. Now take it off ! 

Regan. Why? 

Emily. {Half -laughing , half -crying.) 
D' you think I 'm going to let you kiss 
me with it on? 

{He throws his hat across the room 
and catches her in his arms as the 
curtain falls.) 



HE AND SHE 

BY 

Rachel Crothers 



Copyright, 1911, by Eachel Crothers 
All Dramatic Rights Reserved by the Author 

Printed for the first time by permission of the author, Miss 
Rachel Crothers. 



HE AND SHE 

He and She represents the drama of married life in which the relations of 
husband and wife are modified by the rival claims of professional jealousy. It 
is one of the most striking of the plays which deal with the general question of 
woman's rights and responsibilities, of which its author has stood for some time 
as a representative in drama. 

Rachel Crothers was born in Bloomington, Illinois, and graduated from 
the State Normal School. Her father. Dr. Eli Kirk Crothers, was a friend and 
contemporary of Lincoln, while her mother studied medicine after she was forty 
years of age, and became the first woman physician in that part of Illinois. In a 
letter to the editor written in response to his request for biographical details. Miss 
Crothers says: 

''My interest in the stage was entirely foreign to the deeply religious con- 
servative traditions of my family but began when I was very small, asserting it- 
self through the writing of plays — the first one to be produced being Every Cloud 
Has a Silver Lining, or the Ruined Merchant, all five of the characters played by 
myself and a friend at the age of twelve — to an invited audience of amazed and 
admiring friends. ' ' 

After her graduation from school. Miss Crothers studied dramatic art in 
Boston and New York and was for three seasons on the stage. She then began 
seriously writing plays. Her first play to be professionally produced was a 
clever one-act sketch, The Rector, played at the Madison Square Theatre, New 
York, April 3, 1902, dealing with the choice of a wife by a young clergyman. 
Then followed The Three of Us, performed at the Madison Square Theatre, Octo- 
ber, 1906 ; The Coming of Mrs. Patrick, at the same theatre, October, 1907 ; Myself 
Bettina, first played by Maxine Elliott at Powers Theatre, Chicago, January, 
1908; A Man's World, played by Mary Mannering at the Comedy Theatre, New 
York, Feb. 8, 1910; The Herfords {He and She) (1912) ; Young Wisdom, played 
by Mabel and Edith Talliaferro at the Criterion Theatre, New York, January, 
1914; Ourselves, played by Grace Elliston at the Lyric Theatre, New York, 
November, 1913; The Heart of Paddy Whack, played by Chauncey Olcott at 
the Grand Opera House, New York, November, 1914. Old Lady 31, after a 
try out on the road, opened at the Thirty -ninth Street Theatre, New York City, 
on October 30, 1916, and had a successful run. Her most recent plays were A 
Little Journey, which was first played at the Little Theatre, New York, Decem- 
ber 26, 1918, and 39 East, which opened at the Broadhurst Theatre, May 
12, 1919. 

927 



928 INTEODUCTION 



He and She was first tried out on the road during the fall of 1911. It was 
then renamed The Herfords and was first played by the cast as here given at 
the Plymouth Theatre in Boston, February 5, 1912. 

After extensive revision, the play was revived and produced at the Little 
Theatre, New York, February 12, 1920, under the title He and She. At this 
revival Miss Crothers herself played the part of ''Ann Herford," Mr. Cyril 
Keightley that of ''Tom Herford" and Miss Faire Binney that of "Millicent." 

The most significant of Miss Crothers' plays are those in which she deals 
with a problem created by some demand of woman's nature. In The Three 
of Us she shows the strong sisterly affection of a woman for her younger 
brother who is hardly worthy of it but who is saved by the power of her love. 
In A Man's World she attacks the basis of social and moral law which treats 
the woman unfairly. In Ourselves she shows the responsibility of good women 
for the so-called double standard of morality. In He and She she draws in a 
masterly way the effect which the rivalry of a wife in an artistic profession has 
upon the relations of her husband and herself and also upon her treatment of 
her daughter. 

A Man's World has been published by Richard Badger; The Rector, Young 
Wisdom and The Three of Us by Samuel French. He and She is now 
printed for the first time through the courtesy of the author, from a manu- 
script prepared especially by her for this collection. In order to reflect the 
changes made in the revival of 1920, in the Revised Edition, the entire play has 
been reprinted from a revised manuscript furnished by Miss Crothers, 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Plymouth Theatre, Boston, February 5, 1912 

Tom Herford, a sculptor Mr. Charles Waldron 

Ann Herford, his wife Miss Viola Allen 

Daisy Herford, his sister Miss Grace EUiston 

MiLLiCENT, his daughter Miss Beatrice Prentice 

Dr. Remington, his father-in-law Mr. George Fawcett 

Keith McKenzie, his assistant Mr. John Westley 

Ruth Creel, his wife 's friend ]\Iiss Jessie Izette 

Ellen, a maid , j\Iiss Emily Varian 



HE AND SHE 



ACT FIEST 

Scene : The Herford Studio. 

The room is in the hasement floor of a 
large old fashioned house in lower New 
York — and shows that it has been made 
over and adapted to the needs of a 
sculptor. 

'At right center hach are double doors 
opening into the workroom. At right of 
these doors is a recess showing it has 
been cut in. The ceiling of the half of 
the room which is towards the audience 
is much higher than the other part — 
showing that the room which is on the 
floor above has been used to give height 
to this part of the studio. 

The break made in the ceiling is sup- 
ported by an interesting old carved 
column — very evidently brought from 
Italy — and in the overhanging part of 
the wall is set a very beautiful old Ital- 
ian frieze in bas relief — a few faded 
colors showing. 

At lower left is a large studio window. 

At lower right side a single door leading 
into hall. At upper left corner, a cup- 
board is built in, in harmony with the 
construction of the room, and showing, 
when opened, drawers and compart- 
ments for holding sculptors' tools, etc. 

Before the window, at right center, is a 
scaffold built to hold a section of a 
frieze. At its base is a revolving table, 
holding modeling clay, tools, etc. In 
front of the scaffold is a short pair of 
steps. At centre, is a long table holding 
rolls of sketches, a desk set — a book or 
two, pencils, compasses, several pieces of 
modeling. 

There are a number of chairs about and 
a piece of rich brocade in vivid coloring 
thrown over the back of one. 

The room is simple, dignified, beautiful, 
full of taste and strength. Soft after- 
noon sunshine streams in from the wide 
window. Keith MaoKenzie and Tom 
Herford are lifting one section of a 
bas relief frieze about 3 by 5 — and plac- 
ing it on the scaffolding . 



McKenzie is about 35, tall, good-looking, 
in a pleasing, common-place way; also 
wearing a sculptor s working clothes — 
hut of a practical and not artistic sort. 

Tom Hereford is 40, a fine specimen of 
the vigorous American-artist type. 
Virile, fresh, alive and generous in na- 
ture and viewpoint. He wears the 
stamp of confidence and success. 

Tom. {As they lift the frieze.) Come 
on I There she is! Put her over — no, 
this way, about half a foot. That's right. 
There! Let's have a look. (Tom goes 
down to hanging switch and turns on 
the light. As he does so, he says:) 
Wait! (The lights are turned up.) 
(Turning to Keith.) What do you 
think. 

Keith. It's a great thing. Governor! 
Going to be a walk-away for you. You'll 
win it as sure as guns. I know it. I 
bet you land the $100,000.00 as sure as 
you're standing there, governor. 

Tom. Oh, I don't know. The biggest 
fellows in the country are going in for 
this competition. 

Keith. Well — you're one of the biggest. 
I think you're the biggest — and you've 
turned out the best thing you've ever 
done in your life. (Going to stand 
above table.) 

Tom. That's damned nice of you, Mc- 
Kenzie. It does look pretty good out 
here. Doesn't it? (He goes up on the 
steps — to touch the frieze.) 

Keith. (After a pause.) Governor. 

Tom. (Working at his frieze.) Um? 

Keith. I want to ask you something. 
'Not from curiosity — but because — I'd 
like to know for my own sake. You 
needn't answer of course — if you don't 
want to. 

Tom. Go on. Fire away. 

Keith. Have you ever been sorry that 
Mrs. Herford is a sculptor — instead of 
just your wife? 

Tom. Not for a minute. 

Keith. I've been thinking a lot about it 
all lately. 

Tom. About you and Ruth, you mean? 

Keith. Yes. She'll marry me in the fall 
if I let her keep on working. 



931 



932 



HE AND SHE 



Tom. And? 

Keith. Well— I— Hang it all! I don't 
want her to. I can take care of her now. 
At first it was different — when I was 
grubbing along — but since I've been 
with you, you've put me on my feet. 
I'll never be gr^eat — I know that all 
right — but I can take care of her. 

Tom. (WorJi'ing at frieze.) But she 
wants to keep on, doesn't she? 

Keith. Yes, but — 

Tom. Good Heavens, boy — you're not 
bitten with that bug I hope. "I want 
my girl by my own fireside to live for 
me alone." 

Keith. Oh — 

Tom. Why Ruth Creel's a howling suc- 
cess — the way she's climbed up in that 
magazine — why in the name of Christo- 
pher, do you want her to stop? 

Keith. (At right end of tahle, figuring 
mechanically on some papers on table.) 
How can she keep on at that and keep 
house too? 

Tom. Well they do, you know — somehow. 

Keith. Oh, Mrs. Herford's different. 
She's working right here with you — and 
her time is her own. But Ruth's tied 
down to office hours and it's slavery — 
that's what it is. 

Tom. She doesn't think so. Does she? 

Keith. I want a home. I want children. 

Tom. Of course. But that doesn't mean 
she'll have to give up her profession 
forever. 

Keath. Oh, I'm strong for women doing 
anything they want to do — in general — 
But when it's the girl you love and want 
to marry, it's different. 

Tom. It ought not to be. 

Keith. When you come down to brass 
tacks — 

Ann. (Coming quichly in from the work- 
room, and stopping as she sees the 
frieze.) Oh Tom! 

(Ann Herford is 38. Intensely femi- 
nine and a strong vibrating person- 
ality which radiates warmth and 
vitality. She wears a long linen 
working smock — a soft rich red in 
color. Her sleeves are rolled up 
and her general appearance shows 
that she is at work and has stopped 
only to look at Tom's frieze.) 

Keith. Looks great out here — doesn't it, 
Mrs. Herford? 

Ann. Um. 

Keith. Aren't you — more sure now than 
ever it will win? 



Ann. IJm. — (Starting to speak and 

checking herself.) 

Tom. What? 

Ann. Nothing Your horses are marvel- 
ous, Tom. I wish we could see it all 
together — now. Don't you? The rest 
of the twenty sections — so we could see 
how much we — ^how much we — feel the 
running. 

Tom. Don't you feel it in this piece? 

Ann. Of course. 

Keith. I do — tremendously. I think it's 
wonderful. (He goes into workroom.) 

Tom. Ann — what were you going to say 
a minute ago about the frieze? 

Ann. a — I don't know. 

Tom. Don't hedge. Several times lately 
you've started to say something and 
haven't got it out. What is it? Any 
suggestions ? 

Ann. How do you feel about it yourself, 
boy? Are you satisfied? 

Tom. Does that mean you aren't? 

Ann. I asked you. 

Tom. Well — it's the best that's in me. 
Why? What's the matter? You don't 
like it after all. 

Ann. Like it? It's a strong — noble — 
beautiful thing. 

Tom. But— 

Ann. Dearest — is it — just exactly what 
your first conception of it was? Has it 
turned out just as you first felt it? 

Tom. Why yes — not absolutely in detail 
of course. It's improved a lot I think — 
in the working — but in the main, yes — 
it's just the same. Why do you say that ? 

Ann. You know of course, but — 

Tom. Say it — Say it. What have you 
got in your mind? 

Ann. I don't know that I can — but in 
the beginning it had a feeling of swift- 
ness, of rushing — swirling — as if your 
soul were let loose in it, Tom — too big, 
too free to be held in and confined. 
But, somehow, now that it's finished — 

Tom. Go on. 

Ann. That wild thing has gone out of it. 
It's crystalized into something magnifi- 
cent but a little conventional. 

Tom. Good heavens, Ann, you can't call 
that conventional? 

Ann. Well — orthodox then. It's noble of 
course — but that inexplainable thing 
which made it great — is gone — for me. 
Perhaps it's just me — my imagination — 
because I care so much. 

Tom. It is imagination. It's much 
stronger than when I began. 



RACHEL CEOTHERS 



933 



Ann. Is it? 

Tom. Of course. You're trying to put 
something fantastic into it which never 
was there at all. That's not me. What 
I've done I've got through a certain 
strong solid boldness. That's why I 
think this stands a good chance. It's 
the very best thing I've ever done, Ann, 
by all— 

KiETH. {Opening the workroom door.) 
Governor — will you show Guido and me 
about something please — Just a minute ? 
{There is a slight pause.) {Tom looks 
at the frieze.) 

Tom. I don't see what you mean at all, 
dear girl. Thanks a lot — but I think 
you're wrong this time. {He goes into 
workroom. Ann looks again at the 
frieze as Ruth Creel comes in from 
hall.) 

Ann. {Going quickly to Ruth.) Oh, 



you 



! {She kisses her 



Ruth — bless 
warmly.) 

Ruth. I came straight from the oj^ce 
and I'm dirty as a pig. (Ann points to 
ToM^s frieze.) Is that it? (Ann no (is.) 
Well? 

Ann. Oh, Ruth — I'm sick in the bottom 
of my soul. I hope — I hope — I'm wrong. 
I must be wrong. Tom knows better 
than I do; but — I can't help it. I tell 
myself I'm a fool — and the more I try 
to persuade myself the more it comes 
back. Ruth, it isn't the same. It isn't. 
What ever it was that lifted it above 
good work and made it a thing of in- 
spiration — is gone. It's gone — gone. 

Ruth. Have you — told Tom how you 
feel? 

Ann. Just this minute. He says I'm 
wrong absolutely — that it's the best 
thing he's ever done. 

Ruth. I hope to God you are wrong — 
but I bet you're not. You know. Did 
you — have you told him the other 
thing ? 

Ann. Not yet. But I've finished it. 

Ruth. Absolutely ? 

Ann. I worked down here last night till 
three o'clock this morning. 

Ruth. Well — how is it? 

Ann. Oh, I don't dare think. It can't 
be as good as it seems to me. 

Ruth. Of course it can. Why shouldn't 
it be? Aren't you going to offer it to 
him right away — before it's too late? 

Ann. How can I? It frightens me to 
pieces to even think of it — but, oh, — 
my dear, my dear — it's alive and fresh 



and new. It is. It is. If he only would 
take it — my idea — and put his wonder- 
ful work — his wonderful execution into 
it. 

Ruth. Perhaps he'll be fired with it — 
jump at it. 

Ann. I'm afraid, he won't — and I'm 
afraid of tJiis for him. It would nearly 
kill him to lose. He's counting on win- 
ning. Keith and everybody are so dead 
sure of him. 

Ruth. Show him yours for goodness — 

Ann. Be careful. He'll be back in a 
minute. 

Ruth. I'll skip upstairs and make myself 
presentable. 

Ann. Go in my room, dear. (Ruth goes 
out through hall. Tom and Keith come 
hack from workroom. Ann goes to Tom 
— they stand a moment — looking at the 
frieze. Ann slaps Tom on the hack, 
without speaking, and goes on into 
workroom.) 

Keith. {After a pause.) I agree with 
you in general, governor. But when it 
comes down to the girl you love and 
want to marry, it's different. 

Tom. Why is it? 

Keith. The world has got to have homes 
to live in and who's going to make 'em 
if the women don't do it? 

Tom. {Smiling at Keith tolerantly.) 
Oh, come — come. 

Keith. Do you mean to say you wouldn't 
rather your sister Daisy was married 
and keeping her own house instead of 
working here as your secretary? 

Tom. But she isn't married — and she 
won't live with Ann and me unless it's 
a business proposition. I respect her 
tremendously for it — tremendously. 

Keith. Well, Daisy's a big, plucky, in- 
dependent thing anyway — but Ruth's a 
little delicate fragile — 

Tom. With a mind bigger than most of 
the men you know. 

Keith. Oh, mind be damned. I want a 
wife. 

Daisy. {Coming in from the hall.) Oh 
— Tom — it's out here. How corking! 
(Daisy Herford is twenty-eight — 
strong, wholesome, handsome, with 
the charm of health and freshness. 
She wears a severe serge gown and 
carries a pencil and stenographer s 
pad.) 

Tom. Well — sis, how do you like it? 

Daisy. I adore it. I hope you haven't 
any doubts now about winning. 



934 



HE a:n'd she 



Tom. IVe plenty of 'em — but somehow 
today it looks as if it stood a pretty 
good chance. 

Daisy. Chance! I never was so sure of 
anything in my life. 

Keith. Daisy — maybe you know just 
what ought to be where with this stujf. 

Daisy. I've been itching to get at it. 
Let's put all the tools on that side. 

Keith. I have started. 

Daisy. And throw the trash in here. 
(Pushing the box with her foot.) 

Keith. Can you help me now? 

Daisy. Yes. Tom, do you want me to 
write to the Ward people about that 
marble again? 

Tom. Yes I do. Shake them up. Tell 
'em if it isn't here by the first of the 
month I won't take it. 

Daisy. (Making a note in her note-hooh.) 
Um — um. 

Millicent Herford rushes in from hall 
at left. Millicent is 16 — pretty — eager 
— full of vitality and will — half child, 
half woman. She is charmingly dressed 
in an afternoon frock and picture hat 
and is at the moment happy and ex- 
hilarated.) 

Millicent. Father, where's mother? 

Tom. In the work-room. But you can't 
go in. (As Millicent starts to work- 
room.) 

Millicent. Why not? 

Tom. She's finishing something and said 
not to let any one stop her. 

Millicent. Oh dear! I think I might. 
It's awfully important. Couldn't I just 
poke my head in the door a minute? 

Tom. Not for a second. 

Millicent. Sakes, I wish Mother wouldn't 
work in my Christmas vacation. It's 
an awful bore. Don't you think she 
might stop the little while I'm at home. 
Aunt Daisy? 

Daisy. None of my business. Don't ask 
me. 

Keith. If you ask me — yes I think she 
might. 

Tom. That's nonsense. Your mother's 
doing about everything that can be done 
to make your vacation a success, isn't 
she? 

Millicent. Yes, of course. 

Tom. Then I don't see that there's any 
reason why she shouldn't be allowed a 
little time for herself. 

Millicent. But I want her now. Aren't 
my new pumps stemmy, Aunt Daisy? 

Daisy. Aren't they what? 



Millicent. Stemmy. Wake up. Aunt 
Daisy. Oh, the luncheon was gorgeous. 
All the girls were there and the matinee 
was heavenly. 

Keith. What play? 

Millicent. "The Flame of Love." You 
needn't laugh, father. It's the best play 
in town. The leading man is a peach. 
Honestly, he's the best looking thing I 
ever saw in my life. We were all crazy 
about him. Belle Stevens took off her 
violets and threw them right at him. 
She makes me tired, though. I don't 
think seventeen is so terribly much older 
than sixteen, do you, Aunt Daisy? 

Daisy. (Still at the cupboard.) It de- 
pends on whether you're sixteen or sev- 
enteen — how much older it is. 

Millicent. I don't care — I wouldn't 
wear a ring as big as hers if I had one. 
Oh, Aunt Daisy, may I borrow your 
earrings? (Going to Daisy.) 

Daisy. Help yourself. 

Millicent. Thanks, you're a duck. I 
could combostulate you for that. How 
much longer do you think mother will 
be, daddie? 

Tom. Couldn't say. 

Millicent. Well, tell her I have to see 
her the minute she comes out. Don't 
forget. (She hurries off through hall.) 

Tom. She's grown up over night some- 
how. I can't get used to it. 

Keith. And she went away to school a 
few months ago just a girl. Amazing, 
isn't it? 

Daisy. Not a bit. What do you expect? 
She's free now — cut loose. Boarding 
school does that pretty quickly. 

Tom. I suppose so — and I suppose it'^ 
good for hei. (Looking at the frieze 
he goes into the work-room.) 

Keith. The Governor's darned cheerful 
about the frieze to-day. 

Daisy. I should think he would be. It's 
great. (Keith and Daisy go on clearing 
out cupboard.) 

Keith. I'd give a good deal to know 
what Mrs. Herford actually thinks of it. 

Daisy. Why she loves it. 

Keith. She looks at it with such a sort of 
a — I don't know. I can't help wondering 
if she is so dead certain of it as the 
rest of us are. 

Daisy. I hope she doesn't discourage 
Tom. After all he likes it and he knows 
more about it than anybody else. 
Ann's criticism is wonderful, of course, 
but Still Tom is the artist. 



EACHEL CROTHEES 



935 



IvEiTH. You're just as jealous for your 
brother as you can be, aren't you, 
Daisy? All right for the missus to be 
clever, but you want Tom to be su- 
preme in everything, don't you? 

Daisy. He is. (Leaning over the box.) 

Keith. You're a brick. Daisy, have you 
ever been in love in your life? 

Daisy. What do you mean ? ( Lifting 
her head — startled and embarrassed.) 

Keith. I've been thinking an awful lot 
lately about this business of married 
women working. What do you think 
of it — now honestly? 

Daisy. What difference does it make — 
what I think? 

Keith. Of course, there's no reason on 
earth why you shouldn't be in it. You 
don't care a hang for men — and — 

Daisy. You mean men don't care a hang 
for me. 

Keith I^o I don't. I don't mean that 
at all. But you're so independent men 
are sort of afraid of you. 

Daisy. Oh, don't apologize. You mean 
I'm a plain, practical girl meant to take 
care of myself. 

Keith. Well — that's what you want to 
be, isn't it? 

Daisy. Never mind about me. Let's 
change the subject. 

Keith. You needn't be so touchy. I 
talk awfully frankly about my affairs 
and you never say a word about your- 
self. 

Daisy. Why should I? I'm not interest- 
ing and you're not interested. 

Keith. I am too. You're the best pal a 
fellow ever had. I don't know any other 
girl I could have worked with all his 
time — day in and day out and not either 
been dead sick of or sort of — you know 
sweet on, in a way. 

Daisy. You needn't rub it in. 

Keith. Why, Daisy, old girl, what is the 
matter? What in the dickers are you 
so huffy about? 

Daisy. Just let me and my idiosyncra- 
sies alone, please. 

Keith. Heavens! Can't I say what I 
think? 

Daisy. 'No, you can't. I don't want to 
hear it. I know just what I seem like 
to other people — so there's no use ex- 
plaining me to myself. 

Keith. Ml 1 meant was if you were in 
love would you give up your job and — 

Daisy. But I'm not in love, so stop think- 
ing about it. 



Keith. Gosli! I thought you had com- 
mon sense, but you're just as queer as 
the rest of them. What I want to know 
is — if a girl loves a man well enough 
to marry him why in hell she can't stay 
at home and — 

Daisy. What's the matter? (As Keith 
cuts his finger on the tool he is hold- 
ing.) Did you cut your finger? 

Keith. Not much. 

Daisy. (With a sudden tenderness.) Let 
me see. 

Keith. It's nothing. 

Daisy. It is too. Hold still. I'll tie it 
up for you. (She ties his finger with 
her own handkerchief.) Anything the 
— hold still. Anything the matter with 
one of your fingers would put you out 
of commission. 

Keith. Might be a good idea. I don't 
think Euth believes in me much. 
Doesn't think I'll get much farther. 

Daisy. (Warmly.) I don't know why. I 
think you've got plenty for her to be- 
lieve in. Well — speaking of angels. 
How are you, Euth? (As Euth comes 
in from the hall.) 

Keith. Oh — hello, dear. 

Euth. Hello. What's the matter? 

Keith. Nothing. 

Daisy. Keith was waxing emphatic about 
you and over emphasized a finger. 
(She turns back to cupboard.) 

Euth. I'm sorry. (Touching Keith's 
hand as he comes down to her.) 

Keith. How are you? 

Euth. Dead. This day's been twenty- 
four hours long. (Sitting at left end 
of table.) 

Keith. (Coming down to Euth.) Has 
anything gone wrong? 

Euth. No — but a young author from the 
eloquent West has been fighting me 
since nine o'clock this morning. 

Keith. What about? 

Euth. He's got a perfectly magnificent 
story — or idea for one, rather — but it's 
so crudely written that it's impossible 
to publish it. 

Daisy. I suppose you can re-write it for 
him. 

Euth. No, he won't let me. Wants to 
do it all himself. Oh, he's so stubborn 
and so funny and so splendid. So out- 
landishly conceited and so adorably boy- 
ish I wanted to slap him one minute 
and kiss him the next. 

Keith. Why didn't you do both and 
you'd have got what you wanted. 



93G 



HE AND SHE 



Ruth. I was afraid to risk it, 

Keith. (Nodding towards Tom's frieze.) 

Doesn't that hit you in the eye? 
Ruth. Awfully like Tom, isn't it? 

Strong and splendid. 
Keith. What are you thinking — 
Ruth. Oh, nothing — only I wish Ann 

had — I wish Ann had gone in for this 

competition too. 
Keith. What? 

Daisy. Why on earth should she? 
Ruth. Why shouldn't she? 
Daisy. Ruth, you're daffy about Ann. 

Always have been. 
Keith. She does beautiful work for a 

woman — but ye gods — she's not in this 

class. 
Ruth. And she never will be if she's 

held back and told she's limited. I think 

she has genius and the sooner she makes 

a bold dash and tries for something big 

the better. 
Daisy. Nonsense ! Tom's pushed her and 

believed in her always. You can't say 

he's held her back. 
Ruth. (To Keith.) I've heard you say 

she has genius — lots of times. 
Keith. So she has — in a way. She has 

more imagination than the governor, 

but, great Peter, when it comes to exe- 
cution and the real thing she isn't in 

it with him. How could she be ? She's 

a woman. 
Ruth. Don't be any more anti-deluvian 

or prehistoric than you can help, Keith. 

Don't you think Ann's more original 

and really innately gifted than Tom is, 

Daisy? 
Daisy. I do not. She's terribly good. Of 

course — no doubt about that — but good 

Lord, Tom's great — a really great artist. 

(Daisy starts to hall door.) 
Ruth. Why do you go, Daisy? 
Daisy. Must. I have bushels of letters to 

get off. 
Ruti:. You look as fresh and rosy as if 

you were just beginning the day. How 

do you do it? 
Daisy. Oh, I'm not expressing my soul in 

my job— merely earning by bread and 

butter. I suppose that's why I look so 

husky at twilight. (Daisy goes out 

througa hall.) 
RuTii. (Lool-ing after Daisy.) Do you 

know — I don't believe Daisy likes me 

any more. 
Keith. (Sitting on left end of table near 

Ruth.) Kiss me. (Ruth leans her head 
towards Keith. He kisses her cheek.) 



Ruth. She's so marvelously good-na- 
tured — queer she's getting snappy at me 
lately. 

Keith. I'm awfully glad you came. 

Ruth. Does it hurt? (Touching his 
finger.) 

Keitpi. ISTot much. 

Ruth. I wonder why she doesn't like me? 

Keith. What are you talking about ? I'm 
asked to stay to dinner, too. 

Ruth. That's nice. 

Keith. I can't bear to see you so tired, 
dear. 

Ruth. I'll be all right when I have some 
tea. 

Keith. This time next year you could 
be in your own home — away from those 
damnable office hours and the drudgery 
— if you only would. If you only 
would. 

Ruth. It never seems to occur to you 
that I might be a little less tired but 
bored to death without my job. 

Keith. If you really cared for me the 
way you used to — you wouldn't be bored. 

Ruth. Oh let's not begin that. 

Keith. But do you love me, dear. Do 
you? 

Ruth. I've been telling you so for a 
pretty long time, haven't I. 

Keith. Are you tired of it? 

Ruth. There isn't any reason on earth 
why you should thinh I am. 

Keith. Well, I do think it. I worry 
about it all the time. I know you're 
brilliant and successful — but you — after 
all you say you love me — and I don't 
see — (He stops with a sigh.) You're 
awful pretty today. Your face is like 
a flower. "" 

Ruth. Oh — 

Keith. Yes, it is. I love you so. 

Ruth. Dear old boy! I love you. 

Keith. Do you, Ruth? Do you? 

Ruth. I've never ioved anyone else. 
You've filled all that side of my life and 
you've made it beautiful. We must 
hang together dear — (Putting both 
her hands over one of his.) And under- 
stand and give things up for each other. 
But it must be fifty-fifty, dearest. I 
can make you happy, Keith — Oh I can. 
And I'll be so happy and contented with 
you if you'll only — (Keith turns 
away impatiently.) I've never had a 
i home for a minute — in my whole life — 
I nor a relative since I was three — of any 
I sort or description — not a soul who be- 
I longed to me but you. 



RACHEL CEOTHERS 



937 



Keith. I want you to have the sweetest 
little home in the world. 

Ruth. Think of having our own little 
dinners and all the nice people we know 
at our table — ours. 

Keith. Yes — but — how can you do it if 
yoa're away all day? 

Ruth. Oh Keith, dear boy, you — the 
whole trouble is you think housekeeping 
is making a home — and the two things 
aren't the same at all — at all, at all. 

Keith. Well, they can't be separated. 

Ruth. Oh, yes, they can. Love — love 
makes a home — not tables and chairs. 
We can afford more if I work, too. We 
can pay some one to do the stuff you 
think I ought to do. And you'll go on 
climbing up in your work and I'll go 
on in mine and we'll both grow to some- 
thing and he somebody and have some- 
thing to give each other. It will be 
fair — we'll be pulling together — pals and 
lovers like Tom and Aim. That's why 
they're so ideally happy. 

Keith. Yes, but we're different. We 
couldn't — 

Ruth. You're not fair, Keith. 

Keith. Great guns, Ruth — neither are 
you. 

Ruth. I am. I am perfectly. (Their 
voices rise together.) 

Tom. (Coming hack from the workroom.) 
What's the row? Hello, Ruthie Creel. 

Ruth. (Giving her hand to Tom.) Hello, 
you nice Tommie Herford. I always 
lose my heart to you in your working 
clothes. 

Tom. You have my heart in any kind 
of clothes. 

Ruth. Keith's cross with me, Tom. 
You're much nicer to me than he is. 

Keith. You never spring any of your 
revolutionary speeches on Herford. 
You save all your really soothing re- 
marks for me. 

Ruth. Tom, am I revolutionary ? Aren't 
I just a little cooing dove? 

Tom. Absolutely. 

Daisy. (Coming in from hall.) Dr. Rem- 
ington's here. Millicent's bringing him 
down. But he says he wants to sit up- 
stairs on the parlor sofa, not down in 
the cellar. Tom, will you sign these 
letters now? (Daisy puts the letters on 
the tahle — Tom goes towards the tahle 
as MiLLiCENT comes in from the hall 
hringing Dr. Remington hy the hand.) 
(Dr. Remington is 65. He is inclined 
to portliness and his keen humor and 



kindliness are comhined with an un- 
derstanding and wisdom which make 
him a very strong and a very lovahle 
man. His manner and speech are a 
little deliherate. He has a twinkling 
readiness to tease hut the weight and 
dignity of a successful and important 
physician.) 

Tom. Hello— hello— hello. 

Remington. How are you? 

Keith. (Taking Remington's overcoat.) 
How are you. Dr. Remington? (Ruth 
comes to the doctor to take his hat and 
stick.) 

Remington. Hello, McKenzie. And here's 
that pretty little Ruth thing — knowing 
so much it makes my head ache. 

Ruth. So long as it's your head and not 
mine I don't mind. 

MiLLiCENT. Oh, thank you for the choco- 
lates, grandfather. They're just the kind 
I adore. I could absolutely combostu- 
late you — (Giving him a violent hug.) 
Five pounds, daddie. 

Tom. You're a fine doctor! 

Remington. Chocolate's about the best 
medicine I know of if you want a girl 
to love you. Where's your mother? 

MiLLiCENT. In the cave. (Pointing to 
workroom.) 

Remington. Can't she be excavated? Go 
and dig her out. 

MiLLiCENT. They won't let me. You do it. 

Remington. Hasn't anybody got the cour- 
age to do it? (Keith starts towards 
the door with hox.) 

Daisy. Not me. 

Remington. Well, McKenzie, go and tell 
her to let the work go to thunder and 
come and see her dad. (Keith goes 
into workroom.) Is that the thing that's 
going to get the hundred thousand for 
you? 

Tom. If — yes. 

Remington. Well, go to it — ^boy. I hope 
you hit it. (Sitting in the large chair 
at left.) 

Tom. Thanks. I'm doing my durndest. 
Daisy, you've got some of these dimen- 
sions wrong. Keith will have to give 
them to you again. 

Daisy. Oh, I'm sorry. 

Remington. It's a good thing you're 
working for your own brother, Daisy — 
nobody else would have you. 

Daisy. You're the only person in the 
whole world who isn't impressed with 
my business ability. 



938 



HE AND SHE 



Remington. Stuff! I wager yon say in 
your prayers every night — Oh, Lord, de- 
liver me from this job and get me a 
good husband. 

Daisy. {Laughing with the others and 
going to Remington.) That's a very 
stemmy tie you're wearing. Do you 
get me? 

Remington. Not exactly. All I know is 
I'd rather be stemmy than seedy. 

Keith. {Opening the workroom door.) 
Don't, you want me to carry that in for 
you, Mrs. Herford? 

Ann. {From within.) No, no — I'd rather 
do it myself. 

Keith. It's too heavy for you. 

Ann. No it isn't. (Ann comes in carry- 
ing the figure of a woman in the nude 
— about a foot high. The figure is in 
wet clay and stands on a modeling 
hoard.) 

Tom. Steady there! Steady! Let me 
take it. 

Ann. Don't touch it! 

Remington. Hello there! 

Ann. Hello, daddy ! I couldn't come out 
until I finished my lady. Isn't she nice ? 
She's ready to be cast now. Come and 
look at her, Tom. She isn't so bad? 

Tom. She looks pretty good to me. 

Remington. She looks a little chilly to 
me. Why don't you put a full suit of 
clothes on one of 'em — just for a 
change, Ann? 

Ann. You nice, horrid, sweet, adorable, 
cross old thing! Why didn't you come 
yesterday. I don't see why I love you 
so when you never do anything I want 
you to. 

Remington. If I did I wouldn't be half 
as irresistible. Aren't you going to stop 
for the day now and pay a little atten- 
tion to me? 

Ann. I am. 

Millicent. Mother, when can I see you? 
Alone I mean. 

Ann. After awhile. Have you had a 
nice day, dear? 

Millicent. Gorgeous! But I have to 
see you about something. 

Ann. You do? {Holding Millicent.) 
Look at her — dad. Hasn't she grown? 

Millicent. Mother, may I stay home 
from school one more day? 

Ann. Gracious! Is that what you want 
to see me about? 

Millicent. That's just one thing. Can't 
I, mother? All the girls are staying 
over. Mayn't I? Please — ^please. 



Ann. I have to think a little. Lef s wait 
and talk it over, Daisy, aren't we 
going to have some tea? 

Daisy. It will be ready in a minute. 

Remington. Thank God! Then we'll go 
upstairs. 

Ann. No, down here — it's much nicer. 
You'll have to get used to it, dad. 

Millicent. Well — you be thinking — but 
you be thinking — yes — for I've just got 
to stay over. I've just got to. It would 
be perfectly ridiculous if I didn't. {She 
goes out through hall.) 

Re^niington. {Nodding after Millicent.) 
Getting more like you every day, Ann. 

Ann. She's your grandchild, you know. 

Remington. I like 'em that way. I'd 
rather she was stubborn as a mule than 
have a wabbly spine. 

Ann. {Talcing off her smock.) But a 
little wabbling once in a while is rather 
a pleasant thing to live with. For in- 
stance, it would make me very happy 
indeed if you wabbled enough to admit 
that this is a beautiful studio and that 
having it in the house where we live is 
the most sensible thing in the world. 

Remington. It would be all right if you'd 
stay upstairs and mind your own busi- 
ness. Tom, if you don't look out you'll 
be so mixed up you'll be upstairs keep- 
ing house and Ann will be downstairs 
keeping shop. 

Tom. I don't know how I'd keep house — 
but Ann could keep shop all right. 

Remington. Is that the way you feel 
about it, McKenzie ? When you're mar- 
ried are you going to stay at home and 
polish up while Ruth goes on running 
the magazine? 

Keith. It looks as if that's about the 
way it'll have to be. 

Ruth. {Bringing the cake down to table.) 
That's a splendid suggestion. Dr. Rem- 
ington. Keith thinks somebody's got 
to do it for a successful marriage — and I 
won't — so why not you, dear? {Point- 
ing at Keith.) (Keith looks at Ruth 
and turns away in hopeless disgust.) 

Remington. {Winking at Ruth and low- 
ering his voice to her.) Keep at it. He'll 
come to it. (Ann laughs as she cuts 
the cake.) 

Keith. I don't see that it's so funny. 

Remington. {Going to table to get a 
piece of cake.) You bet it's not funny. 
Daisy, would you like your husband to 
wash the dishes if you happened to be 
too much occupied to do it yourself? 



RACHEL CROTHERS 



939 



Daisy. I'd kill him if he did. {Bringing 
the cream and sugar to large table.) 

Remington. Oh — well — ^with one perfect- 
ly normal woman in the room I'm much 
more comfortable. (He settles himself 
elaborately in his chair at left.) 

Keith. I'm serious. I'd like to know if 
there's anything queer or preposterous 
in a fellow wanting a girl to give up 
hard, slavish work and let him take care 
of her when she marries him. 

Ruth. When she wants to do the work. 
Don't leave that out. 

Tom. I don't see that you, Keith, or any 
other fellow has got any kick coming 
so long as the girl makes you happy. 

Keith. I'd like to hear your angle on it 
if you don't mind, doctor. 

Ruth. Yes. Keith loves to hear his mid- 
Yictorian ideas well supported. 

Remington. Oh, I'm not so moth-eaten 
as I may look. In fact, I'm a damned 
sight more advanced than you women 
are. You're still yelling about your 
right to do anything on land or sea 
you want to do. We gave you that long 
ago. 

Ann. So nice of you! 

Ruth. (Sitting below the table at right.) 
Why talk about it all then? What else 
is there to it? 

Remington. Put this in your pipe. The 
more women make good — the more they 
come into the vital machinery of run- 
ning the world, the more they compli- 
cate their own lives and the more trage- 
dies they lay up for themselves. 

Ruth. The more they escape — ^you mean. 

Ann. (As she pours the tea.) There 
isn't a sigle hard thing that can happen 
to a woman that isn't made easier by 
being able to make her own living. And 
you know it. 

Remingon. Oh. It's a hopeless subject 
for conversation. What everybody says 
is true. There's the rub. 

Daisy. Two? 

Re]\iington. Three. (Keith gives a cup 
of tea to Remington.) 

Tom. Go on. What were you going to 
say? 

Ann. Yes, go on, dad. 

Remington. (To Ann.) You hang on to 
yourself then till I get through. The 
development of women hasn't changed 
the laws of creation. 

Ann. Oh yes it has. (Remington looks 
at her.) Sorry. Go on. 



Remington. - Sex is still the strongest 
force in the world. (He looks at Ann 
again.) 

Ann. (Smiling.) Go on. 

Remington. And no matter how far she 
goes she doesn't change the fundamental 
laws of her own — 

Tom. Individuality ? 

Ruth. Type? 

Daisy. Character ? 

Keith. Ego. 

Ruth. Psychology. 

Ann. Species. 

Tom. Breed. 

Daisy. Spots. 

Re]\iington. No ! — Mechanism — mechan- 
ism. And when the sensitive — involved 
— complex elements of a woman's na- 
ture become entangled in the responsi- 
bilitiy of a man's work — and the two 
things fight for first place in her — she's 
got a hell of a mess on hand. 

Ann. But her psychological mechanism 
has changed. 

Remington. No. 

Ann. Yes. 

Tom. Yes, I think it has. 

Keith. It couldn't. 

Ruth. But it has. Women who are 
really doing things nowadays are an 
absolutely different breed from the one- 
sided domestic animals they used to be. 

Ann. But men don't realize how deeply 
and fiercely creative women love their 
work. 

Remington. That's just it — Just what 
I'm getting at. A woman of genius 
puts in her work the same fierce love 
she puts into her child or her man. 
That's where her fight is' — for one or 
the other of 'em has got to be the 
stronger in her. It isn't a question of 
her right to do things — nor her ability 
— God knows — plenty of 'em are beating 
men at their own jobs now. Why, I 
sometimes think she'll go so far that 
the great battle of the future will be 
between the sexes for supremacy. But 
I tell you — she has tragedies ahead of 
her — the tragedy of choice between the 
two sides of her own nature. 

Ruth. Well, thank you — I'll take any 
and all of the hard things that go with 
my job — but none of the ones that come 
from being a dub and giving it up. 

Remington. How about you, Daisy? 
Could any man on earth make you stop 
typewriting and live for him alone? 



940 



HE AND SHE 



Daisy. Oh, I'm not in this class. Ann 
and Euth both have men to depend on 
if they Vv^ant them. I'm taking care of 
myself because I've got to — and I must 
say this soul tragedy of choice stuff 
makes me a little tired. (She starts 
toward hall.) 

Kemington. (Stopping Daisy hy talcing 
her hand.) If I were twenty or thirty 
years younger, I'd go in for you strong. 

Daisy. Yes, I know — I'm just the kind 
that older men appreciate very deeply. 
(She goes out.) 

Remington. Poor Daisy. 

Ann. Poor Daisy. She's the happiest, 
most independent thing in the world. 
(Straightening the things on the table 
— Keith having taken the tea tray 
away.) 

Ruth. Much to be envied. No strings 
to her independence. 

Keith. And so cocky and spunky — no- 
body can even ask her if she's ever been 
in love. 

Remington. Sure sign she has been 
then. 

Tom. But she never has. 

Remington. How do you know? 

Tom. Pve been pretty close to her all my 
life. No blighted bud about Daisy. 

Remington. She's putting up a darned 
good bluff, I must say. 

Ruth. Bluff? What do you mean? 

Ann. Father thinks there isn't a girl 
alive who wouldn't rather have a beau 
than a job. 

Remington. I do. And Daisy looks so 
self-reliant she has to be cocky to keep 
up appearances. Under her skin, she's 
not half the man that little lady-like 
looking thing Ruth is. 

Ruth. Now, Dr. Remington, you may go 
upstairs. 

Remington. I haven't time now. Pve 
wasted it all down here. 

Ruth. Oh, come and look at the living 
room just a minute. It's too beautiful. 

Remington. Has it got a carpet on it 
yet? 

Ann. Yes, absolutely finished. 

Remington. Because I don't mind saying 
my feet are like ice from this con- 
founded brick floor. 

Ruth. Oh, the beautiful tiles! 

Remington. I'll take a little less Italian 
beauty and a little more American com- 
fort in mine. (Ruth, Remington and 
Keith go out through hall.) 



Tom. (Stopping Ann as she starts with 
the others.) Ann — about this thing. 
Why in the name of heaven didn't you 
say you were disappointed in it long 
ago? 

Ann. I kept hoping each day I was mis- 
taken; that what I missed would come 
back. But when I saw it out here — I'm 
afraid of it, Tom. 

Tom. Afraid of what? That I'll fail? 
Lose it? (Ann nods.) Nonsense! 
You're tired of it. There can't be such 
a change in it as all that. The idea's 
absolutely the same and I've worked as 
I never — 

Ann. I know. I know! And oh, the 
beauty — the beauty of the work ! That's 
the pity. 

Tom. Pity? 

Ann. I mean somebody without half your 
skill as an artist may have an idea — an 
idea that's new. 

Tom. Oh bosh! Nothing can be done, 
anyhow. It's too late. Besides, I don't 
agree with you. I honestly do not, Ann. 
I know you're saying this because 
you're trying to boost me and get the 
best out of me; but the thing's done, 
you know. Don't confuse me. I must 
go on now. What's the use of talking 
about it? It's too late. 

Ann. No, it isn't. 

Tom. It is. Of course it is. You can't 
expect me to begin all over again and 
put into it a subtle intangible some- 
thing I don't even feel. Damn it? It 
will have to fail then. 

Ann. (Taking hold of Tom quickly.) It 
can't. You've got to win, Tom. You've 
got to. It's the most important thing^ 
you've ever done. Think of where it 
will put you. Think of the money. 

Tom. I have thought. Pve done the best 
that's in me, I tell you. It is the best, 
the very best I've ever — 

Ann. But it isn't. It isn't. It isn't as 
great as your last two things — 

Tom. Oh— 

Ann. Tom — listen — you don't know how 
hard it is to say it. I'd rather you won 
this than anything that could possibly 
happen. You know that. Don't you? 

Tom. Of course. But this isn't getting 
anywhere. It will have to go in as it 
stands. 

Ann. Wait — I — I've wanted to talk to 
you about something for a long time — 
but I wasn't sure — and now I am. 

Tom. Well— 



RACHEL CROTHERS 



941 



MiLLlOENT. {Coming back through hall.) 
Thank goodness, mother. I can't wait 
any longer. 

Ann. (To Millicent.) Oh, just a min- 
ute, dear. 

Tom. :N'o, that's all right. There's noth- 
ing more to be said. 

Ann. I appreciate what you mean — yes 
I do. But it doesn't get me. And all I 
can do is to go after it as I see it. (B'e 
goes into workroom. Ann stands look- 
ing at the frieze.) 

Millicent. (Pulling Ann toward tahle.) 
Mother — come here. Mother, please. 
Why — what I wanted to — sit down. 
(Putting Ann into a chair above the 
long tahle.) Every one of the girls are 
staying over tomorrow. It looks as if 
you were having such a slow time that 
you didn't have anything to do but go 
back to school if you don't stay. And 
I want — Why Fanny's going to have a 
party tomorrow night — just a little one, 
and I want to have eight of them to 
dinner first. (Sitting at right end of 
table.) 

Ann. Oh — 

Millicent. Only eight. You see, Fan- 
ny's brother's home, too, and — ^you see 
it's — Everybody has dinners and things 
you know before they go to the dance, 
you know, and — will you, Mother? 
Can't I? 

Ann. But dearest you've done so much 
since you've been home. You can't get 
back to school too soon. 'New York is 
dreadful. It really is! The sensible 
mothers can't compete with the idiotic 
ones who let girls do all these silly 
things. 

Millicent. Don't be foolish, Mother. 

Ann. And school does begin tomorrow. 
And they expect — 

Millicent. They don't expect us to be 
back. All the really smart girls stay 
over. It's only the deadly slow ones who 
are there on time. Please, mother — 
please. There'll only be eight of us; 
and Fanny's done so much for me I 
think it's as little as I could do to have 
her brother to dinner. Don't you? 

Ann. Is he nice? 

Millicent. Yes he is. He's older, you 
know and more fun. He got full dress 
clothes this Christmas — long tails, you 
know, and he looks perfectly — Mother, 
you're not listening, (^nn's eyes have 
gone back to the frieze again.) 



Ann. Yes, T am dear — Yes I am. Full 
dress clothes. 

Millicent. Well — May I ? 

Ann. Dearest — I may be frightfully busy 
tomorrow. I may have to do the most 
important thing I've ever done in my 
life and if I do it would be awfully hard 
to have — 

Millicent. Oh, now mother! Fanny's 
mother's had a party or something for 
her every single night. She took her 
to the Plaza to dance after the matinee 
today and I've never been to a hotel or 
any exciting place in my life. You try 
to keep me so young mother and, jiminy 
cricket, I'm sixteen. 

Ann. Positively ancient. 

Millicent. Well — sixteen's old enough 
for any thing. Will you mother — please 
— please. (Kissing her mother s throat.) 

Ann. But what would I do if I had to 
do this other thing? 

Millicent. What other thing? Can't it 
wait? 

Ann. No it can't. That's just it. Your 
father may — I may be working with him 
all day tomorrow. 

Millicent. You needn't have such a ter- 
ribly elaborate dinner, — you know, but 
I'm crazy to do it. In fact I just have 
to. I've already asked most of them and 
they're dying to come. 

Ann. You didn't. Kitten — how could 
you? 

Millicent. But Mother, it's so important 
— and I don't see how I can get out of 
it now. You wouldn't want me to be 
compromised or anything, would you ? 

Ann. (Laughing and kissing Millicent.) 
You blessed baby — you ought to be 
spanked. 

Millicent. You're an angel, mummie. 
You will — won't you? (Putting her 
cheek against Ann's.) 

Ann. What have you got in your ears? 

Millicent. Earrings of course. 

Ann. Heavens ! Take them off. 

Millicent. Oh, mother! All the girls 
wear them. 

Ann. Take them off! 

Millicent. But they have so much style. 

Ann. Style your granny ! Take them off 
or I'll bite 'em off. (Millicent squirms 
and giggles as Ann bites her ears.) 

Millicent. Wait — wait. I will. I think 
you're mean to make me. You have 
such terribly strict ideas. 

Ann. Your ears are much prettier than 
those things. Can't you understand 



942 



HE AND SHE 



that nothing is so attractive as just be- 
ing natural? Why cover up with stuff 
like that? 

MiLLiCENT. You are funny! You'll stay 
at home and meet everybody tomorrow 
night, won't you? I want them to see 
you. You are sweet, mummy. 

Ann. Do you love me a lot? 

MiLLiCENT. Of course. (Kissing Ann.) 

Ann. (Rising suddenly and going to look 
at the frieze.) Oh, I'm so unhappy. 

MiLLiCENT. Why? What's the matter? 
I should think you'd be tickled to death 
if father's going to get all that money. 

Tom. (Coming in from the workroom 
quickly.) You say — (He stops seeing 

MiLLiCENT.) 

MiLLiCENT. Aren't you coming up, now 
to plan it all? 

Ann. In a few — 

Tom. Go on Millicent. (Millicent skips 
out.) Why didn't you speak the min- 
ute you saw it go wrong — or thought 
you did? 

Ann. I was never sure, until today, dear. 

Tom. I don't agree with you at all but 
still it isn't exactly inspiring — ^knowing 
you think I'm going to fail. 

Ann. Tom — I'm sorry. 

Tom. It's all right — but you know I care 
more what you think than anybody in 
the world and — I — it's sort of a knock- 
out. 

Ann. I had to tell you the truth — when 
I was sure. I had to. Tom — listen — 
since you've been working at this an 
idea has come to me. At first I thought 
the idea was too big for me — that I 
never could carry it out — and then I 
said I won't let myself be afraid — and 
it's grown and grown night and day. 
Last night I finished it — down here — 

Tom. The— 

Ann. The drawings — I want you to look 
at them — and if — if you like it — if you 
think the idea is better than yours I 
want you to take it — use it, instead of 
yours. 

Tom. Why Ann, you're not serious. (She 
nods.) Good heavens, child, you know 
— you know how tremendous this thing 
is as well as I do. 

Ann. Yes T do! But I tell you my idea 
is big. Oh, I knew you'd look like that 
when I told you. You can't believe it 
of course — but Tom — . It's there — 
something vital and alive — with a 
strange charm in it. And I offer it to 
you dear — if you want it. 



Tom. (Taking her in his arms strongly 
and kissing her passionately.) You 
generous darling! It's like you to do 
this. You dear — I love you for it. 

Ann. (Responding warmly to his love.) 
I want you to have it. It's more than I 
ever dared dream I could do. 

Tom. But darling — you couldn't possibly 
do anything for a scheme as big as this. 

Ann. Why do you take that for granted? 
Why do you say that — before you've 
even seen my sketches? 

Tom. (After a pause.) Well — where are 
they? 

Ann. (Taking a key out of her pocket.) 
In the lower drawer in my cupboard. 

Tom. (Taking the key.) No, don't come 
with me. 

Ann. But I — 

Tom. I don't want you to explain any- 
thing. I want it to strike me fresh. 
But I'm going to hit hard — right from 
the shoulder. If it's good — all right. 
If it's bad — all right. And I expect you 
to take it like a man. (Ann nods. Tom 
hurries into workroom as Ruth comes 
in from hall.) 

Ruth. Have you told him? 

Ann. Yes — he's gone to look at my 
sketches now. 

Ruth. Ann — I've been thinking. You're 
a fool to give away your ideas. Make 
your models and send them in yourself. 

Ann. What ? 

Ruth. Certainly. Why not ? 

Ann. Oh, Ruth — I couldn't. Some day 
I will. Someday. - 

Ruth. Some day! You've got the big- 
gest idea you've ever had. Do it — send 
it in — yourself — on your own feet. 

Ann. Tom would think I was out of 
my — 

Ruth. You know it's good — don't you? 

Ann. Yes, I do. 

Ruth. It belongs to you — and if you 
don't take care of it and give it its 
chance, you kill something which is 
more important than you are. Don't 
forget that. You're not just the talented 
woman, you've got downright genius, 
and you ought to make everything give 
way to that. Everything. If you don't, 
you're weak. 

Ann. Wait and see what Tom says. He'll 
know. He's so dead right about my 
stuff — always. 

Ruth. Oh, you lucky people! Pulling 
together. If Keith only had a little of 
it towards me. Ann, what shall I do ? 



RACHEL CROTHEES 



943 



Ann. (With quick sympathy.) What, 
dear? 

Ruth. He's never, never, never going to 
know what a sacrifice it will be for me 
to stop just as I'm getting, what I've 
slaved and struggled for all these years. 
And I can't bear to hurt him. 

Ann. Dear old Keith. He just cant see. 
And he loves you so. 

IvEiTH. (Coming in from hall.) ■ Wliy 
did you come back down here ? 

Ruth. Just to run away from — you. ISTo, 
I didn't. (Going to him sweetly.) You 
know I didn't. 

Ann. (As Daisy comes in from hall.) 
Daisy, tell me the minute Tom comes 
out. 

Keith. (To Ruth.) I'll be up in a min- 
ute. I've got to cover some stuff in 
there. (Exit Ann and Ruth.) 

Keith. You're a wonder, Daisy. You 
don't mind sitting up late to get your 
letters off, do you? 

Daisy. Oh, no — I'm healthy. 

Keath. You're a peach. I'm sorry I 
made you huffy. All I meant was that 
no man would ever think he could ask 
you to marry him unless he had an aw- 
fully big bank-roll to offer. 

(Remington comes in from hall to get 
his hat and stick — just in time to 
hear Keith's last remark. Daisy 
rises — consciously. Keith goes into 
iDorkroom. Remington goes to end 
of table.) 

Daisy. I suppose that speech sounded 

rather queer. He was talking about 

Ruth, of course. 
Remington. Don't apologize or you'll 

make me suspicious. 
Daisy. Now — 
Remington. It sounded very much as if 

he were making love to you. 
Daisy. Oh— 
Remington. I wish to God he would. 

You'd — be a much better wife for him 

than the other one. 
Daisy. You — 
Remington. You know you would. Why 

don't you go in and get him? Cut the 

other one out. 
Daisy. How dare you say such a thing 

to me? 
Remington. Why shouldn't I say it? 
Daisy. Because you have no right to. I 

haven't the slightest interest in Keith 

McKenzie — not the slightest, 



Remington. * No. I can see that. 

Daisy. What do you mean? 

Reimington. (Suddenly understanding.) 
Why my dear girl, I didn't mean any- 
thing. I'm sorry. 

Daisy. I don't know why in the world 
you said such a thing to me. 

Remington. Well — well — forget it. 

Daisy. You don't think from anything 
I've ever done or said — 

Remington. I don't think anything — :I 
don't know anything. . . 

Daisy. I don't see why you said it. 

Ann. (Coming from hall.) What's the 
matter ? 

(As Daisy breaks away from Remington 
who is holding her by the wrists.) 

Daisy. Let me go, please. I'm in a 
hurry. (Daisy rushes out through hall.) 

Ann. What on earth are you doing to 
Daisy? 

Remington. She's doing things to me. 

Ann. What ? 

Remington. Convincing me of some of 
my old-fashioned ideas. (Tom rushes in 
from the workroom with a large roll of 
drawings.) 

Tom. Ann — they're wonderful. 

Ann. Oh— Tom! 

Tom. (Spreading the roll of sketches on 
the table — Ann helping him.) Beauti- 
ful! Astoundingly beautiful! Well as 
I know you, I didn't think you had it in 
you. 

Ann. I can't believe it. Are you going 
to use it. 

Tom. Oh, my dear girl. That's different. 
Now don't be hurt. Why Ann — it isn't 
possible. You — you're mistaken — way 
off. I don't know what's got into you. 
This is imaginative and charming and 
graceful — full of abandon and fantasy 
and even vitality — but ye gods, child, it 
isn't in this class. 

Ann. But you could strengthen it. It 
will grow. You'll see more in it. 
Really you will. Don't make up your 
mind yet. 

Remington. What are you talking about? 
What has she done? 

Tom. Drawings for a frieze — like this. 
And they're amazing, doctor. Positively 
amazing. 

Remington. You don't say. 

Tom. Wait — let's see what McKenzie 
says. McKenzie — 

Ann. (Pounding on the workroom door.) 
Keith — Keith — come here — quickly. 



944 



HE AOT) SHE 



Eemington. Looks beautiful to me, 
daughter. When did you do all this? 
Do you mean to say you didn't know 
anything about it, Tom? 

Tom. Not a thing. She's been — (Keith 
comes in.) . Here McKenzie. Look at 
this. Here's a scheme Mrs. Herford's 
worked out. Begins here — See — see? 
Get it ? What do you think ? 

Keith. Mrs. Herford? 

Tom. Yes. Do you get it? 

McKENzie. Of course. 

Tom. Well? What do you say? 

Keith. I say it's as beautiful as anything 
I ever saw. 

Tom. Great ! And what do you think of 
it for a big place like mine? 

Keith. For thatf 

Tom. Yes. 

Keith. Oh — I — too fanciful, isn't it? 
Would the crowd understand it ? Needs 
a big clear striking thing like that. 
Don't you think? 

Tom. Then you don't think it's as good 
as mine for this competition. 

Keith. As yours? Heavens no! 

Ann. {Standing at right — facing the 
three men.) Then do you know what 
I'm going to do? 

Keith and Tom. ^^^at? 

Ann. Make my models and send them in 
myself. 

Tom, Keith and Remington. What? 

Ann. Why not? 

Remington. . You don't mean it, daughter. 

Ann. I do. I mean it with my whole 
soul. 

Remington. Why do you want to do any- 
thing so foolish? 

Ann. Because I made it. Because it's 
my work. You all say it's good. Why 
shouldn't I send it? I don't mind fail- 
ure. I only want it to stand its little 
chance with the rest. I love it. It 
means more to me than I can possibly 
— why shouldn't I? I want to. 

Tom. Then do it. Why not? It's your 
own affair. Go ahead. {Putting out 
the hand of a good pal-ship to her.) 

Ann. Oh, Tom — thank you. You're 
splendid. 

{The curtain falls.) 



ACT II 

Time : Four months later — ahout nine in 
the evening. The living room in the 
Herford house. 

The room is long and wide, dignified and 
restful in proportions. At center back 
a large fireplace with a severe mantel 
in cream marble. A wide window covers 
the entire left wall, and wide doors at 
right lead into the library. A single 
door at bach, left of fireplace, leads into 
hall. The walls are hung in a soft dull 
silk which throws out the strong simple 
lines of the woodwork. A bright wood 
fire is burning and soft lights throw a 
warm glow over the gray carpet and the 
furniture which is distinguished and 
artistic but distinctly comfortable, giv- 
ing the room the air of being much 
lived in and used. 

At Curtain: The room is empty a mom- 
ent. Daisy is singing in the library at 
right. Ellen, a maid, middle-aged and 
kindly,' comes from hall carrying a sil- 
ver coffee service. 

Daisy. {As she comes in from library.) 
Here's your coffee, girls. Come in here. 
Put the flowers over there, Ellen. 

(Ellen moves the vase of flowers and 
makes room for the coffee service 
on table right center. Ruth comes 
in from the library with a book. 
Ellen goes to fire and pokes it, 
then straightens the writing things 
on the desk.) 
Daisy. Ann, here's your coffee. 
Ann. {Calling from library.) I don't 
want any, thank you. What time is it, 
Daisy? 
Daisy. About nine. Why? 
Ann. Oh, the postman. I'm waiting for 

the last mail. 
Daisy. Well, don't. A watched pot you 
know. {To Ruth.) She's watched 
every mail for a week. I almost think 
Ann will be more disappointed than 
Tom himself if he doesn't get the com- 
mission. {They take their coffee to the 
fire.) 
Ruth. I hope to goodness he does. Every 

body's so dead sure of him. 
Daisy. Almost too sure. I'm beginning 
to be frightened myself. The time's 
about up. 
Ann. {Hurrying in from the library.) 
That's the postman — isn't it? 



EACHEL CROTHERS 



945 



Ellen. No ma'am. Beggin' your pardon. 
It ain't — I'm listenin' too. 

Ann. Are you, Ellen? Keep on and 
bring it up the minute it comes. 

Ellen. Faith I will. I've got the habit 
meself lately of watchin' for the mail . 

Ann. Have you? 

Ellen. Every time I hear the whistle I 
drop whatever I'm doin' like it was hot 
— and run. 

Ann. Do you? 

Ellen. And just before I open the door 
I say — The Holy Saints be praised, I 
hope it's come this time — whatever it is 
they're lookin' fer. {She goes out 
through the hall.) 

Ann. Oh, dear! It gets worse as the 
time grows shorter. 

Daisy. Ann, working yourself up like 
this won't make Tom get the commis- 
sion. Stop thinking about it. 

Ann. But I can't, Daisy Dimple. He 
ought to hear tonight if he's ever going 
to. 

Daisy. Well, I'll be glad when it's all 
over and we know one way or the other 
— and can settle down to ordinary life 
again. It's almost given me nervous 
indigestion. 

Ann. Listen! There's the postman. 

Ruth. {Jumping so that her cup and 
saucer almost fall.) Oh, Ann, you're 
getting me so excited, I'll listen for the 
postman all the rest of my life. 

Ann. I know I shall. Oh, Tom must get 
it. He must. If he does, I'll wire Milli- 
cent. (Taking up a picture of Millicent 
which stands in a frame on the table.) 
I think I'll run up to school Sunday 
just to give her a good hug. I get so 
hungry for her! 

Ruth. Isn't it splendid the school is so 
really what it ought to be? 

Ann. Yes. So much that's sweet and 
right that one can't get in New York 
for a girl. 

Daisy. (Sewing on a froch which is 
nearly finished.) She seems pretty keen 
about it herself. 

Ann. Tes — rather. Easter vacation when 
I was working day and night to get my 
models off, she was perfectly contented 
to stay at school. 

Ruth. She's an adorable kiddie but I 
don't envy you your job. 

Ann. Why ? 

Ruth. I think being a mother is the most 
gigantic, difficult, important and thank- 
less thing in the world. 



Daisy. That's the most sensible remark 
I ever heard you give vent to, Ruth. 

Ann. There's something much more glor- 
ious in it than being thanked. You'll 
miss the most wonderful thing in the 
world, Ruth, if you don't have children. 

Ruth. I know. I know. But work has 
taken that all out of me. It does, you 
know. It would bore me stiff to take 
care of a baby. 

Daisy. That's a pleasant prospect for 
Keith. Do you expect him to do it? 

Ruth. (Making herself comfortable on 
the couch.) I'm not going to have chil- 
dren. 

Ann. (Going to sit at the fire.) That's 
perfectly fair if he knows it. No reason 
why you should if you don't want 'em. 

Daisy. Well, I think it's a rotten way to 
live. 

Ruth. Wait till you decide to marry 
somebody yourself, young lady, and see 
how you like giving up everything that 
interests you most. 

Daisy. Well, by Jove, if I ever do marry, 
I'll marry and do all the things that 
belong to my side of the game. No 
halfway business for me. You might as 
well be a man's mistress and be done 
with it. 

Ruth. (Half serious — half joining.) 
That's the ideal relationship for a man 
and woman. Each to keep his inde- 
pendence in absolutely every way — and 
live together merely because they charm 
each other. But somehow we don't seem 
to be able to make it respectable. 

Daisy. I suppose that's very clever and 
modern. 

Ruth. Oh, no — it's as old as the ever- 
lasting hills. The trouble is children 
are apt to set in and mess things up. 
It's hard on them. 

Daisy. So far as I can see most every- 
thing that's modern is hard on children. 

Ann. (Laughing .) How's the gown get- 
ting on, Daisy? 

Daisy. Most finished. 

Ruth. That's awfully pretty. 

Ann. Slip it on so we can see. 

Daisy. Oh, I can't. 

Ann. (Rising and walking to Daisy.) 
Yes, you can — over that one — just to 
give us an idea. 

Daisy. I'll look a tub and it really makes 
me quite respectably straight up and 
down. 

Ann. You're a perfectly scrumptious size 
and shape. Isn't she, Ruth? 



946 



HE AND SHE 



Ruth. Magnificent ! 

Daisy. Yes, Ruth, skinny women always 
enthuse over their fat friends. 

Ruth. (Rising and goes to Daisy.) Oh, 
you aren't fat, Daisy. That is, not too 
fat. How does this go. It's terribly 
complicated, isn't it? 

Daisy. No — perfectly simple. Wait — 
this goes over here. 

Ann. No, it doesn't, does it? 

Daisy. Yes, it does. Right there. Don't 
you see? The style of the whole gown 
depends on that. 

Ruth. You must have it on wrong side 
before. 

Daisy. Nonsense! Can't you see, Ann? 
It's as simple as can be. 

Ann. Yes, I know dear — but does this 
go on the shoulder — or down on your 
hip? (They all talk at once for a mo- 
ment on the subject of where the end 
of the girdle fastens.) Oh, here! I see, 
of course! There! 

Daisy. Now, does it make me look big? 

Ruth. You want to look big, don't you? 

Daisy. Well, I want to look life size. 
Don't you see how much better I am 
through here than I was last year, Ann ? 
{Touching her hip.) 

Ann. Much. The female form divine is 
improving all the time anyway — grad- 
ually getting back to what it was in the 
beginning. 

Daisy. I don't expect to look like you in 
it, Ruth. 

Ruth. Oh, don't you, dear? Then why 
don't you have it stick out this way as 
much as possible so everybody will know 
you mean to look broad ? There's every- 
thing in that, you know. 

Daisy. I think it would be awfully good 
on you — to fill out what you haven't got. 
Then everybody would know you didn't 
mean to look so narrow — even if you 
are. 

Ann. You're both delightful. Perfect 
specimens of your types. When I look 
at Ruth I think the most alluring charm 
a woman can have is beautiful bones 
without a superfluous ounce of flesh on 
them. And when I look at you, Daisy, 
I think after all, there's nothing so 
stunning as a big strong girl with per- 
fectly natural lines — so natural that we 
know she'd be even better looking with 
no clothes on at all. 

Daisy. Heavens, Ann! Your sculptor's 
eye is a little embarrassing. 



Ruth. Evidently you think my clothes 
help me out a good deal. But at least 
I'm free and comfortable, too. Can you 
touch the floor, Daisy? 

Daisy. Of course. {The two women bend 
— touching the floor with the tips of 
their fingers.) 

(Tom, Remington and Keith come in 
from the hall.) 

Tom. What's going on? 

Remington. What are you trying to do, 
Ruth — swim or fly? 

Ann. We're just saying that the waist 
measure expands as we broaden in our 
ideas. 

Keith. Is that the fashion now? 

Ruth. Yes — broad and free. 

Remington. That's one thing you women 
have to acknowledge men* have more 
sense about than you have. 

Ann, Ruth, Daisy. What? 

Remington. Our figures. We've had the 
same shape since the Garden of Eden 
and you've had hundreds of absolutely 
different kinds. 

Ann. Turn around, Daisy, I want to try 
something. (She accidentally sticks a 
pin into Daisy^s shoulder.) 

Daisy. Ouch ! 

Ann. Oh, I'm sorry! You seem to be 
so close to your clothes. 

Remington. What are you doing to her? 

Daisy. She's sticking pins into me. 

Ann. For her own good. Isn't that 
pretty ? 

Tom. What? 

Ann. The frock. 

Tom. Is that new? 

Keith. Which? 

Daisy. Do you mean to say you don't 
realize I have on something different 
from what I wore at dinner? 

Ruth. No use dressing for Keith. He 
never sees anything. 

Daisy. I'm going to undress now. Per- 
haps that will interest you more. (Ann 
begins to unfasten the gown.) 

Remington. Much more. 

Ann. Was that the postman? 

Daisy. No, it was not. 

Remington. The postman habit is getting 
on my nerves. You're all jumping and 
listening till you'll have St. Vitus dance 
if you don't stop. 

Ann. How can we help it? 

RE:\riNGT0N. After all, a few other com- 
petitions have been lost and won — and 
people have lived through it. It^s not 
the only thing in life. 



RACHEL CROTHERS 



947 



Tom. You'd think it was if you had 
$100,000 at stake. (Ellen comes in from 
hall. and takes out the coffee tray.) 

Ann. Aren't we going to have some 
bridge? Who wants to play? I know 
you do, daddy. 

Remington. I have to get even with you 
for that last rubber, Tom. 

Tom. You can't do it. 

Daisy. I want to play, with you, doctor. 

Remington. Come on. 

Ruth. I'm afraid to play against you. 

Remington. {Turning at the library 
door.) What's that? 

Others. What ? 

Remington. The postman! 

Others. Oh! Ruth and Daisy go into 
lihrary R. with Remington.) 

Ann. {To Tom and Keith.) Coming? 

To^i. You go, Keith. I want to look at 
the paper a minute. 

Keith. Oh, my game's no good. You go. 

Ann. Now don't stay out here and listen 
and wait. If there is any mail Ellen 
will bring it straight up. 

Tom. I won't. I'll be with you — in two 
minutes. 

Ann. Anyway — tonight doesn't necessar- 
ily decide it. There may be still two 
or three more days. Isn't that so, 
Keith? 

Keith. Yes, I think so. 

Remington, Ruth, Daisy. {Calling from 
the lihrary.) Come on. Come on. 

Ann. Coming. {She goes in.) 

Keith. That's straight. I do think so — 
{A pause. Tom reads.) Don't you? 

Tom. I'm trying to — but these last few 
days of waiting have been — 

Keith. Don't lose your nerve, Herford. 
I'm just as sure as I was the first day. 
If by any wild chance you don't get it — 
it will be a fluke. 

Tom. Oh, no. Oh, no, not by any means. 
The men judging this Jcnow. I'd trust 
them with anything. The fellows who 
lose will have no kick coming on that 
score. 

Keith. Well — I don't see how you can 
lose. 

Tom. a man's a fool to let himself count 
on an uncertainty. I don't mean that 
I've lost sight of the fact that I might 
lose — not for a second — but I confess — 
as the time has grown shorter I've real- 
ized I want it even more than I thought 
I did. 

Keith. Of course you want it. Aside 
from the glory — it's an awful lot of 



money — goyernor, an awful lot of 
money. 

Tom. It is. It would put us straight — 
clear up the house entirely and make it 
possible to do only the things a fellow 
wants to do. That's what I'm after. 
Then — No more competitions for me, 
thank you. Is that the 'phone? I'm as 
bad as Ann — jumping and listening. 
Damn it ! I want to know — one way or 
the other. 

Keith. Of course you do. The cursed 
waiting is enough to make you cut your 
throat. 

Ellen. {Opening the hall door.) The 
telephone for Mr. Herford. 

Tom. Who is it? 

Ellen. I couldn't just get the name, sir. 

Keith. Want me to go? 

Tom. If you don't mind, old man. (Ellen 
goes out.) 

Keith. {Starting to the door and turn- 
ing.) It couldn't be — ^you wouldn't get 
word that way — would you? 

Tom. Uh ? — Oh — nonsense ! No — no — 
nonsense! I'll go — No, I — you go — old 
man. That's not it — of course. (Tom 
listens a moment — showing a tense anx- 
iety.) 

Ruth. {Coming in from the lihrary.) 
They're waiting for you, Tom. The 
cards are dealt. Where's Keith? 

Tom. He'll be b^ck in a minute. 

Ruth. Aren't you going in? 

Tom. Why don't you take my place? I 
don't feel a bit — 

Ruth. I did offer to but Dr. Remington 
said he would like to play bridge this 
evening, not teach it. Wouldn't it be 
seventh heaven to speak the truth on all 
occasions as unconcernedly as Dr. Rem- 
ington does? Imagine the sheer bliss 
of letting go and spitting it all out. 
Have you ever counted the lies you told 
in just one day, Tom? 

Tom. No — I've never had time. (Tom 
starts to go into the lihrary and turns 
to see if Ruth is coming.) 

Ruth. No — I'm going to wait for 
Keith. Tom goes in — Ruth reads for 
a moment.) 

Keith. {Coming hack from the hall.) 
That was — 

Ruth. What? 

Keith. Millicent or her school or some- 
thing. Such a bad connection; they're 
going to call again in a few minutes. 
Is that dress new, dear? 

Ruth. I've had it three years. 



948 



HE AND SHE 



Keith. It's awfully pretty. I wish you'd 

wear it all the time. 
Ruth. I do. 

Keith. Aren't we going in to play? 
Ruth. No, I don't feel like it. Come 

and sit down, dear. Oh, are you going 

to sit way over there? 
Keith. Not 'specially. (Drawing chair 

near the couch — Keith sits facing 

Ruth.) 
Ruth. Comfortable ? 
Keith. Not very. 
Ruth. Have you read this? 
Keith. No. Any good. 
Ruth. Yes — Good enough. (She rises, 

going to the fireplace.) 
Keith. What's the matter? I thought 

you wanted to talk. Where are you 

going ? 
Ruth. No place. 
Keith. You got the fidgets too? 
Ruth. Sort of. 
Keith. Well, stop it. Herford's going 

to be all right. There'll be news in a 

day or so now. 
Ruth. I wasn't thinking of that. I have 

something to tell you. 
Keith. Then why don't vou come and 

tell it? 
Ruth. And if you aren't fine about it-^ 

it will be the greatest disappointment 

in my whole life. 

(Going to Keith and putting a hand 
on his shoulder.) ' 
Keith. You mean if I don't think just 

what you want me to about it. Go on. 

I s^pose I know, anyway. 
Ruth. Then if you do — but you don't. 

It's so wonderful you couldn't guess. 

And you'll just have to see it the right 

way, because if you don't it would mean 

you're what I know you're not. Down 

in your real soul, Keith, you're gener- 

our and fair and right. 
Keith. Suppose you communicate it to 

me first and discuss my soul after- 
wards. 
Ruth. (Sitting on couch facing Keith.) 

Well — Oh you will be sweet won't you, 

Keithie ? 
Keith. I can see it's going to be some- 
thing very pleasant for me. 
Ruth. It is if you . . . 
Keith. It's wonderful if I'm not a fool 

and a pig. Yes, I know. Go on. Go 

on. 
Ruth. Now don't begin that way — 

please dear. Don't shut up your mind 

before I even tell you. 



Keith. Suppose you do tell me. 

Ruth. Well — last week there was a row 
in the office over a matter concerning 
the policy of the magazine and I dif- 
fered with all the men in my depart- 
ment. At last I was sent for by the 
Editor in Chief. He was terribly se- 
vere at first, and I was frightened to 
pieces — but I stuck to my guns — and 
bless your soul he sent for me again 
today and said they had had a meeting 
of the directors and that they decided — 
oh, it's too — 

Keith. What? What? 

Ruth. They had decided to make me 
Editor of the Woman's Magazine. 
(Fighting hack her tears.) Isn't it 
funny ? 

Keith. And I suppose all this introduc- 
tion means you accepted — without even 
asking me? 

Ruth. Why, of course. Oh, Keith, 
don't you understand what this means 
to me? 

Keith. I understand that unless it 
means more to you than I do — ^you 
wouldn't hesitate a minute to chuck it. 

Ruth. It's hopeless — we'll never — never 
see it the same way. 

Keith. You've never made the slightest 
effort to see it my way. 

Ruth. What you ask of me is to cut 
off one half of my life and throw it 
away. What I ask of you is only an 
experiment — to let me try and see if I 
can't make things comfortable and 
smooth and happy for us — and still 
take this big thing that has come as a 
result of all my years of hard work 
and fighting for it. 

Keith. You'll never stop if you don't 
now. Once you get deeper in it you'll 
be swamped — eaten up by it. 

Ruth. Don't, Keith. I can't bear it. 
It's too unutterably selfish. 

Keith. (Rising and pushing his chair 
away.) All right — I'm selfish — but I'm 
human — and I'll bet my hat I'm just 
like every nine men out of ten. What 
in the name of heaven does loving a 
girl amount to if you don't want to take 
care of her from start to finish? A 
man's no good if he doesn't feel that 
way, I tell you. He's a pup — and ought 
to be shot. 

Ruth. (Rising.) But what about me — 
and what I want and have to have — 
in order to be happy? 



EACHEL CROTHERS 



949 



Keith. That's it. That is the point. 

You won't be happy without it. You 

want the excitement of it — that hustle 

and bustle outside. 
Ruth. I want it just as you want your 

work — and you haven't any more right 

to ask me to give up mine than I have 

to ask you to stop yours. 
Keith. You simply don't love me. 
Ruth. What rot! What nonsense! 
Keith. You don't love me. 
Ruth. It's hopeless. You've decided 

then. You won't compromise — so we'll 

end it. 
Keith What do you mean? 
Ruth. {Going to the hall door.) You've 

made your own choice. We'll end it 

now. 
Keith. {Following her.) No — Ruth — I 

won't give you up. 
Ruth. You have. You have given me up. 
Keith. Ruth — wait. 
Ruth. It's best, Keith. Don't hate me. 

You'll see it's best in a little while. 

We'll learn to be friends. I want you 

to be happy, dear boy — I do. And I 

couldn't make you so. We'll end it 

now. It's the best for us both. 
Keith. Ruth — 

{She goes out quicMy, closing the 
door. Keith turns to the fire.) 

Daisy. {Knocking and opening the li- 
brary door.) Excuse me. May I come 
in to get my sewing? Where's Ruth? 

Keith. {With his back to Daisy.) Don't 
know. 

Daisy. Well, don't bite my head off. I 
can always tell when you and Ruth 
have been discussing the emancipation 
of women. 

{Sitting below table and taking her 
dress to sew.) 

Keith. You all think you're superior 
beings. 

Daisy. Of course. 

Keith. {Beginning to walk about.) Yes, 
you do. You're just as bad as the rest 
of them — worse. The minute a woman 
makes enough to buy the clothes on 
her back, she thinks she and God Al- 
mighty are running the earth and men 
are just little insects crawling around. 
(Daisy laughs.) Oh, you can laugh. 
It's so — and you know it. Every one 
of you that have got the bee in your 
bonnet of doing something — doing 
something, are through with the men. 



Look at ^ou. You've cut men out 
entirely and you think you're too smart 
to marry one. Now, don't you? Isn't 
that the reason? 

Daisy. {Threading her needle.) Don't 
bully-rag me. Say it all to Ruth. 

Keith. I tell you it's all rot — business 
for women. It spoils every one of you. 
Why aren't you in a home of your own 
instead of hustling for your bread and 
butter? It's because you're too damned 
conceited. You think you know more 
than any man you ever saw and you 
think you don't need one. You wait — 
You'll see — some day. 

{Going back to the fire.) 

Daisy. You amuse me. 

Keith. There you are — that's about what 

I'm for. 
Daisy. There's a button off your coat. 

Looks horrid. 
Keith. I know. I've got it. 

{Putting his finger in waistcoat 
pocket.) 

Daisy. Have you got it there? (Keith 
shows her the button.) Come here, 
I'll do it. 

Keith. Never mind. I'll nail it on. 

Daisy. Come here. (Keith goes slowly 
to her.) You'll have to take your coat 
off. It's bad luck to sew anything on 
you. 

Keith. Oh — 

Daisy. Go on — take it off. (Keith takes 
off his coat reluctantly and watches 
Daisy as she examines the coat.) Good 
Gracious, the lining's ripped, too. 

Keith. Yes. 

Daisy. Poor old fellow! Are these some 
of your stitches? 

Keith. {Drawing the chair from C. and 
sitting L. before Daisy.) What's the 
matter with 'em? 

Daisy. Looks like carpet thread. {Snip- 
ping some threads.) See, I'll just 
draw this together and that'll be all 
right. 

{She begins to sing an old ditty — 
Keith gradually hums with her, 
keeping time with his hands and 
feet and relaxing into a good 
humor.) 

Keith. {Soothed for a moment.) How 
does it happen you're so handy with a 
needle? I thought you were all for 
business. 



950 



HE AND SHE 



Daisy. Well, I can sew a button on if 
you can. 

Keith. I tell you it changes all women 
— business. They make a little money 
themselves and want luxury and won't 
live without it. 

Daisy. Sometimes — yes. But there are 
lots and lots and lots of women taking 
care of themselves — putting up the 
bluff of being independent and happy 
who would be so glad to live in a little 
flat and do their own work — just to be 
the nicest thing in the world to some 
man. 

Keith. Wouldn't you think that Euth 
would like that better than the office? 

Daisy. No — not the lamp light and the 
needle for Euth. Keith, don't ask her 
to give up her work — don't you see, 
she's more clever, in her way than you 
are in yours. She'll go further, and if 
you make her stop, she'll hate you some 
day because she'll think you've kept 
her back. That's a hard thing to say — 
but it's the truth. 

Keith. You mean I'm a failure. 

Daisy. {Genuinely.) No — no — I don't 
mean that, Keith. 

Keith. I work — Gosh, how I work, but 
I'll never do anything. Why haven't I 
got what Mrs. Herf ord's got ? She sent 
models off for this frieze that any 
man would be proud to send. Why 
couldn't I? 

Daisy. Seems kind of mixed up and un- 
fair — doesn't it? 

Keith. You bet it's unfair. I work like 
a dog and never get anywhere. If Euth 
throws me over, I'll never have the home 
I'm working for. That's what I want 
— a home. I'll never have it now. 

Daisy. Oh, yes you will. 

Keith. I'm done for. 

Daisy. No, you're not. There are too 
many women in the world — who — could 
— love you. 

Keith. I'm no good. 

Daisy. Some woman might think that 
you — your — the way you work — and 
your honesty and loyalty are the great- 
est things a man can have. 

Keith. Um ! 

Daisy. Some woman might use all her 
cleverness and ingenuity to make the 
little flat beautiful — to show you what 
your own home — could be — to give you 
a better dinner than you thought you 
could afford. 



Keith. {Sitting with his head in his 
hands.) That kind of a woman is a 
thing of the past. 

Daisy. Oh no, they're not. They're ly- 
ing around thick. The trouble is — a 
woman can't ask. Even if a man is — 
just at her hand — and she knows she 
could make him happy — she can't tell 
him — she can't open his eyes — she has 
to hide what might make things right 
for both of them. Because she's a 
woman. 

Keith. Oh — love doesn't cut much ice 
with a woman. Women are all train 
nowadays. 

Daisy. {With sudden warmth.) That's 
enough to use all the brains a woman^s 
got — to make a home — to bring up chil- 
dren — and to keep a man's love. 

Keith. {Raising his head slowly and 
looking at Daisy.) I never expected 
to hear you say a thing like that. 
There's some excuse for you being in 
business. 

Daisy. Yes, of course. {Rising and 
holding the coat.) I'm not the mar- 
rying kind. 

Keith. {Getting into the coat.) Much 
obliged. Would you be willing to give 
up work and marry a man on a small 
salary — if you loved him? 

Daisy. You make me laugh. 

Keith. What's the matter, Daisy? 

Daisy. Nothing. 

Keith. I never saw tears in your eyes 
before. Women are funny things. 

Daisy. Yes, we're funny. There's only 
one thing on earth funnier. 

Keith. What ? 

Daisy. Men. 

Eemington. {Coming in from the li- 
brary.) Did I leave my other glasses 
in here? 

Daisy. {Beginning to look for them.) 
I haven't seen them. 

Eemington. I've lost one game because 
I didn't have 'em and I don't propose 
to give 'em another. 

Daisy. What a shame! Help look for 
them, Keith. 

Ee:mington. I'm pretty blind — but thank 
God not quite as bad as you, Keith. 

Keith. What? There's nothing the 
matter with my eyes. 

Eemington. {Looking insinuatingly at 
Daisy.) Don't you think there is, 
Daisy? 



EACHEL CEOTHERS 



951 



Daisy. {Trying to looh unconscious.) 
Are you sure you left those glasses in 
here? 

Eemington. It's as bad a case of short 
sightedness as I ever saw. 

Daisy. Oh— 

{The doctor holds her and turns her, 
pushing her toward Keith.) 

Eemington. Daisy, don't you see that 
queer blind look in his eyes? 

Daisy. No — I don't. 

Keith. What do you mean? (Eeming- 
ton laughs.) Do you see the joke, 
Daisy? 

Eemington. It's no joke — is it Daisy? 

Daisy. I don't know what on earth you're 
talking about. I'm going to get those 
glasses. {Going to hall door.) You 
probably left them in your hoat in the 
call. I mean in your hall in the coat 
— I mean — 

Eemington. That's all right, Daisy — ^we 
know what you mean. At least I do. 

Daisy. Oh you — (Ellen comes in 
from hall.) What is it, Ellen? 

Ellen. The telephone, Miss Herford. 

Daisy. Eor me? 

Ellen. They said any one of the family. 

Daisy. I'll go. 

{She goes out followed hy Ellen.) 

Eemington. There's a woman who knows 
how to take care of a man. 

Keith. I'm afraid that's not her object 
in life. They all have something else 
to do. 

Eemington. What's the matter with you? 

Keith. I'm done for. 

Eemington. Euth, you mean? 

Keith. She won't marry me unless she 
goes on working. 

Eemington. She's right, too. 

Keith. What? 

Eemington. Of course. You haven't any 
more right to ask that clever little 
woman to throw away half her life 
and to be the tail to your kite than you 
have to ask her to cut her throat. Open 
your eyes and look around. There are 
always other women. 

Keith. Never. Never in the world for 
me. 

Eemington. I give you about three 
months. 

Keith. Do you think I could ever — 

Eemington. Certainly I do. Look at 
Daisy , for instance. A fine, sweet 
wholesome girl with no kinks and no 
abnormal ambitions. 



Keith. Daisy ^ 

Eemington. Don't blow your brains out 

for a couple of days. Talk it over with 

her. She thinks you're about the finest 

thing going. 
Keith. What? 
Eemington. Fact! Don't try to hold on 

to the woman who's getting away from 

you, but take the one who is coming 

your way. 
Keith. You're crazy. Mad as a hatter. 

What are you giving me? 
Eemington. Just a little professional 

advice — free. She's head over heels in 

love with you, I tell you. 
Daisy. {Coming in from hall in great 

excitement. She has a case for glasses 

in her hand.) Dr. Eemington, that 

was long distance. They telephoned 

from school that Millicent has gone. 
Keith. Gone ? 
Eemington. Gone where? 
Daisy. Left school suddenly tonight 

without saying a word to anyone. 
Eemington and Keith. What? 
Daisy. As soon as they knew — they 

'phoned the station, and found she had 

taken the train for New York. 
Eemington. What train? 
Daisy. The one that gets here at nine 

o'clock. 
Keith. {Looking at his watch.) ' It's 

9 :15 now. 
Daisy. Shall I tell Ann? 
Eemington. No — no — wait. We'll give 

her fifteen minutes more to get to the 

house. No use frightening Ann. 
Keith. Do you think she is coming 

home ? 
Daisy. Why do you say that, Keith? 

What put such an idea into your head? 
Keith. Why wouldn't she say so — wire 

or write or something? 
Daisy. Oh, it's too horrible. Doctor, 

oughtn't we to tell them now? 
Eemington. No — no — 
Daisy. But we're wasting time. What if 

she shouldn't come? 
Keith. I think I'll dash down to the 

station anyway. The train might be 

late. 
Eemington. No — no. They'd ask where 

you'd gone. Wait fifteen minutes — I 

think she'll be here. I don't want to 

frighten — 

(Anne comes in from the library.) 
Anne. Well, I never saw people so wild- 
ly keen about playing as you are. 

What's the matter with you? 



952 



HE AND SHE 



Remington. I've been waiting all this 
time — for my glasses. Come on Daisy. 

{Taking the glasses from Daisy^ he 
goes into library.) 

Ann. You look worried, Daisy. 

Daisy. No — I'm only — 

Ellen. (Coming in from hall with eight 

letters on a small tray.) The mail, 

Mrs. Herford. 
Ann. Oh! (She snatches the letters, 

taking off the three top ones.) . It's 

come! Tom's letter. 
Keith and Daisy. What? 

(Ellen goes out through hall L. 0.) 
Ann. It is! It is — as true as I live. 
Keith. Great Scott! 
Daisy. Then he's got it. He's got it. 
Ann. Sh! Ask him to come here. 
Daisy. It's too good to be true. It's too 

good! 

(Daisy goes into the library.) 

Keith. I can't tell you how glad I am, 
Mrs. Herford. I can't tell you. 

Ann. (Scarcely able to speak.) Ask him 
to come here. 

Keith. (Going into library.) Mrs. Her- 
ford wants you, Governor. 

Tom. (Within.) Come and play, Ann. 

Ann. (Throwing the other letters on the 
table.) Come here just a minute, Tom, 
please. 

Tom. (Coming to door.) What is it? 

Ann. Shut the door. It's come. (Show- 
ing the letter. Tom opens and reads 
it. A look of sickening disappointment 
comes into his face.) No? Oh, Tom! 

Tom. I was their second choice! 

Ann. Oh, Tom, don't take it like that. 
What difference does it make after all? 
You know you did a big thing. It's 
all luck — anyway. 

Tom. I'll pull up in a minute. Well, it 
means taking hold of something else 
pretty quick. Going at it again. 

Ann. Yes, keeping at it — that's it. What 
a TERRIBLE lot chance has to do 
with it. 

Tom. Oh no, that isn't it. 

Ann. Yes, it is, too. 

Tom. No— I failed. I didn't get it, 
that's all. 

Ann. You'll do something greater — next 
time — ^because of this. 

Tom. (Taking her hand.) You're a 
brick! Now, see here, don't you be cut 
up about this. It's not the end of every- 
thing, you know. Stop that! You're 
not crying, I hope? 



Ann. No, I'm not. Of course, I'm not! 
(With passionate tenderness.) Oh, my 
boy. I never loved you so much — 
never believed in you as I do now. 
This is only a little hard place that 
will make you all the stronger. 

Tom. Dear old girl! What would I do 
without you? I'll tell the others and 
get it over. (Rising, he stops, staring 
at one of the letters on the table.) 
Ann! 

Ann. Um ? 

Tom. (Taking up a letter.) Ann — here's 
one for you, too. 

Ann. What? (She tears open the let- 
ter.) Tom! They've given the com- 
mission to me! Look! Read it! Is 
that what it says? Is it? Now aren't 
you glad you let me do it ? You haven't 
lost! We've got it. Say you're glad. 
Say you're proud of me, dear. That's 
the best part of it all. 

Tom. Of course, I am, dear, of course I 
am. 

Ann. Oh, Tom, I wanted you to get it 
more than I ever wanted anything in 
my life, but this is SOMETHING to 
be thankful for. Doesn't this almost 
make it right? 

Tom. Yes, dear, yes. Don't think of me. 
That's over — ^that part of it. Tell the 
others now. 

Ann. Wait ! 

Tom. Aren't you going to? 

Ann. I only want to be sure that you're 
just as happy that I won, as I would 
have been if YOU had. 

Tom. Of course, I am. You know that. 

(Kissing her.) 

Ann. Tell the others, then, Tom— J 
can't. 

Tom. (Opening the library doors.) What 
do you think has happened? 

Daisy. (Rushing in.) Tom got it. Didn't 
you, Tom? You did. You did! Oh, 
I'm so glad. (She kisses him.) 

Keith. (Following Daisy in.) Well — 
governor — what did I tell you? 

Remington. (In doorway.) Pretty fine 
—isn't it? 

Ann. You tell them, Tom. 

Tom. Ann got it! 

Daisy. What? 

Tom. Isn't it great? 

Ann. You won't believe it. But you 
can see the letter. Now, father, don't 
you think getting that is better than 
being nursemaid and housekeeper? 
Now, don't you, honestly? 



RACHEL CROTHERS 



953 



Remington. I do not. 

Ann. What ? 

Remington. I do not. 

Ann. Oh, I can laugh at your theories 
now. You haven't a leg to stand on. 
Has he, Tom? Be a dear father and 
say you're glad. 

Remington. I'm not. I'd rather you'd 
failed a thousand times over — for your 
own good. What are you going to do 
with Millicent while you're making this 
thing ? 

Ann. How can you be so hard and nar- 
row, Father? 

Remington. What if you did win ? You've 
got something far greater than making 
statues to do. 

Tom. Doctor, you're excited. 

Remington. Not a bit. I'm only telling 
the truth. This is your business you 
know — and it would have been far bet- 
ter for both of you if youd won the 
thing. 

ToM. I don't see the argument. Ann 
got it because she sent in a better 
model than I did. I don't see that 
anything else has anything to do with 
the case. 

(Tom goes out through hall.) 

Ann. (Turning to sit on the couch.) 
At least Tom's glad I got it. 
Remington. He's stung to the quick. 

You've humiliated him in his own 

eyes (He goes to the fireplace.) 

Ann. I cant understand why you feel 

this way about it, father. 
Daisy. Oh, its natural enough. 
Ann. (Turning to Daisy in amazement.) 

Aren't you glad for me — Daisy? 
Daisy. Yes, but — I — I'm awfully sorry 

for Tom. 

(She goes out through hall.) 

Ann. What's the matter with them all, 

Keith? 
Keith. Oh — as Daisy says — it's natural, 

Mrs. Herford. 

(He goes out after Daisy.) 

Remington. (Coming down to Ann.) 
Daughter, I'm afraid I was a little too 
stiff just now. I didn't mean to be 
unkind. 

Ann. (Rising and starting to hall door.) 
Oh, it doesn't matter. 

Remington. (Stopping her.) Yes, it 
does matter. I wouldn't hurt you for 
the world. 



Ann. But you've always fought me, 
Father. You've never thought I had 
any right to work — never believed in 
my ability, now that I've proved I have 
some — Why can't you acknowledge it? 

Remington. Ann, this is a dangerous 
moment in your life. Tom's beaten — 
humiliated — knocked out. You did it 
— he can't stand it. 

Ann. What have I done? Tom has a 
big nature. He's not little and petty 
enough to be hurt because I won. 

Remington. You're blind. He's had a 
blow tonight that no man on earth 
could stand. 

Ann. ISTot Tom. I won't believe it. 

Remington. Yes, I say. I know what 
I'm talking about. Ann, be careful 
how you move now. Use your woman's 
tact, your love. Make Tom know that 
he is the greatest thing in the world 
to you — that you'd even give up all 
this work idea — if — ^he wanted — you to. 

Ann. What? Tom wouldn't let me. 

Remington. Ask him. Ask him. See 
what he'd say. 

Ann. Why, I wouldn't insult him. He'd 
think I thought he was — 

(Tom comes in from the hall — Ann 
checks herself and turns away 
quickly to fire.) 

Tom. (After a pause.) What's the mat- 
ter? 

Remington. Nothing — nothing. Ann 
and I were just having a little argu- 
ment as usual. I'll be back in a few 
minutes. 

(Looking at his watch he goes into 
hall.) 

Tom. (Going slowly to Ann.) I hope 
you're not still fighting about the — 
your frieze? 

Ann. They're all so funny, Tom — the 
way they act about it. It hurts. But 
so long as you're glad, it doesn't matter 
what anyone else thinks. Say you're 
glad, dear. I want you to be as happy 
as I would be if you had won. 

Tom. You know I am, dear. You know 
that. 

Ann. (With a sigh of relief Ann sits. at 
left of fire.) Think how I'll have to 
work. I can't even go to the country 
in the summer. 

Tom. (Sitting opposite Ann at the fire.) 
And what will you do with Millicent 
this summer? 



954 



HE AND SHE 



Ann. Oh, there are lots of nice things 
for her to do. The money! Think 
what it will mean to you! 

Tom. Let me tell you one thing, Ann, 
in the beginning. I'll never touch a 
penny of the money. 

Ann. What? 

Tom. Not a cent of it. 

Ann. What are you talking about? 

Tom. That's your money. Put it away 
for yourself. 

Ann. I never heard you say anything so 
absolutely unreasonable before in my 
life. 

Tom. If you think I'm unreasonable, all 
right. But that's understood about the 
money. We won't discuss it. 

Ann. Well, we will discuss it. Why 
shouldn't you use my money as well 
as I yours? 

Tom. That's about as different as day 
and night. 

Ann. Why is it ? 

Tom. Because I'm taking care of you. 
It's all right if you never do another 
day's work in your life. You're doing 
it because you want to, I'm doing it 
because I've got to. If you were alone 
it would be a different thing. But I'm 
here, and so long as I am I'll make 
what keeps us going. 

Ann. But I'll help you. 

Tom. No, you won't. 

Ann. I will. I'm going on just as far 
as I have ability to go, and if you re- 
fuse to take any money I may make — 
if you refuse to use it for our mutual 
good, you're unjust and taking an un- 
fair advan Oh, Tom! what are we 

saying? We're out of our senses — 
both of us. You didn't mean what 

you said. Did you? It would I 

simply couldn't bear it if you did. You 
didn't — did you? 

Tom. I did — of course. 

Ann. Tom — after all these years of pull- 
ing together, now that I've done some- 
thing, why do you suddenly balk? 

Tom. (Rising.) Good Heavens! Do you 
think I'm going to use your money? 
Don't try to run my end of it. It's 
the same old story — when you come 
down to it, a woman can't mix up in a 
man's business. (He moves away.) 

Ann. Mix up in it ? Isn't it a good thing 
for you that I got this commission? 

Tom. No. I don't know that it's a good 
thing from any standpoint to have it 



known that I failed, but my wife suc- 
ceeded. 

Ann. I thought you said you were glad 
— proud of me. 

Tom. It's too — distracting — too — takes 
you away from more important things. 

Ann. What things? 

Tom. Millicent and me. 

Ann. Oh, Tom don't. You know 

that you and Millicent come before 
everything on earth to me. 

Tom. No. 

Ann. You do. 

Tom. We don't — now. Your ambition 
comes first. 

Ann. (She rises, going to him.) Tom, I 
worship you. You know that, don't 
you? 

Toisr. I'm beginning to hate this work 
and everything in connection with it. 

Ann. But you taught me — helped me — 
pushed me on. What's changed you? 

Tom. I let you do it in the first place 
because I thought it was right. I 
wanted you to do the thing you wanted 
to do. 

Ann. Well? 

Tom. I was a fool. I didn't see what it 
would lead to. It's taking you away 
from everything else — and there'll be 
no end to it. Your ambition will carry 
you away till the home and Millicent 
and I are nothing to you! 

Ann. Tom — look at me. Be honest. 
Are you sorry sorry I got this com- 
mission ? 

Tom. I'm sorry it's the most important 
thing in the world to you. 

Ann. Oh! Why do you say that to me? 
How can you? ^ 

Tom. Haven't I just seen it? You're 
getting rid of Millicent now because 
you don't want her to interfere with 
your work. 

Ann. No ! 

Tom. You're pushing her out of your 
life. 

Ann. No ! 

Tom. You said just now you were going 
to send her away alone in the summer. 
I don't like that. She's got to be with 
you — I want you to keep her with you. 

Ann. But that's impossible. You know 
that. If I stop work now I might as 
well give up the frieze entirely. 

Tom. Then give it up. 

Ann. What? 

Tom. Give up the whole thing — forever. 
Why shouldn't you? 



EACHEL CEOTHEES 



955 



Ann. Do you mean that? 

Tom. Yes. 

Ann. Tom — I love you. Don't ask this 
sacrifice of me to prove my love. 

Tom. Could you make it? Could you? 

Ann. Don't ask it! Don't ask if for 
your own sake. I want to keep on lov- 
ing you. I want to believe you're what 
I thought you were. Don't make me 
think you're just like every other man. 

Tom. I am a man — and you're my wife 
and Millicent's our daughter. Unless 
you come back to the things a woman's 
always had to do — and always will — 
we can't go on. We can't go on. 

Ann. {Following him around the table.) 
Tom — if you're just a little hurt— just 
a little jealous because I won 

Tom. Oh 

Ann. That's natural — ^I can understand 
that. 

Tom. Oh— don't 

Ann. But, oh, Tom, the other to ask 

me to give it all up. I could never for- 
give that. Take it back, Tom — take it 
back. 

Tom. Good God, Ann, can't you see? 
You're a woman and I'm a man. You're 
not free in the same way. If you won't 
stop because I ask it — I say you must. 

Ann. You can't say that to me. You 
can't. 

Tom. I do say it. 

Ann. No ! 

Tom. I say it because I know it's right. 

Ann. It isn't. 

Tom. I can't make you see it. 

Ann. It isn't. 

Tom. I don't know how — but everything 
in me tells me it's right. 

Ann. Tom— listen to me. 

Tom. If you won't do it because I ask 
you — I demand it. I say you've got to. 

Ann. Tom — you can kill our love by just 
what you do now. 

To:m. Then this work is the biggest 
thing in the world to you? 

Ann. What is more important to us both 
— to our happiness than just that? 

Millicent. {Calling outside door L. C.) 
Mother! {A startled pause as Ann and 
Tom turn towards hall door.) Mother! 
I'm home, where are you? 

(Millicent opens the hall door and 
rushes into the room.) 

Ann. Millicent! What are you doing 

here? 
Millicent. I came home, mother. 



Ann. Why ? ^ 

Millicent. Because I had to. 

Ann. Are you ill, dear? 

Millicent. No. No. 

Tom. Is anything wrong at school? 

Millicent. No, but I won't go back. 

Tom. But why won't you? What's the 
trouble ? 

Millicent. I won't go back. 

Tom. But you can't do a thing like 
this. I won't allow it. 

Millicent. You wouldn't let me come 
home when I wanted to and now I can't 
go back. I won't everything's dif- 
ferent now. I won't go back and you 
can't make me. 

{She turns and rushes out of the 
room and Tom and Ann stare at 
each other as the curtain falls. 



ACT III 

Time: Half an hour later. 

Scene : Same as Act II. Ruth is writing 
at the desk. Daisy opens the hall door 
and stops, listening hack into the hall. 

EuTH. {Quickly.) What's the matter? 
Daisy. Nothing. I was looking to see 

who went up the stairs. It's Dr. Eem- 

ington. 
EuTH. How's Millicent now? 
Daisy. Ann's with her — ^getting her to 

bed. 
EuTH. Do you know yet why she came 

home? 
DiASY. I don't know whether Ann's got it 

out of her yet or not. 
EuTH. What do you think? Why on 

earth didn't she tell them at school? 
Daisy. I haven't the dimmest — but she 

didn't do it without some good reason. 

I'll bet anything on that. Millicent's a 

pretty level-headed youngster. 
EuTH. She's a pretty self-willed one. 

Ann will send her right back of course. 
Daisy. I don't know whether she will or 

not. Millicent's got some rather de- 
cided ideas of her own on that. 
EuTH. But she'll have to go. Why 

shouldn't she? Ann will make her. 
Daisy. Tom will have something to say 

about it. 
EuTH. It's for Ann to decide surely. 
Daisy. Not at all. I don't see why. She 

is Tom's child, too, you know, and this 

is his house and he pays the bills at 



956 



HE AKD SHE 



school and if he doesn't want her to go 
back you can bet she jolly well won't go. 
I only hope Millicent tells the whole 
business whatever it is. Ann is so ex- 
cited over the frieze I don't know 
whether she'll lave the patience to han- 
dle Millicent right or not. She's not 
easy. 

Ruth. It's awful for Ann to be upset 
now — of all times — when she has to 
begin this gigantic work. 

Daisy. Oh — I wish the damned frieze 
were in Guinea and that Ann had noth- 
ing to do but take care of Tom and 
Millicent — like any other woman. I'd 
give anything if she hadn't won the 
competition. 

Ruth. Daisy! 

Daisy. Oh, I would. I have a ghastly 
feeling that something horrible is going 
to come of it — if it hasn't already come. 

Ruth. What do you mean? 

Daisy. I tell you it is not possible for a 
man and woman to love each other and 
live together and be happy — unless the 
man is — it. 

Ruth. Speaking of the dark ages! You 
ought to live in a harem. How any girl 
who makes her own bread and butter 
can be so old fashioned as you are — I 
can't see. 

Daisy. You've got so used to your own 
ideas your forget that I am the average 
normal woman the world is full of. 

Ruth. Nonsense! You're almost extinct. 
I'm the average normal woman the 
world is full of — and it's going to be 
fuller and fuller. 

Daisy. I'll bet on plenty of us — left — 
(Indicating herself) on Judgment day. 

Ruth. I want to laugh when I think how 
mistaken we've been calling you a bach- 
elor girl. Why you'd make the best wife 
of anybody I know. 

Daisy. I s'pose you mean that as an in- 
sult. 

Ruth. But you seem so self reliant men 
are sort of afraid of you — 

Remington. (Coming in from hall and 
feeling a certain restraint in the two 
girls.) Am I in the wrong camp. 

Ruth and Daisy. No, no. Come in. 

Remington. I have to stay some place. 
I'm going to hang around till Millicent 
quiets down — and then I'll clear out. 

Daisy. Is she ill? 

Remington. Oh, no. Just a little worked 
up and excited. 



Ruth. Why do you think she came home. 
Dr. Remington? 

Remington. I don't know what to think 
— unless she has "hoy" in the head. 

Daisy. Goodness no! Not yet! 

Remington. She's sixteen. You can't 
choke it off to save your life. 

Ruth. Oh, she's a baby! 

Remington. Don't fool yourself. She 
won't wait as long as you two have to 
sit by her own fireside with children on 
her knee. 

Ruth. Oh — 

Remington. That's the only thing in the 
game that's worth a cent — anyway. (As 
Keith comes in from the hall.) Isn't 
that so, Keith? 

Keith. What's that? 

Remington. I've just been telling these 
two that love and children are the great- 
est things on earth. Ruth doesn't agree 
with me — but Daisy — 

Ruth. I must go. 

Daisy. I must go up to Ann. (Ruth goes 
out.) 

Remington. Let me go. They both seem 
terribly anxious to get out when you 
come in, Keith. Or maybe I'm in the 
way. I'll go. 

Daisy. Don't be silly. I really must see 
if I can do anything for Ann. 

Remington. No, you mustn't. She's 
waiting for me to see Millicent. By the 
way, Keith — tomorrow's Sunday. I al- 
ways take a run into the country in the 
motor on Sunday. Come along and 
bring either Ruth or Daisy. Take your 
choice. I know which one I'd take. 
(He goes into the hall.) 

Daisy. Isn't he a goose. 

Keith. Would it bore you to go, Daisy? 

Daisy. Nonsense! Ruth will. 

Keith. It would be awfully good of you. 
Tomorrow's going to be a hard day for 
me to get through. Ruth told me to- 
night that she — I'm afraid it's all over. 

Daisy. Why don't you compromise? 

Keith. There's nothing to compromise 
about. She's all wrong. Don't you 
think so? 

Daisy. Oh, don't ask me. I don't know 
anything about it. 

Keith. Wait a minute. I — won't you go 
tomorrow, Daisy. 

Daisy. Ask Ruth. It will be a good 
chance to make up. 

Keith. You're so practical and like such 
different things — maybe you'd think 
flying along through the country and 



EACHEL CROTHEES 



957 



lunching at some nice little out-of-the- 
way place was too frivolous — 

Daisy. Oh yes, I don't like anything but 
being shut up in the house all day, 
pounding at my typewriter and splitting 
my head to get the bills straight. To 
actually go off with a man — for a whole 
day — and have a little fun — like any 
other woman — would be too unheard of. 
Of course, I couldn't do anything as 
silly as that. 

Keith. Oh — 

Daisy. I wouldn't be amusing anyway. 
Dr. Eemington — well, he's sixty, and 
you'd be thinking of Euth and I'd sit 
there like a stick — the sensible, prac- 
tical woman who couldn't possibly be 
interesting and fascinating because no 
man would take the trouble to find out 
how devilish and alluring and altogether 
exciting I could be if I had the chance. 
{She throws open the door and goes out. 
Keith stares after her.) 

Tom. {Coming in from library after a 
moment.) I though you'd gone, Mc- 
Kenzie. 

Keith. ISTo, but I'm going. 

Eemington. {Coming hack from hall.) 
Good night, McKenzie. I'll dig you up 
in the morning, ten o'clock. Sharp, 
mind. And I'll call for Daisy first. 

Keith. {At hall door.) All right. Much 
obliged. Doctor. {Turning hack.) 
How'd you know it was Daisy? 

Eemington. I didn't — ^but I do now. 

Keith. Good night. {He goes out.) 

Tom. Well — how is she? How is Milli- 
cent? 

Eemington. Oh, she's not ill — but the 
child's nervous as a witch — all strung 
up. She's worried about something — 
got something on her mind and nat- 
urally her head aches and she has a 
little fever — but that won't hurt her. 

Tom. Got something on her mind? What? 

Eemington. She didn't confide in me. 

Tom. What could she have on her mind? 

Eemington. I don't think she's commit- 
ted murder — but she's got 2i mind, you 
know — There's no reason why she 
shouldn't have something on it. 

Tom. Well, I don't know what to do with 
her. 

Eemington. If you think she ought not 
to go back to school, say so. Tell Ann 
those are your orders. 

Tom. I don't give orders to Ann. 

Eemington. The devil you don't. She'd 
like it. A woman — a dog and a walnut 



tree — the more you beat 'em, the better 
they be. 

Tom. The walnut tree business doesn't 
work with Ann. I made a food of my- 
self tonight by telling her I wouldn't 
touch the money she gets out of this 
thing. She doesn't understand. I've 
made her think I'm jealous because she 
won. 

Eemington. Well, aren't you? 

Tom. No! I tell you it's something else. 
Something sort of gave way under my 
feet when I opened her letter. 

Eemington. I know. I know. 

Tom. Doctor, for the Lord's sake, don't 
think I'm mean. I don't want to drag 
her back — but she seems gone somehow 
— she doesn't need me any more. That's 
what hurts. 

Eemington. Of course, it hurts. 

Tom. Much as I've loved to have her with 
me — working away at my elbow — won- 
derful as it all was — sometimes I've 
wished I hadn't seen her all day — that 
I had her to go home to — fresh and 
rested — waiting for me and that I was 
running the machine alone for her. 
She'll never understand. I've acted like 
a skunk. 

Eemington. Y-e-s — I guess you have — so 
have I — unjust — pig-headed. No more 
right to say the things I've said' to her 
than I have to spank her — except that 
she's — the most precious thing in the 
world to me — and I'd rather see her 
happy — as a woman — than the greatest 
artist in the world. 

Tom. That's it. I want her here — mine. 
But I s'pose that's rotten and wrong. 

Eemington. Yes — I s'pose it is. But 
you're despising yourself for something 
that's been in your bones — boy — since 
the beginning of time. Men and women 
will go through hell over this before it 
shakes down into shape. You're right 
and she's right and you're tearing each 
other like mad dogs over it because you 
love each other. 

ToM. That's it. If another man had got 
it I'd take my licking without whining. 
What's the matter with me ? Why can't 
I be that way to herf 

Eemington. {Shaking his head with a 
wistful smile.) Male and female creat- 
ed He them. I don't take back any of 
the stuff' I said to her before she went 
into this. She's fighting you now for 
her rights — but she laid her genius at 
your feet once and she'd do it again if — 



958 



HE AND SHE 



Ann. {Coming in from the hall and 
speaking after a pause.) Well, father — 
what do you say about Millicent? 

Kemington. My advice is that you let 
her stay at home for a while. 

Ann. This is only a caprice — and it 
would be the worst thing in the world 
to give in to her. Unless you say as a 
physician — that she's too ill to — 

Ee:\iington. I don't say she's too ill — 
physically. You must decide for your- 
self. I'll go up and see her again and 
if she isn't asleep then I'll give her a 
mild sleeping powder. Ann, I put her 
in your arms first — and the look that 
came into your eyes then was as near 
divinity as we ever get. Oh, my daugh- 
ter — don't let the new restlessness and 
strife of the world about you blind you 
to the old things — the real things. (He 
goes out.) 

Ann. (After a pause.) You agree with 
me, don't you, that it's better for her to 
go back. 

To:\r. Do whatever you think best. 

Ann. But what do you think? 

Tom. It doesn't matter what I think, 
does it? 

Millicent. (Opening the door.) Mother, 
aren't you coming back? (Millicent 
wears a soft rohe over her night gown. 
Her hair is down her hack.) 

Ann. Millicent — why did you get out of 
bed? 

Millicent. I couldn't sleep. (Running 
and jumping into the middle of the 
couch.) 

Ann. Run back — quickly. 

Millicent. In a minute. It's so quiet 
upstairs I couldn't sleep. I'm used to 
the girls. 
Ann. You'll catch cold. 

Millicent. Goodness, mother, I'm roast- 
ing. 

Ann. Millicent — what shall I do with 
you. 

Millicent. Is that what you and dad 
were talking about? What did Grand- 
father say? I don't care what he says. 
I'm not going back to school. You're 
on my side — aren't you. Dad? 

Tom. Whatever your mother thinks is 
right, of course. 

Millicent. Is it true — what Daisy told 
me — that you got the contract for a big 
frieze and not father? Is it? Is it, 
father? (Looking from one to the 
other.) 

Tom. Yes. It's quite true. 



Ann. Millicent, go to bed. 

Millicent. I think that's perfectly hor- 
rid, mother. Why should they give it to 
you? I think father ought to have it — 
he's the man. Don't you think people 
will think it's funny that you didn't get 
it? I should think it would make them 
lose confidence in you. (A pause. Tom 
stalks out — closing the door.) Is father 
hurt because you got it ? I should think 
he would be. 

Ann. Millicent, I've had quite enough of 
this. Go up to bed at once. 

Millicent. Will you come up and sleep 
with me ? 

Ann. Of course not. ( Walking about rest- 
lessly.) 

Millicent. Why not? 

Ann. Neither one of us would sleep a 
wink. 

Millicent. That wouldn't matter. I 
don't want to be alone. 

Ann. Come now — I won't speak to you 
again. 

Millicent. What have you decided about 
school ? 

Ann. I'll tell you in the morning. 

Millicent. I won't go up till you tell me. 

Ann. Millicent — ^you will go at once, I 
say. 

Millicent. Oh, Mother, don't be cross. 
Sit down and talk a minute. 

Ann. It's late, dear. You must — 

Millicent. That's nothing. We girls 
often talk till twelve. 

Ann. Till twelve? Do the teachers 
know it. 

Millicent. Oh, mother, you're lovely! 
Don't you suppose they know that they 
don't know everything that's going on?^ 
Come and sit down, Mummie. 

Ann. No! You must go to bed. 

Millicent. But I won't go back to school. 

Ann. (Going to Millicent, who is still 
on the couch.) You make it terribly 
hard for me, Millicent. You don't 
know what's good for you, of course. 
I don't expect you to — but I do expect 
you to be obedient. 

Millicent. But, Mother, I tell you I — 

Ann. Don't be so rebellious. Now come 
upstairs, please dear, and — 

Millicent. But I won't go back to school, 
mother, dear. I won't. 

Ann. You say I treat you like a child. 
You force me to. If you don't want me 
to punish you — go upstairs at once and 
don't say another word. 

Millicent. I won't go back. 



RACHEL CROTHERS 



Ann. Stop, I say! 

MiLLiCENT. I know what I want to do. 

I'm sixteen. 
Ann. (Their voices rising together.) 

You're my child. You will obey me. 
MiLLiCENT. But I won't. You don't un- 
derstand. I can't mother, I can^t — I 

can't. 
Ann. Why? Why can't you? 
MiLLiCENT. Because I — I'm going to be 

married. 
Ann. You silly child! 
MiLLiCENT. It's the truth, Mother. I am. 
Ann. Don't say a thing like that, even 

in fun. 
MiLLiCENT. It's the truth, I tell you. Vm. 

going to be married. 
Ann. Some time you are, of course — you 

mean. 
MiLLiCENT. No — now — soon. That's why 

I left. That's why I'm not going back. 
Ann. (After drawing a chair to the 

couch and sitting before Millicent.) 

What do you mean? 
Millicent. I — he — we — we're engaged. 
Ann. He — who ? 

Millicent. You — You don't know him. 
Ann. Who? 

Millicent. He's — ^he's perfectly wonder- 
ful. 
Ann. Who is he? 
Millicent. Now, Mother, wait. He — he 

isn't rich — 
Ann. Well— 
Millicent. He's poor — ^but he's perfectly 

wonderful — ^he works and he's so noble 

about it. 
Ann. What does he do? 
Millicent. He — ^he — Oh, mother, it's 

hard to explain, because he's so different. 
Ann. What does he dof 
Millicent. Well — just now he — he drives 

the motor at school — because you see 

he's so proud he — 
Ann. Drives the motor — a chauffeur, you 

mean ? 
Millicent. People call him that, of 

course — ^but he isn't — (Ann rises.) 

Mother — (Ann goes to the door and 

locJcs it — going bach to Millicent, who 

had risen.) Now, Mother, don't look 

like that. 
Ann. Sit down. 
Millicent. Dont look like that. Let me- 

tell you about it. 
Ann. (Sitting again.) Yes, tell me 

about it. 
Millicent. Oh, I — hardly know how to 

begin. 



Ann. He drives the motor — the school 
motor, you say? 

Millicent. Yes — to the trains, you 
know — and into town and to church. 

Ann. Who is his father? 

Millicent. Why — I — I don't know who 
he is. I've never met his father. 

Ann. What is his name? 

Millicent. His father's name? I don't 
know. 

Ann. The boy's name. 

Millicent. Willie Kern. 

Ann. How does he happen to drive a 
motor ? 

Millicent. Well, I don't know just how 
it happened — he's so clever you know, 
and of course he isn't really a chauffeur 
at all. 

Ann. What is he then? 

Millicent. Oh, Mother! He just hap- 
pens to run the school motor. 

Ann. And what did he do before that? 

Millicent. Why he — he ran another mo- 
tor. Oh, now, Mother, you don't under- 
stand at all. (She breaks into sobs and 
throws herself full length on the couch. 
Ann sits rigidly.) Just because he's 
poor and clever and drives a motor is 
no reason why you should act this way. 
(Sitting up.) He's going to do some- 
thing else. He's going to come to 
New York to get a different position. 
And we'll be married as soon as he gets 
it, and that's why I came home — to tell 
you. So there — you see I can't go back 
to school. (She rises and starts to the 
door.) 

Ann. Millicent ! Come here. 

Millicent. That's all there is to tell. 
I'm going to bed now. 

Ann. (Rising.) You know this is the 
most wild and impossible thing in the 
world. 

Millicent. I don't. It isnt impossible. 
I'm going to marry him. I love him 
better than you or father or anybody in 
the world and I'm going to marry him. 

Ann. Stop ! Do you want to disgrace us ? 
How any child of mine could speak — 
even speak to such a — Oh, the disap- 
pointment! Where's your pride? How 
could you? How could you? Millicent, 
if you'll promise me to give this up I 
won't say a word to your father. 

Millicent. No — no — I'm going. 

Ann. Don't unlock that door. 

Millicent. I want to go now. 

Ann. You'll never see this boy again. 
Never speak to him — never write to 



DGO 



HE AND SHE 



him — never hear of him. I shall send 
you away where he'll never know — 

MiLLiCENT. (Coming hack to couch.) You 
won't ! He loves me and I love him. He 
understands me. All that vacation when 
you wouldn't let me come home and all 
the other girls had gone he was just as 
good to me as he could be. He knew 
how lonely I was and he — we got en- 
gaged that vacation. You wouldn't let 
me come home. 

Ann. Millicent — you don't know what 
you're saying. You don't know what 
you're doing. 

Millicent. Oh, yes, I do. Mother. It's 
you that don't know. You don't under- 
stand. 

Ann. (Kneeling before Millicent.) My 
darling — why — didn't you tell me this 
when you said you wanted to come 
home? Why didn't you tell me then? 
(Sobbing, Ann buries her face in Milli- 
cent's lap.) 

Millicent. I would have told you — if 
you'd let me come home — but you 
wouldn't — and I was so lonely there 
without the girls and — we — we got en- 
gaged. You don't understand, Mother. 

Ann. (Lifting her face to Millicent.) 
Oh, yes, I do, dear. Yes, I do. Tell me 
— all about it. When did you first 
know him? How did you — happen to 
speak to him — I mean to — to love him. 

Millicent. Oh, Mother, why I — he — I 
just did — he's so handsome and so nice. 
You haven't any idea how nice he is. 
Mother. 

Ann. Haven't I, dear? What is he like? 
Tell me everything — how did it begin? 

Millicent. He — the first time I really 
knew he was so different you know — 

Ann. Yes, dear. 

Millicent. Was one Sunday morning I 
was ready for church before anybody 
else and I went out to get in the motor 
and ran down the steps and fell, and he 
jumped out and picked me up and put 
me in the motor, and of course I 
thanked him and we had to wait quite 
a while for the others, and I found out 
how different and really wonderful he 
was. All the girls were crazy about him. 
Here's his picture. (Drawing out a 
locket which is on a chain around her 
neck.) It's just a little snapshot which 
I took myself one morning — and you 
can't really tell from this how awfully 
good looking he is. (Ann seizes the 
locket and looks closely at the picture.) 



His eyes are the most wonderful — and 
his lashes are the longest I ever saw. 
You can't see his teeth and they are — 
well, you'd just love hia teeth. Mother. 

Ann. Would I, dear? Have you seen 
very much of him ? Hawe you seen him 
any place besides in the motor, I mean? 
(Millicent hesitates.) Tell me, dear — 
everything. I shall understand. 

Millicent. Well, of course, Mother — I 
had to see him some place else after 
school began again and the girls were 
all back and I wasn't going for the mail 
any more. 

Ann. Of course; and where did you see 
him? 

Millicent. Why, you see,, it — it was 
awfully hard, Mummie, because I 
couldn't tell anybody. Nobody would 
have understood — except Fanny. She's 
such a dear. She's been so sympathetic 
through the whole thing, and she has 
helped me a lot. There is a fire escape out 
of our room and Mondays and Thurs- 
days at nine o'clock at night — 

Ann. Oh — 

Millicent. What, Mother? 

Ann. Nothing — go on, dear. 

Millicent. At exactly nine I'd put on 
Fanny's long black coat and go down, 
and he was always there and we always 
went down in the arbor just a little 
while. 

Ann. The arbor? Where was the arbor? 

Millicent. Down the path of the other 
side of the drive — not far from the 
house; but of course nobody went near 
it at that time of night — in cold weather 
and — and w^e'd talk a while and then I'd 
run back. You don't mind, do you. 
Mother. What else could I do? 

Ann. And — he's kissed you — of course? 

Millicent. Of course. 

Ann. And you've kissed him? 

Millicent. (Lowering her eyes.) Why 
yes — Mother — we're engaged. 

Ann. And what did he say to you there 
in the arbor? 

Millicent. I can't tell you everything he 
said, Mother. 

Ann. Why not, Millicent? I'm your 
mother. No one on earth is so close to 
you — or loves you so much — or cares so 
much for your happiness — and under- 
stands so well. I remember when I was 
engaged to your father — I wasn't much 
older than you — I know, dear. Tell me 
what he said. 

Millicent. He thinks Tm pretty. Mother. 



KACHEL CROTHEES 



961 



Ann. Yes, dear. 

MiLLiCENT. And he thinks I'm wonderful 
to understand him and to know what he 
really is in spite of what he happens to 
be doing. 

Ann. Yes — and how long did you usually 
stay there in the arbor? 

MiLLiCENT. Oh, not very long, only last 
time it was longer. He teased so and 
I couldn't help it. He — ^he — I — 

Ann. How long was it that time? 

MiLLiCENT. Oh — it— rit was almost two 
hours last time. 

Ann. And what did you do all that time ? 
Wasn't it cold? 

MiLLiCENT. He made me put on his over- 
coat — He just made me. 

Ann. (Holding Millicent close in her 
arms.) And he held you close — and 
kissed you — and told you how much he 
loved you? 

Millicent. Yes, I love him so — Mother — 
but — I — tonight, was the last night to 
go again — but I — 

Ann. (Holding Millicent off as she 
searches her face.) Yes, dear? 

Millicent. I — I was — afraid to go. 

Ann. (Shrieking.) Why? 

Millicent. Oh, Mother — ^Was it wicked 
to be afraid? I ran away — I wanted to 
be with you. (Ann snatches Millicent 
in her arms. Her head falls against 
Millicent and Millicent's arms hold 
her close as she sobs. Someone tries the 
door and knocks.) 

Tom. (In the hall.) Ann! — Ann I 

Ann. Yes ? 

Tom. Why is the door locked? 

Ann. Millicent and I are talking. Wait 
just a few minutes. And Tom — tell her 
grandfather not to wait to see Millicent 
again tonight. She's all right. 

Tom. Sure? 

Ann. I'm sure. 

Millicent. (In a whisper — after listen- 
ing a moment.) What are you going to 
tell father? 

Ann. (Sitting on the floor.) Well — you 
see, dear — you're too young to be mar- 
ried now — much too young — and — 

Millicent. Oh, now, Mother, if you're 
going to talk that way. Wait till you 
see him. 

Ann. That's just what I want to do. I've 
got such a lovely plan for us — for the 
summer. 

Millicent. But I want to be married as 
soon as he gets his — 



Ann. I know, his position — and while 
he's looking and getting settled you and 
I will go abroad. 

Millicent. You're awfully good. Mother, 
but if you really want to do something 
for me — I'd rather you'd give me that 
money to be married. 

Ann. But Millicent, my dear child — I 
have to go. I'm so tired. I've been 
working awfully hard this winter. 
You're the only one in the world who 
could really be with me and take care 
of me. I need you. 

Millicent. Poor Mother! I don't want 
to be selfish and if you need me — I'll go. 

Ann. (Catching Millicent in her arms.) 
Thank you, dear. 

Millicent. If you'll promise me that I 
can be married when I get back. 

Ann. (Getting to her feet.) If — you — 
still — want to — marry him when you 
come — back with me — ^you may. I 
promise. 

Millicent. Mother! I didn't know you 
loved me so much. 

Ann. Didn't you, dear? ITow go to bed. 
(They start to the door together. Ann 
catches Millicent again, kissing her 
tenderly as though she were something 
new and precious.) 

Millicent. What's the matter. Mother? 

Ann. ISTothing, dear — Good night. 

Millicent. Good night. 

Tom. (Coming into doorway as Milli- 
cent unlocks and opens the door.) Not 
in bed yet? 

Millicent. (Throwing her arms ahout 
her father s neck.) Oh, dad. I'm so 
happy. (She goes out.) 

Ann. (Sitting at the fire.) Come, in, 
Tom. I want to talk to you about 
Millicent. 

Tom. (Closing the door and going to 
Ann.) What's the matter? 

Ann. She thinks she's in love. 

Tom. What? 

Ann. Our baby. She wants to be mar- 
ried. 

Tom. What do you mean? 

Ann. That's why she came home. 

Tom. Good Heavens, Ann! Married? 
What has she got mixed up in? How 
did such a thing happen? How could 
it? 

Ann. Because I didn't let her come home 
when she wanted to. Don^t say any- 
thing, Tom. I can't bear it now. 



962 



HE AKD SHE 



Tom. (Putting a hand on her head ten- 
derly.) Don't dear! Don't! It — might 
have — happened — anyway. 

Ann. Oh, the things that can happen I 

Tom. Has she told you everything? 

Ann. Everything. 

Tom. What have you said to her? What 
are you going to do? 

Ann. I'm going to take her away — and 
win her — till she gives up of her own 
free will — I shall have to have the wis- 
dom of all the ages. I shall have to be 
more fascinating than the boy. That's 
a pretty big undertaking, Tom. I won- 
der if I'll be equal to it. 

Tom. You mean you're going to give up 
your frieze and go away with her? 
(Ann nods her head.) You can't do it, 
Ann. 

Ann. (Rising and moving away.) Oh, 
yes, I can. 

Tom. You cannot. Don't lose your head. 
You're pledged to finish it and deliver 
it at a certain time. You can't play 
fast and lose with a big piece of work 
like that. 

Ann. Youll have to make my frieze, 
Tom. 

Tom. I will not ! I utterly and absolutely 
refuse to. You make Millicent behave 
and break this thing up and you go on 
with your — 

Ann. I can't. I can't. She's been in 
danger — absolute danger. 

Tom. How? 

Ann. Oh, I'll tell you. I'll tell you. She 
ran away to me — to me — and I was 
pushing her off. My little girl! She's 
got to be held tight in my arms and 
carried through. 

Tom. Ann, I'm not going to allow this to 
wipe out what you've done. I'll settle 
her — 

Ann. Tom, you can't speak of it to her — 
not breathe it — 

Tom. Of course I will. 

Ann. No you won't . If we cross her 
she'll get at him some way — somehow. 



Tom. I'm not going to let you sacrifice 
yourself for a wayward — 

Ann. It's my job. She is what I've given 
to life. If I fail her now — my whole 
life's a failure. Will you make my 
frieze, dear, will you? 

Tom. No. It's yours. You've got to 
have the glory of it. Ann, I haven^t 
been fair — but you're going to have 
this and all that's coming to you. I'm 
not going to let anything take it away 
from you. It's too important. My God, 
you've not only beaten me — you've won 
over the biggest men in the field — with 
your own brain and your ov/n hands — 
in a fair, fine, hard fight. You're cut 
up now — but if you should give this 
thing up — there'll be times when you'd 
eat your heart out to be at work on it — 
when the artist in you will yell to be 
let out. 

Ann. I know. I know. And I'll hate 
you because you're doing it — and I'll 
hate myself because I gave it up — and 
I'll almost — hate — her. I know. I 
know. You needn't tell me. W^hy I've 
seen my men and women up there — 
their strong limbs stretclied — their hair 
blown back. I've seen the crowd look- 
ing up — I've heard people say— "A 
woman did that" and my heart has al- 
most burst with pride — not so much 
that I had done it — but for all women. 
And then the door opened — and Milli- 
cent came in. There isn't any choice, 
Tom — she's part of my body — part of 
my soul. Will you make my friezw, 
dear, will you? (Falling against him.) 

Tom. (Taking her in his arms.) My 
darling! I'll do whatever makes 14; 
easiest for you. Don't think I don*t 
know all — all — it means to you. My 
God, it's hard. 

Ann. (Releasing herself and going to the 
hall door.) Put out the light. I hope 
she's asleep. (They go out into the 
lighted hall. After a moment 

THE CURTAIN FALLS.) 



GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE AMERICAN 

DRAMA 

Bibliographies concerning the individual playwrights are given in the introductions, 
and except in cases of books of a general nature, the items are not repeated here. 

HISTORY AND CRITICISM OF THE DRAMA AND STAGE 

Andrews, Charlton, The Drama To-day. Philadelphia, 1913. 

Blake, Charles, An Historical Account of the Providence Stage; heing a paper 
read before the Rhode Island Historical Society, October 25th, 1860. (With 
Additions.) Providence, 1868. 

Broadbent, R. J., A History of Pantomime. London, 1901. ''Pantomime in 
America," pp. 214-216. 

Brown, T. A., A History of the New York Stage. From the First Performance 
in 1732 to 1901. 3 Vols. New York, 1903. 

Burton, Richard, The New American Drama. New York, 1913. 

Cheney, Sheldon, The New Movement in the Theatre. New York, 1914. 

Clapp, W. "W., A Record of the Boston Stage. Boston and Cambridge, 1853. 

Clark, Barrett H., The British and American Drama of To-day. New. York, 
1915. 

Cooke, John Esten, The Virginia Comedians or Old Days in the Old Dominion, 
New York, 1854. [A novel, in which an interesting description of Hallam's 
Company is given.] 

Crawford, M. C, The Romance of the American Theatre. Boston, 1913. 

Daly, C. v., First Theater in America. Dunlap Society Publications, Ser. 2, 
Vol. 1. New York, 1896. 

Dickinson, Thomas H., The Case of American Drama. Boston, 1915. 

Dunlap, William, History of the American Theatre. New York, 1832. 2 Vols. 
London, 1833. 

Durang, Charles, The Philadelphia Stage. From the year 1749 to the year 
1855. Partly compiled from the papers of his father, the late John Durang; 
with notes by the editors [of the Philadelphia Sunday Dispatch.]. Pub- 
lished serially in the Philadelphia Dispatch as follows : First series, 1749- 
1821, beginning in the issue of May 7, 1854; Second series, 1822-1830, 
beginning June 29, 1856; Third series, 1830-1 — 1855, beginning July 8, 
1860. 

Eaton, W. P., The American Stage of To-day. Boston, 1908. 

963 



964 GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 



Eaton, W. P., At the New Theatre and Others. Boston, 1910. 

Ford, P. L., Washington and the Theater. Dunlap Society Publications, Ser. 2, 

Vol. 8. New York, 1899. 
Ford, P. L., Some Notes towards an Essay on The Beginnings of American 

Dram,atic Literature, 1606-1789. Privately printed. Brookl:^Ti, 1893. 

Also New England Mag., New Series Vol. IX, February, 1894, pp. 673-87, 

"The Beginnings of American Dramatic Literature." 
Greenwood, Isaac J., The Circus, Its Origin and Growth Prior to 1835. Dunlap 

Society Publications, Ser. 2, Vol. 5. New York, 1898. 
Hamilton, Clayton, Studies in Stagecraft. New York, 1914. 
Hamilton, Clayton, The Theory of the Theatre. New York, 1910. 
Hapgood, Norman, The Stage in America, 1897-1900. New York, 1901. 
Henderson, Archibald, The Changing Drama. New York, 1914. 
Hutton, Laurence, Curiosities of the American Stage. New York, 1891. 
Ireland, J. N., Records of the New York Stage, from 1750 to 1860. 2 Vols. 

New York, 1866-67. 
]\IacKaye, Percy, The Playhouse and the Play. New York, 1909. 
MacKaye, Percy, The Civic Theatre. New York, 1912. 
Matthews, Brander, Inquiries and Opinions. New York, 1907. 
Matthews, Brander, The Historical Novel and Other Essays. New York, 1901. 
Moderwell, Hiram K., The Theatre of To-day. New York and London, 1914. 
Moses, M. J., The American Dramatist. Boston, 1911. 

Phelps, H. P., Players of a Century. A Record of the Albany Stage. Includ- 
ing Notices of Prominent Actors who have appeared in America. Albany, 

1880. 
Rees, James, The Dramatic Authors of America. Philadelphia, 1845. 
Ruhl, Arthur, Second Nights. New York, 1914. 
Seilhamer, G. 0., History of the American Theatre. 3 Vols. Philadelphia, 

1888-91. 
Sonneck, 0. G., Early Opera in America. New York, London and Boston, 

1915. 
Strang, L. C, Players and Plays of the Last Quarter Century. 2 Vols. Boston, 

1902. 
Tompkins, E., and Kilby, Q., The History of the Boston Theatre, 1854-1901. 

Boston and New York, 1908. 
Wemyss, F. C, Chronology of the American Stage from 1752 to 1852. New 

York, n.d. [1852]. 
Willard, G. 0., History of the Providence Stage. Providence, 1891. 



GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 965 



BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND LISTS OF PLAYS 

Adams, W. Davenport, A Dictionary of the Drama. Philadelphia, 1904. 

Bibliography of Dramatic Literature. Prepared by the World Drama Prompt- 
ers. LaJolla, Cal., 1915. 

Catalogue of the Library of George Brimley. Part 4, pp. 123-127. Hartford, 
1886. 

A Catalogue of a Collection of American Plays, 1756-1885. Dodd and Living- 
ston. New York, n.d. 

Catalogue of the Dramas and Dramatic Poems contained in the Public Library 
of Cincinnati. Cincinnati, 1879. 

Clapp, J. B. and Edgett, E. F., Plays of the Present. Dunlap Society Publica- 
tions, Ser. 2, extra vol. New York, 1902. 

Clarence, Reginald, The Stage Cyclopedia. London, 1909. [English Perform- 
ances of American Plays.] 

Dramatic Compositions Copyrighted in the United States. 1870-1915. [Issued 
by the Copyright Office, Library of Congress, Washington, D. C. This is 
most helpful and will be continued.] 

Faxson, Frederick W., Editor, The Bulletin of Bibliography and Dramatic 
Index. Published quarterly. Boston. 

Faxson, Frederick W., Editor, The Dramatic Index. Annually since 1909. 
[Invaluable.] 

Haskell, Daniel C, A List of American Dramas in the New York Public 
Library. [Revised January, 1916, from Bulletin of October, 1915.] 

Roden, R. F., Later American Plays, 1831-1900. Dunlap Society Publications, 
Ser. 2, Vol. 12. New York, 1900. 

Stockbridge, J. C, A Catalogue of the Harris Collection of American Poetry. 
Providence, 1886. 

Wegelin, Oscar, Early American Plays, 1714-1830. Dunlap Society Publica- 
tions, Ser. 2, Vol. 10. New York, 1900, Revised ed. 1905. 

ORIGINAL SOURCES 

Dunlap 's Diary, Manuscript Memoirs of Wm. Dunlap or Daily Occurrences. 
Vol. 14, from July 27, 1797, to Dec. 13, 1797; Vol. 15, from Dec. 14, 1797, 
to June 1, 1798; Vol. 24, from Oct. 15, 1819, to April 27, 1820; Vol. 30, 
from June 26, 1833, to Dec. 31, 1834. [In the Library of the New York 
Historical Society.] 

Wood's Diary, A Manuscript Diary or Daily Account Book of W. B. Wood, in 
9 volumes extending from 1810 to 1835. [In the Library of the University 
of Pennsylvania.] 



966 GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 

COLLECTIONS 

Dickinson, Thomas H., Chief Contemporary Dramatists. Boston, 1915. [Con- 
tains four American plays.] 

Pierce, John Alexander, The Masterpieces of Modern Drama. Abridged in 
Narrative with Dialogue of the Great Scenes. Prefaced with a critical 
essay by Brander Matthews. [Vol. 2 contains selections from twelve Ameri- 
can plays.] New York, 1915. 

BIOGRAPHIES OF ACTORS AND MANAGERS, AND SIMILAR WORKS 

GIVING INFORMATION CONCERNING 

THE DRAMA 

Alger, William R., Life of Edwin Forrest. 2 Vols. Philadelphia, 1877. 

Barrett, Lawrence, Charlotte Cushman, a Lecture. Dunlap Society Publica- 
tions, Ser. 1, Vol. 9. New York, 1889. 

Barrett, Lawrence, Edwin Forrest. Boston, 1882. 

Bernard, John, Retrospections of the Stage. 2 Vols. London, 1830. Re- 
printed with additions as Retrospections of America, 1797-1811. Ed. by 
Mrs. W. B. Bernard, with introduction by Laurence Hutton and Brander 
Matthews. New York, 1887. 

Butler, Frances Anne Kemble, Records of a Girlhood. New York, 1879. 

Clarke, Asia Booth, The Elder and the Younger Booth. Boston, 1882. 

Clement, Mrs. Clara Erskine, Charlotte Cushman. Boston, 1882. 

Creahan, John, Life of Laura Keene. Philadelphia, 1897. 

Clapp, J. B. and E. F. Edgett, Players of the Present. Dunlap Society Publi- 
cations, Ser. 2, Vols. 9, 11, 13. New York, 1899-1901. 

Drew, Mrs. John, Autobiographical Sketch of. New York, 1899. 

Edgett, E. F. Edward Loomis Davenport. Dunlap Society Publications, Ser. 
2, Vol. 14. New York, 1901. 

Eytinge, Rose, The Memories of. New York, 1905. 

Field, Kate, Charles Albert Fechter. Boston, 1882. 

Frohman, Daniel, and Marcosson, Isaac F., Charles Frohman. New York, 1916. 

Frohman, Daniel, Memories of a Maimger. New York, 1911. 

Gilbert, Mrs. Anne H., Stage Reminiscences. Edited by C. M. Martin. New 
York, 1901. 

Ireland, Joseph N., Mrs. Duff. Boston, 1882. 

The Autobiography of Joseph Jefferson. New York, 1890. 

Keese, William L., William E. Burton. Dunlap Society Publications, Ser. 1, 
Vol. 14. New York, 1891. 



GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 967 

Leavitt, M. B., Fifty Years of Theatrical Management. New York, 1912. 

Leman, Walter M., Memories of an Old Actor. San Francisco, 1886. 

Ludlow, Noah M., Dramatic Life as I Found It. St. Louis, 1880. 

Maeder, Clara Fisher, Autobiography. Ed. by Douglas Taylor. Dunlap Soci- 
ety Publications, Ser. 2, Vol. 3. New York, 1897. 

Matthews, Brander, and Hutton, Laurence, Actors and Actresses of Great Brit- 
ain and the United States from the Days of David Garrick to the Present 
Time. New York, 1886. 

Modjeska, Helena, Memories and Impressions. New York, 1910. 

Moses, M. J., Famous Actor-Families in America. New York, 1906. 

Morris, Clara, Life on the Stage. My Personal Experiences and Recollections. 
New York, 1902. 

Mowatt, Anna Cora (Mrs. Ritchie), The Autobiography of an Actress or 
Eight Years on the Stage. Boston, 1854. 

Murdoch, James E., The Stage, or Recollections of Actors and Acting from an 
Experience of Fifty Years. Philadelphia, 1880. 

Northall, William K., Life and Recollections of Yankee Hill. New York, 1850. 

P^irce, James Harry, The Magazine and the Drama. Dunlap Society Publica- 
tions, Series 2, Vol. 2. New York, 1896. 

Rees, James, The Life of Edwin Forrest. Philadelphia, n.d. [1874]. 

Smith, Sol, Theatrical Management in the West and South for Thirty Years. 
New York, 1868. 

Sothem, Edward H., The Melancholy Tale of Me. My Remembrances. New 
York, 1916. 

Stoddart, J. H., Recollections of a Player. New York, 1902. 

Strang, Lewis C, Famous Actors of To-day in America. Boston, 1900. 

Wallack, Lester, Memories of Fifty Years. New York, 1889. 

Walsh, Townsend, The Career of Dion Boucicault. Dunlap Society Publica- 
tions, Ser. 3, Vol. 1. New York, 1915. 

Wemyss, F. C, Theatrical Biography of Eminent Actors and Authors. New 
York, [185-]. 

Wemyss, Francis C, Twenty-six Years of the Life of an Actor Manager. 2 Vols. 
New York, 1847. 

Wilstach, Paul, Richard Mansfield, the Man and the Actor. New York, 1909. 

Winter, William, A Sketch of the Life of John Gilbert. Dunlap Society Pub- 
lications, Series 1, Vol. 11. New York, 1890. 

Winter, William, The Jeffersons. Boston, 1881. 

Winter, William, Other Days; Being Chronicles and Memories of the Stage. 
New York, 1908. 

Winter, William, The Wallet of Time, Containing Personal, Biographical, and 



GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 



Critical Reminiscence of the American Theatre, 2 Vols. New York, 1913. 
Winter William, Brief Chronicles. Parts 1, 2, 3. Dunlap Society Publications, 

Series 1, Vols. 7, 8, 10. New York, 1889. 
Wood, W. B., Personal Recollections of the Stage. . . . During a Period of 

Forty Years, Philadelphia, 1855. 

Note to Revised Edition. ^ 

Since the publication of the first edition, the most important works treating 
the American Drama and Stage have been as follows : 
Baker, Louis C., The German Drama in English on the New York Stage to 1830, 

Philadelphia, 1917. (University of Pennsylvania Thesis.) 
Belasco, David, The Theatre Through Its Stage Door, edited by L. V. Defoe, 

New York, 1919. 
Brede, Charles F., The German Drama in English on the Philadelphia Stage 

From 1794 to 1830. 1918. (University of Pennsylvania Thesis.) 
Coad, Oral S., William Dunlap, a Study of His Life and Works and of His 

Place in Contemporary Culture, Publications of the Dunlap Society, New 

York, 1917. (Columbia University Thesis.) 
Daly, Joseph Francis, The Life of Augustin Daly, New York, 1917. 
Hornblow, Arthur, History of the Theatre in America From Its Beginnings to 

the Present Time, 2 v. Philadelphia, 1919. 
McCullough, Bruce W., The Life and Writings of Richard Penn Smith, With 

a Reprint of His Play, ''The Deformed,'' 1830. Menasha, Wisconsin, 1917. 

(University of Pennsylvania Thesis.) 
Reed, Perley I., The Realistic Presentation of American Characters in Native 

American Plays Prior to Eighteen Seventy. Columbus, Ohio, 1918. (Ohio 

State University Thesis.) 
Towse, John R., Sixty Years of the Theater. New York, 1916. 
Winter, William, The Life of David Belasco, 2 v. New York, 1918. 

Among the Most Significant Articles Are: 

Coad, Oral S., ^'The First American Play," Nation, VoL 107, No. 2772,; 

August 17, 1918. 
Coad, Oral S., ''The American Theatre in the Eighteenth Century," South 

Atlantic Quarterly, Vol. XVII, No. 3, pp. 190-7. July, 1918. 
Henderson, Archibald, ''The American Drama, A Survey," Sewanee Revieuj, 

Vol. 26, pp. 228-40, April, 1918 
Quinn, Arthur Hobson, "The Early Drama, 1756-1860," in the Cambridge 

History of American Literature^ Vol, I, pp. 215-232, N. Y., 1917. 



GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 969 

Two Collections Have Been Published: 

Mayorga, Margaret Gardner, Representative One-Act Plays By American 

Authors, Boston, 1919. 
Moses, Montrose J., Representative Plays By American Dramatists, VoL I, 

New York, 1918. (Ten plays.) 












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